Adelaide literary Magazine No 35, April 2020

Revista Literária Adelaide

Beatrice and I can both do it. I’d say I’m certain depth of character? Her good sense
surprised, but really I thought everyone of humour? Soul? He’ll gaze over at her
could. When Manuela makes her way perfect proportions, her luminous skin, her
down our row, she doesn’t even hesitate long legs, her hair, eyes. And say, yes.
but walks by both of us nodding. We grin at
each other triumphantly. I’m sweating. In Spain, at the flamenco show, there
was a group of people standing at the back.
Beatrice and I walk to class. Every time One man stood on his chair and shouted to
we arrive it seems too cold for flamenco the dancer hoarsely in Spanish. He was
dancing. It’s January and at the beginning sweating, disheveled and as people started
of every class, women arrive and spend to calm down and collect themselves at the
minutes unraveling from scarves and dis- end of the show, he became slightly frantic,
charging static between hair and hats. calling to the dancer repeatedly: mi corazón!
Coats pile up in the corner and wet boots mi corazón! They had raised the lights to
discharge puddles by the door. We pull out encourage everyone to turn their attention
our hard-soled black leather shoes from from the stage where the musicians now sat
crackling plastic grocery bags, and strip to chatting, gratefully accepting drinks and the
t-shirts or leotards. Everyone’s cold when dancer lingered, smiling serenely at fans,
we begin, but Manuela turns up the music nodding her head and signalling her inten-
and starts coaxing us through our steps tion to leave. The man yelled once more
and the movement as well as the music fiercely, and so desperately that it re-
warm up the room and seem in their way sounded like a gong into the farthest
to transport us to somewhere sunny, sun- reaches of the room. The dancer looked up,
kissed, sun-drenched. By the time Beatrice raised a hand to shade her eyes so that she
and I are walking home, we’re too warm for could see past the lights to the deepening
our scarves and hats. It feels like we must shadows at the periphery where he stood.
be letting off steam and the cold fails to dis- He yelled out once more to fix her attention,
suade us. and then, his purpose clear, and with all of
us watching, he put one hand to his chest
I think the next time Eric complains and then extended his arm out emphati-
about how superficial girls are, I’m going cally: his heart clutched, pulsing and livid,
to ask him what he sees in Beatrice. I’ll ask throbbing in the palm of his hand.
him, what is it exactly that you see in her? A

About the Author
Meghan Dimmick teaches literature at Trent University in
Ontario, Canada. She loves to travel, has seen some truly
life-changing flamenco shows and can really clap.

49

DOUBLE SHIFT

by Zach Murphy

Heavy eyelids don’t adhere to will after deep and raspy voice cut through the white,
you’ve just worked a double shift. windy noise. “You need some help?” the
person asked.
Zamir was having that problem on a par-
ticularly snowy night, so he pulled over to Zamir rubbed his eyes and mumbled,
the side of a lonely road and threw the car “I’m not drunk. I’m just tired.”
into Park.
The person came into focus. It was a man
Holiday season was a drag. Zamir worked with a puffy winter coat. His dark beard was
the frontlines during the massive influx of speckled with snow and gray hairs. Zamir
rabid shoppers pushing and shoving each was somehow more relieved that it was a
other like football players diving for a fum- random stranger and not a police officer.
bled ball, except the fumbled ball was an
item that they could probably order on- “This ain’t no way to spend Christmas
line for the same cost and less hassle. And Eve,” the man said.
then there were the customers who were
extremely rude to him at the cash register. “This is no way to spend any evening, but
They’d snap their fingers, roll their eyes, and here I am,” Zamir answered.
talk condescendingly to him as if he didn’t
understand English. Assholes transcend all “Tell me about it,” the man said. “I’ve
language barriers, anyway. been taking care of these roads non-stop for
as long as I can remember. I’m DeWayne, by
As the snow continued to fall, Zamir the way.”
drifted off into a deep sleep, only to be
awakened by an aggressive knock on his Zamir glanced at the rearview mirror.
window. He shook from a combination of Behind him was a big truck with a plow at-
his nerves and the freezing cold while fran- tached to the front. “I’m Zamir,” he said.
tically gathering himself, as he’d been lost in
the kind of slumber that you wake up from DeWayne peered ahead of Zamir’s car.
and you can’t tell if it’s been a couple of “You’re stuck,” he said.
minutes or a couple of hours.
“I know,” Zamir replied. “I’ve been
Zamir cracked open the window with searching for a new job for the past two
hesitation. The blowing flakes greeted his years and I’m having zero success. Even my
skin like a breathtaking slap to the face. A degree doesn’t make a difference.”

“No,” DeWayne said. “I mean your car is
stuck.”

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Revista Literária Adelaide

Zamir shifted the car into Drive and tried graciously yelled, holding a thumbs-up out
to advance forward, but the wheels spun in the window.
place. “Oh shit,” he uttered.
“Have a great night!” DeWayne shouted
“I’ll be right back,” DeWayne said as he back.
trudged back to his truck and grabbed a pair
of shovels. During the long ride back to his apart-
ment, Zamir thought about DeWayne, and
DeWayne and Zamir shoveled the snow how the man was some sort of guardian
away from the car, hoisting the heavy white angel. A guardian angel who reeked of ciga-
stuff around like a pair of mighty worker rettes and under-appreciated duty. Zamir
ants moving mounds of dirt. “Try it now,” was looking forward to eating leftover Thai
DeWayne said. food at home with his cats Mookie and Su-
doku. He needed to fuel up and get some
Zamir hopped back into his car. He shifted rest, because for the next double shift he’d
it into Drive and gave it some gas. The tires have to deal with Returns.
trounced over the snow. “Thank you!” he

About the Author

Zach Murphy is a Hawaii-born writer with a background
in film and screenwriting. His stories have appeared in
Peculiars Magazine, Ellipsis Zine, Fat Cat Magazine, Lotus-
eater, WINK, Drunk Monkeys, and Ghost City Review. He
lives with his wonderful wife Kelly and loves cats and
movies.

51

SPIRAL

by Martin Toman

Rachel left the kitchen quietly, crossing the everything away when she packed her suit-
atrium to ascend the staircase, her foot cases. Rachel entered the room, closed the
fall soundless so as to not attract atten- door. She was sure that no one was missing
tion. The noises of the wake receded as she her. The business of discussing her daugh-
climbed, and by the time she had reached ter’s life and death was taking place two
the third floor she was in near silence. She floors below, and as for her husband Robert
could hear her own breathing, made more he was out of her hands, as he always had
rapid by the climb. She looked down the been.
cylinder formed by the spiral staircase, the
floor below illuminated by the round sky- Before Rachel had climbed the stairs she
light above. There were moving shadows had watched Robert in conversation with a
reflected across the glossy parquetry, but woman she had only met today. In the blur
no one was following. Her absence was un- of events at the funeral, all that Rachel
noticed. It’s as if I don’t exist. She paused, I could recall was that she was the girlfriend
can only imagine what’s taking place below. of a junior partner at Robert’s firm. As Ra-
chel advised the caterers of the dietary re-
The door that she had been unable to quirements of various guests, she saw her
open since the accident loomed in front of husband extend his leg under the table to
her. It was only a door, as it had always been, brush the woman’s calf. Because of the op-
but it had become something else. Rachel ulent carpets and floorboards in Robert and
stilled herself, looked up at the skylight. The Rachel’s house, it was a rule that no one
clear blue eye of the sky stared back at her. wore shoes inside. Visitors were given guest
She held her breath and turned the handle, slippers to wear so as to not mark the floor.
pushed the door open. Given the gravity of the day it struck Rachel
as comical that the parish priest, a local
Veronica’s room was as she had left it member-of-parliament, community leaders,
when she went to university. Standing in distant family members, friends, colleagues,
the doorway, Rachel saw the afternoon light and various hangers on were all shod as if
slanting through partially closed blinds, the they were invited to a teenage movie sleep
bands of light and dark like prison stripes. over. From where Rachel stood she had
Motes of dust swirled in the light shafts, but watched Robert’s stockinged foot slink for-
otherwise everything was unchanged. Her ward like a question mark, his toes gently
daughter was a neat person, and had stored massaging the woman’s leg. Then she saw

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the woman had leaned forward, opening up The scarf was well worn, slightly pilled.
the view of her cleavage for Robert’s con- The scarlet and blue bands ended in gold
sumption. Rachel has seen enough. She left. piping; the school colours. A band of foun-
dation has been left on the fabric from
In Veronica’s room Rachel crossed the where Veronica had held it to her face. Even
space to sit on her daughter’s bed. Placing though it had been months since it had
her hands flat on the bedspread she closed been worn, when Rachel held the material
her eyes and breathed in the air of the to her face she could smell her daughter’s
room. The faint line between her eyes perfume, and beneath it another scent. The
deepened as she did so. She couldn’t de- elemental smell of her daughter. She had
tect the scent of her daughter. The maid first smelt it when she had held her new-
had changed the bedding in the week after born child to her chest in the birthing suite,
Veronica’s departure, so the sheets had an olfactory connection that could never be
lost their smell. There wasn’t much point in erased. Rachel’s head swam in the rush of
Rachel holding the pillow to her face either sensations. She felt as if the pores on her
as Veronica had packed her sleeping pillow newly waxed legs may pop out from her
when she left. Rachel turned and opened skin, each hairless hole an individual goose
the top drawer of the bedside table. Most lump standing upright. Rachel’s breasts sud-
things of interest had been taken away in denly ached at the thought of her child as a
the move. The watch that Rachel had given baby. Rachel took the scarf back to the bed,
Veronica for her high school graduation was folded it carefully, and held it in her hands.
on her wrist when her car left the road. Its She held her breath for a moment to push
face had been smashed on impact and the down the pressure in her chest, the onrush
movement broken, the stilled hands cata- of tears, and gradually silenced her mind.
loging the moment of Veronica’s death. At Her skin smoothed out again, her body re-
least it was quick. The space between one laxed.
second and another.
The strips of light moved slowly across
Rachel moved to the walk in robe, opened the room, the bars shifting their place as
the doors and started working through the the winter sun traced its arc across the late
chest of drawers. In the third drawer she afternoon sky. In Veronica’s room the move-
found what she wanted: Veronica’s school ment of the light was the only way to mea-
scarf. The one that she wore through her sure that time was passing. An occasional
senior high school years. There was a photo sound floated up from the wake, but did
of Rachel wearing the scarf in her gradu- nothing to shift Rachel’s stillness. She con-
ating yearbook; she was screaming support tinued to sit with her hands neatly folded in
for the boy’s hockey team as they took on her lap, cradling the scarf, focusing on the
an inter-school opponent. Her daughter’s space that hitched between each breath.
face was alight and excited, her blue eyes
so wide her iris was framed on both sides Then there was a noise from the other
by the white of her sclera. No doubt one side of the wall, from Robert’s study. Rob-
of the boys in the hockey team had caught ert’s bedroom was the second floor, in
her heart, but knowing Veronica she hadn’t the middle of the house. For many years
acted upon her feelings. The daughter did Rachel had taken to sleeping in the guest
not take after the father. quarters outside the main building. As

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

parents Robert and Rachel had tried to give he was likely to end up with someone else,
their daughter as much privacy as possible, and had accepted this reality so long as she
hence her room was away from those oc- didn’t know about it. Rachel had made a
cupied by her parents. The only other room conscious choice to be ignorant of anything
on the third floor was Robert’s study, and as she did not want to know. But she never
he worked mostly from the office, Veronica thought that he would be so indiscreet.
had space and solitude. It was unusual for When Veronica was born Rachel took com-
anyone to use Robert’s study. fort in her child, and found being a mother
far more satisfying than being a wife or
Rachel closed her eyes to concentrate having a career. Compared to Robert’s in-
on the new sounds. A rhythmic thumping, come her wage was superfluous, and now
muffled human voices. Then she knew. she was a mother the idea of her working
Robert was fucking that woman, the junior was somehow perceived as a slight toward
partner’s girlfriend, in the next room. The her husband’s reputation. So she gave away
banging was from the movement of the all the parts of herself that were not con-
desk that was pushed up against the wall. nected to being a mother, and she easily
He probably had her bent over the desk delivered the outward impression that she
top as he thrust into her, her face pressed was a suitable wife for a successful corpo-
into the leather desk blotter, skirt hitched rate lawyer. As her child grew Rachel hoped
up, panties on the floor. Robert would be that she could remain an ignorant mother
rocked back on his heels, still in slippers, forever. It was only when she contracted
pants around his ankles, eyes staring fixedly genital warts that she chose to confront
ahead into the void. Robert. The conversation went something
like this:
It was far from the first time he had
fucked another woman in their marriage I saw Doctor MacLean today. He told me
(ha!), nor was it the first time that Rachel I have genital warts.
had heard or seen him doing it (sigh). But
it is the first time that you are fucking Ha! He told me the same thing a month
someone on the day of your daughter’s fu- ago! It took some doing, but they are on the
neral, she thought. You complete louse. way out. I imagine with treatment yours will
go too.
Before Rachel had married Robert it was
an open secret that he was unfaithful to her How could you be so stupid and reckless
as both a boyfriend and fiancé. The night Robert? Why do you have to keep fucking
before the wedding Rachel’s best friend any woman you find?
had confided that she knew of at least two
women who had been with Robert while he I have a problem Rachel. I have a sex ad-
was affianced. She had neglected to men- diction. I need treatment.
tion that she was a third. Of course Robert
was charming and handsome, and with his Of course he did. By saying those words:
family connections was destined to succeed. sex addiction…treatment, Robert was able
From the outset Rachel understood that as to shift responsibility from himself and be-
a corporate lawyer he would be away from come the victim. There was now something
home a great deal, and would work abroad. else to blame. An addiction rather than a set
She also assumed that from time to time of broken promises. A compulsive depen-
dence rather than a moral failing. There was

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no endless series of betrayals, no inability people, some of whom she had known for
to keep his indiscretions secret. It was an decades, all looked like strangers, shod
addiction. He was absolved and innocent. It in ridiculous guest slippers. At the front
was no wonder Robert was so successful at was Robert, handsome as always, leaning
his trade. against the door frame. His expression was
quizzical, brow furrowed, but his posture
Rachel stopped having sex from that was relaxed, confident. His most recent sex
point. She moved permanently out of the partner stood in the background, just one of
middle floor bedroom, and in doing so the anonymous staring faces.
closed a door in her life. It was only on the
day that they had interred their only child Can I do something for your Rachel? Do
into the ground that Robert’s infidelities you want to talk?
chafed. Couldn’t he stop fucking for just one
day? Rachel tied the laces of her boots. She
tucked the scarf into the inner pocket of the
Through the wall Rachel heard the coat and stood up. The crowd took a step
thumping increase in volume and rapidity, back as she went to the walk through the
a series of grunts, and then some laughter. door.
Shortly thereafter there were some quiet
footsteps on the landing, and then silence. Rachel found the words: Robert, I’ve re-
ally nothing to say to you. Feel free to fuck
Rachel returned to herself. The bands that woman again if you like. You never
of light let through by the blind were al- asked for my permission anyway, so why
most horizontal against the far wall. Soon it start now? We buried our daughter today.
would be dusk. The guests and staff would Not that it means anything to you. You may
no doubt be wondering where she was by as well use Veronica’s bed to fuck her again,
now. She closed her eyes. Let Robert handle or failing that, yours or mine. What’s the dif-
it. He can handle anyone. ference after all? As for everyone else, thank
you for coming to my home, enjoying the
Rachel held the scarf to her nose again, hospitality, and wearing the slippers. I’m
and was once more struck forcibly by her going for a walk.
daughter’s scent. She stood, walked to the
window, drew the blinds. The last light of When she had looked from Veroni-
the day seemed to almost have a texture ca’s window into the twilight Rachel had
in the blue black gloaming. In that moment seen that now she was childless there was
she understood. nothing to define her, no anchor point from
which she could tether her existence. She
Rachel tucked the scarf under her arm was unhinged from her previous self. She
and left the room, descended the stairs. She had no reason to be the same person.
didn’t bother being quiet, and made her
way past the atrium, through the kitchen, Rachel walked past her husband and her
and into the utility room. A number of guests. They parted as if she was a vengeful
guests saw her passing but she paid them character from the Old Testament. The
no mind. She opened the cloak closet and spiral staircase loomed overhead. With the
pulled out her coat and boots. By now a coming of night the skylight was now a
small crowd had gathered at the entry way black disc. Rachel opened the front door
to the utility room. Rachel looked up. These and breathed in the outside air. It was sharp

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Adelaide Literary Magazine
and crisp. She could smell the clean scent of
the earth and trees of her garden. At the
cemetery nearby her daughter lay at rest,
cradled by the same earth. Rachel looked
up at the sky. The first stars had appeared,
specks of light punctuating the dark. She
could walk in any direction.

About the Author
Martin Toman is a writer of contemporary fiction who lives in
Melbourne, Australia. He studied at Australian Nation University
and the University of Canberra before becoming a teacher of
English Literature. Martin has been published online and in print,
and recently in publications such as Across the Margin, Fresh Ink
and Literally Stories.

56

TWO SHAWLS

by Brian Feller

Claire waited on the couch for her parents “Shall we?” her father said. And he took
to arrive and gripped her husband’s hand his wife of thirty-two years by the hand.
as she watched the grandfather clock tick
by. When it struck noon, it gonged loudly. The car ride was slow and relatively
Clair felt each ringing in her skin and ran her quiet. In the back, the parents were remi-
fingers along what had been a baby-filled niscing about their youth. They told Claire’s
womb. husband how nervous they were when
Claire was born, how they didn’t have a clue
“They’re late. We’re going to be late!” what they were doing. They spoke of their
she said. childhoods. Claire’s father was a runner in
his twenties, some thirty years ago. And her
Her husband pulled her head to his chest mother was a singer. “Best in town, too!”
and ran his fingers through her hair. She her father added. Up front, Claire’s husband
breathed in deeply, comforted by the scent nodded along in the rearview and smiled as
of cinnamon and hickory. The clock’s chimes he gave Claire’s hand a squeeze. But Claire
echoed in the air and vibrated against her was silent. Her thoughts were on the baby
skin. She eyed the door knob. girl she’d given birth to the week before.
How still the newborn was, how unmistak-
“What if we don’t get there in time? ably dead she was. Not dead, per se. Just…
What will we do?” she asked, staring down not alive. In her hands, she held a prayer
at her hollow belly. “What if we don’t get to shawl, soft blues and old, faded whites that
the pit in time, or what if…” she’d had since she herself was a newborn
baby.
Then the alarm for the door sounded:
Front. Door. Open. And in walked Claire’s Claire’s husband parked in the corner
parents. Claire sprung up from the couch, of the lot. The walk to The Pit felt slow to
her husband joining her as he adjusted Claire, like walking through snow. She didn’t
his suit jacket. For a minute, everyone just mind taking the time though; she walked
looked at everyone else. Claire gazed at her between her parents the same way she
father’s gray mustache and thought of how had when she was a child—when her par-
it was a magnificent thick brown when she ents were barely older than she—holding
was a child, then at her dear mother. Claire a hand in each of hers. Once past the wel-
had followed her everywhere growing up. coming building, The Pit was the only thing
The mother who Claire would inevitably
become.

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

Claire could focus on. It was large and a thanked them for raising such a beautiful
light breeze kicked up dust from its depths. woman. Claire looked into her father’s eyes
Around its edges were platform-like-planks, as she handed him her shawl. She wanted
the ends of which hung delicately over the to cry, to scream, but all she could do was
great descent. There were seven platforms say, “I’m so sorry.”
in total, a few less from last year’s Awak-
ening. Claire had never been to an Awak- As her parents made their way to the
ening before, but her mother had told her end of the platform, six other sets of par-
about it—prepared her for it. When Claire ents headed to the ends of their own
spotted their plank, she wanted to run to it, planks—each with a still babe in a basket.
but her husband held her back with a firm Claire watched as her parents held one an-
grip on her shoulders. other, wrapping the shawl around them-
selves. Only when they jumped did Claire
On the floor of the platform was a basket finally cry. She fell to her knees and held
filled with a blanket. Atop the blanket her head in her hands as her husband went
rested Claire’s newborn, just as silent and to the basket and picked up their smiling
lifeless as when delivered. The baby was baby girl. The shawl, he’d later tell her, was
wrapped in a little shawl which matched the warm to the touch, like the fabric itself had
one Clair held in her hands. Claire and her breathed recycled life into the infant.
husband stood at the base of the platform.
Her husband shook her parents’ hands and “She has your father’s eyes,” her husband
said.

About the Author

Brian Feller is an MFA student in fiction at Emerson College.
He currently has two essays published in Canyon Voices
Literary Magazine, and a work of flash fiction in an upcoming
issue of Stork Magazine. In his spare time, he’s an avid
tabletop gamer and pen collector. He hopes to work as a
professor of creative writing after completing his MFA in the
Fall of 2020.

58

MISTAKEN IDENTITY

by Linda Marshall

She’d flown back to St. Louis for her moth- have gone to high school together, Kate
er’s funeral, her sadness accentuated by wondered, or maybe she was the friend
their often difficult relationship; no fixing of a sibling? Or was she confusing her with
it now. It was in the past, yet Kate was ob- someone else? She didn’t look familiar, but
sessed with reaching ground truth, even the woman was frantic to reach Kate, so she
after all these years. Phrases her mother stopped and waited for her.
had said to her jockeyed for space in her
overactive mind: Stop analyzing things so Catching her breath when they were only
much. Don’t dwell on it. You think about a few feet apart, the stranger blurted out,
things too much. A never-ending supply “Has anyone ever told you you look exactly
of not-so-helpful mantras from which to like Rosie O’Donnell?!” Later, Kate would
choose, nonstop reminders rolling through wonder why this stranger had felt com-
her mind like news captions, those omni- pelled to share this information with her
present chyrons. Kate supposed her moth- when, no offense to Rosie, she hadn’t been
er had been right; she did have a tendency comparing Kate to a glamorous movie star
to stew about real or imagined issues, giv- or supermodel or well-known writer, had
ing them free rein longer than was healthy. she? How was Kate supposed to react? And
she’d just buried her mother, so her mood
*** was already dark, although this woman had
no way of knowing that, she supposed.
The day after the funeral Kate had stopped
by a local grocery store to get a few things to “No. No one has ever told me that,” Kate
tide her over: bread, milk, cereal, and some- replied, trying to remain polite, forcing a
thing from the salad bar for dinner that night. small smile, shifting her groceries to the op-
Except for her siblings and a smattering of posite hip since it looked like they might be
friends, she’d kept up with very few people discussing her resemblance to the comedi-
after moving to the East Coast fifteen years enne for a while. Then, doing precisely what
before, so she was startled to hear a wom- her mother would have warned against, she
an’s voice behind her, calling out to her on ran through possible reasons the woman
the parking lot as Kate made her way to the might have had for making the comparison.
car with her small bag of groceries. Was it Kate’s weight? Her mother had spent
a lifetime pointing out Kate’s extra pounds,
“Wait! Wait!” the woman cried out, so this was an easy, ready-made conclusion
breathless to catch up with Kate. Could they

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

since, like Kate, Rosie was a bit overweight. was always the way with Kate, thinking of
Perhaps more benignly it was because they clever things to say afterwards.
were both brunettes? That was so common-
place, though. After all, most women were Years after this incident, Kate still
brunettes, even most the blondes she knew. brought it up with friends occasionally,
It had to be something physical, though. It clearly hoping they would respond defen-
couldn’t be that the woman thought Kate sively with, “Oh, no! What an outrageous
was funny like Rosie (although that would thing to say! You don’t look anything like
have been nice), or that their accents were Rosie O’Donnell! You’re much more slim/
similar (which they weren’t, since Rosie was pretty/fashionable, etc.” And normally
from Long Island and Kate was from the they did defend Kate, out of politeness or
Midwest). loyalty, she guessed. Finally, though, her
grown daughter (who’d heard her mother
Kate weighed the various possibilities as share this same story one too many times),
the woman rambled on and on. If a friend had begged her to stop telling it. “Everyone
had made the same comparison, Kate knows you don’t look like Rosie O’Donnell,
might have behaved differently, drilled the Mom, so stop telling the story!” So Kate had
unsuspecting interlocutor until some sort stopped, begrudgingly, although she was re-
of detente was reached. “Why did you say minded that it was this same daughter who
that? What about me could possibly remind was sometimes compared to Reese With-
you of Rosie O’Donnell? What were you erspoon, an obviously attractive person.
thinking, saying that? Do you consider that Regardless, Kate didn’t stop thinking about
to be a compliment? How would you like it, didn’t stop “dwelling” on it, “analyzing”
it if I told you you looked exactly like some it, as her mother would rightfully have ac-
random person?” Unfortunately, however, cused her. And then one day it happened
you couldn’t say those things to a stranger; again, years after the first incident.
there were certain protocols to follow.
Kate was having her hair cut and col-
Kate’s final words to the woman (who ored at a swank DC salon. The stylist always
continued to stare at her, presumably made her poker-straight hair look poofy at
waiting for Kate’s epiphany on the matter) the end of the appointment, hairspray an
were, “Thank you,” but she said it like a integral part of this process, and this day
question, her intonation rising on “you,” as was no different. Afterwards, he handed her
though to say, Should I be thanking you? a mirror and had her look at the back, her
She later wondered why she’d thanked the hair a mass of twirls and curls that would
woman. Because, in fairness, it was really wilt before she arrived home.
a neutral comment the woman had made.
“You look like Rosie O’Donnell,” could just Looking through the mirror, beyond her
as easily have been “You look like Susie reflection she noticed the resident makeup
Sunshine, or Betty Boop or Jane Doe.” No, artist staring back at her. He’d reportedly
I don’t. I look like myself. I look like Kate. been a makeup artist to Hollywood starlets
Why would you run across the grocery store back in his heyday. Kate had met him her
parking lot at breakneck speed to share this first visit and he’d immediately sized her up,
thought with me, Kate really wanted to ask made suggestions for jazzing up her look,
her after the encounter was over. But that for “modernizing” it, as he’d put it, not re-
alizing just how long and hard she’d already

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worked that day to look as good as she did, and contorted in many of the scenes, evi-
aware of the clientele the salon attracted. dence of her great acting ability, but making
Thereafter she had avoided him at appoint- her look unattractive. Kate had watched the
ments, hoping he’d forgotten her, knowing movie years before and thought the role
he’d think she wasn’t measuring up since she played was horrible: she looked dumpy,
she’d failed to follow up on his numerous was loud, drunk, mean, aggressive. Please
(and expensive) suggestions. So why was he don’t let that be the Elizabeth Taylor movie
staring at her now? I remind him of, she silently prayed, waiting
for the verdict, watching the makeup guru
“You know something? he finally said, still trying to conjure up the name of the
breaking the silence. “You look just like elusive movie.
Elizabeth Taylor in this old movie I saw
recently… What was the name of it?” He “Sandpiper! That’s it! That’s the name
clicked his fingers together, still staring at of the movie! You remind me of Elizabeth
her, as though the answer lay hidden in Taylor in Sandpiper!” he finally announced.
Kate’s new hairdo. Here we go, she thought Everyone in the salon was now listening, cu-
to herself. Not again. And, in the case of rious about this strange guessing game the
Elizabeth Taylor, it was complicated. The two were playing. Kate wasn’t familiar with
man’s comments could have any number of that movie, but was relieved he hadn’t said
interpretations since the actress had been Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf or Taming
in many movies during her long life, her of the Shrew. After all, she was still recov-
appearance changing radically through the ering from the Rosie O’Donnell comment all
years and depending on the role she was these years later; she didn’t need any more
playing. Rosie O’Donnell had been a much baggage.
easier nut to crack than Elizabeth Taylor
would be. Not sure whether or not to thank the
makeup artist (she had to check the movie
It was unlikely he was referring to Na- out first, didn’t she?) she thanked him
tional Velvet or Lassie Come Home since anyway, to be gracious, but felt ambivalent,
Elizabeth Taylor had been an adolescent, thinking she needed to wait before deciding
really, a child, in both movies. What about whether it warranted a thank you. And then
Cleopatra, though? Or Father of the Bride? she quickly left the salon, afraid he’d change
Butterfield 8? Cat On A Hot Tin Roof? Those his mind about the movie he was remem-
would all be welcome comparisons, she bering, maybe even correct himself.
thought, and was briefly hopeful. Elizabeth
Taylor had been beautiful, radiant in those Back in her car, quickly tossing her purse
films, even as tempestuous Maggie in Cat on the floor, she googled Sandpiper-movie —
On A Hot Tin Roof. Kate would be thrilled to Elizabeth-Taylor on her phone, sighing with
be compared to the actress in any of those relief at the image that appeared of an older,
movies. But then she remembered others: but still attractive, Elizabeth Taylor. But, still
Taming of the Shrew or, — Oh my God — reeling from the anxiety generated by the
Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? In the latter makeup artist’s throwaway comment, she
movie, her character constantly shouts at realized how — again — she’d put so much
her husband, belittling him, picking fights stock in the hands of a relative stranger, al-
with him, angry, out of control, her face wild lowed his casual remark to deeply affect her.

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Kate wondered why so many people — cheeseburger after studying the overhead
herself included — felt the need to com- menu board. Digging money out of her
pare friends, acquaintances, even strangers purse, she handed it to the woman behind
to someone else: a sibling, a parent, even the counter and then did a double take; the
a celebrity. “You look exactly like your woman looked exactly like the actress in
mother/your sister/your aunt/Rosie O’Don- a popular new sitcom. “Oh, my gosh. Did
nell,” as though everyone needed a second anyone ever tell you you’re the spitting
someone to supplement their flagging iden- image of —” she started to say, but then
tity, to prop them up. caught herself, her voice trailing off as the
employee looked at her expectantly. What
Driving back to her Maryland home, am I doing?! she gasped, thinking to herself,
though, Kate suspected that if it happened I’m just as bad as everyone else.
again she would react the same. Someone
new would join the ranks of Rosie and Eliz- “Never mind,” she said to the waiting
abeth, take her place among Kate’s growing woman. “I was confusing you with someone
team of phantom companions. else, I guess. Here’s my money.” And then,
after thanking her, Kate scurried outside
Breaking her reverie to stop at a pop- with the paper bag containing her lunch, as
ular chain restaurant for a late lunch, she though fleeing a crime scene.
walked up to the counter and ordered a

About the Author

Linda Murphy Marshall is a multi-linguist and writer with
a Ph.D. in Hispanic Languages and Literature, a Master’s in
Spanish, and an MFA in Creative Writing. She has traveled
extensively throughout Africa in her work for the U.S.
government as a specialist in African languages: during
a war, a coup, following the terrorist bombing of the U.S.
embassy in Kenya, and in support of a U.S. Presidential
visit to Tanzania. She co-authored a book on the South
African “click” language, Xhosa, and is an English, Spanish,
French, and Portuguese docent at the Library of Congress
in Washington, D.C. Her nonfiction and fiction work has
been published or is forthcoming in The Los Angeles Review, Maryland Literary Review,
Flash Fiction Magazine, Bacopa Literary Review, Wanderlust Online, and Storgy, as well
as American Literary Review, where she was an Honorable Mention for the 2019 Fiction
Contest. In addition, she was a reader for Hunger Mountain, and currently reads for Fourth
Genre. She is also a translation editor at the Los Angeles Review.

62

IVANA

by Magdalena Blazevic

I’ll be dead in two hours. My hair, washed stone avalanche. One of them will indicate
with camomile, as white as snow, will mix with his iron finger that I should stand third
with the dust from the well-worn path and in line. I’ll be the shortest in it. Dark heads on
turn grey. It remembers the footsteps, from tall bodies on either side of me will turn to-
size 18 to 36, broken parts of the body and wards me, like flowers towards the sun. The
muddy fingers, and soon it will remember one from whose fiery rain a spark will hit my
my whole body, all one metre and sixty cen- chest will be wearing his cap cocked. He will
timetres of it. The dry soil will soak up my be standing beneath granny’s apple tree. We
DNA and will not let the rains nor the snows will just be separated by a low, thorny fence.
wash me away. I will always be just under the He will prop his leg on the wooden bench, in
surface, the grass may even grow from me. the shade. In the resting place. He will never
know that from behind the low window, pre-
The plums are overripe. I grab one and cisely between two sandbags, he is being
pull it. I can feel purple spurt. It leaves brown watched by a green eye. When I fall, so will
stains. My breasts are still clean. Over there, he. He will be taken home by his brother’s
the stain’ll spread from a bright red to black strong arms, black from the sun, and I by the
when they lay me down on the nylon in the white, still boyish, arms of my brother.
improvised morgue. I won’t be alone there. A
cold circlet of blue fingers will crown my head. Even the tomatoes are overripe. We have
If I could inhale then I’d know how cutting the been mashing them all day and throwing
smell of stagnant death is. But, the photogra- them into hot cauldrons from which red
pher will know. He will get closer and he will sauce erupts like from a volcano. It spills
discover my body and my face wrapped in over the sparse grass, with bugs and ants
the silver foil. My skin and lips will be blue, as fleeing as if from a fire. On the table stand
blue as my eyes are now. He will bend over washed, dry marmalade jars. When we fill
me, look at me through the lens, and take them and stack them, we will hear the echo
my last photograph. My eyes will be closed, a of unfamiliar voices. Then my body will
black trail under my nose, hardened. He will cringe, my breathing will speed up, and my
wipe his face with his shirt sleeve, his blue and blood will rush through my veins. Three red,
white stripes will soak up tears and sweat. I glass rows, the timber straining under the
will become part of its scary archive. weight, will stand untouched for a long time.

In an hour, a force of healthy male bodies Sparkling water cascades over the soft or-
will be sliding down through the forest like a ange sediment. I smear the surface with my

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

fingers and briefly colour the source. Around it A dark-skinned man, his nose lowered, with
are warm puddles with green edges. I cool my a hat on his head will, with a look, give the
feet under the pipe which is sticking out and sign upon which quick feet, like in some
fill the plastic bottles. The asphalt is red hot children’s game, will jump in ambush out of
and deserted. The white line has been erased. ditches, wardrobes and from under tables.
The forest deep and dark, is still peaceful. The gypsy tarot cards will be spilt underfoot,
When they look at it again from the other side and will be trodden on by strong, tightened
of the Bosnia river it will be aflame, and ash- boots. The cats will climb onto a tall walnut
coloured tree fragments will be falling on our tree. The corn stems will fall, one by one.
roofs. All the birds will be gone.
The graveyard on the hill is behind my
The railway track is overgrown with elder- back, when you look from the mountain it
wort, the tracks rusty. I take off my shoes and looks like a ball with densely packed-in dots.
walk as if on a beam. I don’t last long; the hot I won’t be buried there. All day two soldiers
iron scorching me. I put on my slippers and will be digging deep holes at its foot, in
feel the comfort of warm rubber. I pick some the hidden, shaded part. From these holes
tiny berries and put them into my mouth all worms and maggots will wriggle free and
at once. The bitter-sweet bloody juice flows search for a new haven. Mine is the last in
down my throat. I wipe my hands on my the row. They won’t take the foil off me. I will
dress. I sit down on a white, stone sleeper wear it instead of an evening gown. When
in front of Feriz’s house. Two grey cats are they are lowering me in the wooden coffin
resting there. Their skinny bodies breathing into the ground there will be pairs of tired
slowly. The windows have been covered by legs. Bouquets of wild flowers will wither
a once-white, thick bed sheet, the door shut. in a moment and be placed on the hot soil.
The window pane has cracked diagonally, The forest will be doused, only in places will
and been stuck together with brown sticky faint wisps of smoke be discernible. With
tape. From the concrete frames destroyed time, the white letters on the wooden cross
by rain, yellow dandelions peep out. The will come loose, the nails will rust. The loose
dry corn fields behind the house aren’t rus- soil will be compacted, and on it, instead of
tling. On the black electricity cable above the a stone slab, multicoloured wax will harden.
haystack perch, lined up, crows, shiny black.
When they take off and spread their large Now… now my eyes are damp. Mother is
wings, the click of a worn lock will be heard. blurry, and he’s already cocked his cap.

About the Author

Magdalena Blažević (1982) is short-story writer from Bosnia
and Herzegovina. She was born and grew up in Žepče, a
small town in Central Bosnia. She studied English and
Croatian Literature in Mostar where she lives and works. Her
first short-story collection will be published this year.

64

TANGO

by Henri Colt

“I don’t dance the tango,” Kyra says, “but I A suite of mournful melodies shrouds
took lessons before coming.” She bites into the loft in melancholy. Kyra confidently
a bright green apple with an audible crunch. tugs at her tight black jeans and notices the
Its tangy taste has a whisper of sweetness way her sleeveless tee-shirt accentuates her
that disappears on the back of her tongue. curves. Perched on the high—backed stool
Swallowing hard, she looks out from where in Mateo’s open kitchen, she playfully dan-
she is sitting to the Obelisco, an iconic na- gles a black stiletto on her toes. After joyful
tional monument standing like an arrow days sharing lunches and museum visits,
at the corner of Corrientes and Callas 9 de this is her first time in his loft apartment.
Julio in downtown Buenos Aires. She dares She wonders why he hasn’t kissed her yet.
not say she disliked the robotic T.A.N.G.O
ballroom steps she learned back home in “In tango,” he says after a while, “the man
Colorado. leads the woman to where she wants to go.”

“Tango is everything,” says Mateo with “Where I want to go?” Kyra smiles. “I
a shrug. His thick Spanish accent reminds thought you guys were macho.”
Kyra of Iñigo Montoya in The Princess Bride.
“Well, tango is a conversation.” Mateo
She moistens her lips before answering. puts his hand over his heart and feigns a
“I love the music, even if I don’t understand dance step before sitting next to her. “The
the words.” man leads, and the woman follows, but
where he goes depends on where you take
“Most lyrics are Lunfardo, a street-slang him.”
spoken by criminals and working-class
people.” Mateo puts his guampa on the “Sounds a lot like good sex.” Kyra feels
counter. The calabash gourde with its bam- her cheeks flush. She never makes the first
billa, a steel straw, is what Argentines tradi- move, but watching the way Mateo sipped
tionally use to drink that caffeine-rich mix- his maté inspired her.
ture of hot water and dry coca-like leaves
called maté. “It is better than sex,” he says calmly.
“Tango is love in three minutes, reciprocal
“Alexa,” he commands, walking toward and dramatic.”
the voice-controlled speakers in the living
room. “Play tango.” “If tango is better than sex, babe, you hav-
en’t been with the right girl.” She knows she
is falling for him. He is aloof but romantic,

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secretive, but enchanting like a forbidden balustrades, marble colonnades, and ba-
fruit. roque glass chandeliers hanging from high
ceilings. Timeless and eternal, it is a place
At the milonga,” he chides, “you dance where porteños, those inhabitants of
with your partner, but also with others.” Buenos Aires proper, gather for clandestine
encounters and love affairs, a place where
She feigns a pout. “I don’t think I would friendships and romance are indulged in
like the idea of you holding other women if the space of twelve minutes, the time of a
you were my partner.” tanda, three songs danced with the same
partner. She went there for coffee a few
He chuckles and loosens his necktie. She days ago, to people watch and study tango.
admires him from over the lip of a glass of
chardonnay. With jet-black hair, a seven-day Mateo interrupts her thoughts. “We
stubble, and suntanned skin, he could be a dance milonguero style.”
Columbian drug lord, but he is a journalist.
The truth is, she longs to run her fingers She bites her lower lip. Milongueros take
over his wrinkled shirt. She drops her shoe. small steps while in a tight embrace, with
lots of turns and pivots called giros, created
“Oops.” for couples navigating around a crowded
dance floor.
Mateo slides from his stool and kneels
at her feet. His hands are softer than she “I think that’s pretty different from the
imagined, and within moments, she is back ballroom steps I learned before,” she says.
in her heels.
Mateo’s eyes close as if he were talking
“Eu-phoria?” His eyes linger on the small with her telepathically. A persistent pres-
cursive letters tattooed above her ankle. sure of his hand near her spine shifts her
weight onto her toes and lifts her heels from
“It means happiness.” Kyra tosses her the hardwood floor. Her breasts, hips, and
wavy black hair, exaggerating the sparkle thighs tilt forward until her torso touches
in her eyes. When she stands, her forehead his, making a human Obelisco.
reaches his aquiline nose.
Captured in his right arm, without even
“Teach me to dance the tango,” she says. room to look down, she feels their upper
bodies expand and retract together like the
Mateo puts his right hand firmly on the bellows of an accordion. A slight hitch of his
small of her back, pulling her toward him. right shoulder coaxes her hand from his bi-
She naturally lays her left hand on his bi- ceps. She rests her forearm on the nape of
ceps. Pressure from his fingers makes her his neck. It is a moment without past or fu-
lean into him. She trembles as the back ture, exciting as when lovers discover each
of his free hand slides from her cheek to other for the first time.
her shoulders and down her right arm. He
squeezes her palm. She looks up expectantly. “Like this?”

“First lesson,” he says. “Yes.”

She knows he is a good dancer. They She can sense the slightest twitch of his
met at Confitería Ideal, a decrepit yet gran- body. His deepening breath is a signal to
diose haunt built in the style of a Parisian
salon from the Belle Epoque, with cast-iron

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begin, a sign she is safe and secure in his escapes his nostrils and floats across her
arms. neck, fading into a delicious chill on her
shoulders.
“Don’t think, Kyra” he counsels. “Just be.”
Kyra shudders with excitement. Her
When he steps back onto his right foot, eyes close. If he moves back any further I’m
she follows, entering the space his open going to fall on my face, she thinks, but she
hips make for her. Another step and she isn’t frightened. Did she invite him to hold
feels herself pivoting into a lean with her her this way, or did he initiate the lean?
left foot forward as her right foot gracefully
comes to rest off the ground against the Like a force field springing from her
back of her left ankle. partner’s chest, an invisible surge of en-
ergy prompts a long step backward onto
“Pause,” he whispers, as if the word has her right foot. She feels the move before it
two syllables. He rocks her tenderly. Their begins.
hands are mere embellishments. “We have
time, don’t hurry.” She steps. He follows. Their breaths
wrestle as lovers do before a long and
She feels his unwavering strength in painful separation. Kyra hears the stac-
spite of her exaggerated list. The way his cato lament of piano, violin, and that small
arm envelopes her ribcage in a tight em- accordion-like instrument called a ban-
brace, she feels protected, yet free, clearly doneón. ‘Tengo miedo de quererte,’ sings
taken, but willfully giving. a porteño with characteristic whiskey and
cigarette-filled gruffness. Mateo continues
“Tango is love without noise,” he says. “It the song in English, his accent heavier than
is life without confusion.” usual:

The music’s solemn rhythm wraps itself “I am afraid to love you,” he says, “to
around her heart. Mateo’s cheek brushes have you and to lose you, to then feel in me
hers when he dabs the faintest of kisses a death when you pass by.”
on her ear. She can almost smell the tes-
tosterone. An invisible cloud of warm air

About the Author

Henri Colt is an award-winning medical educator and
wandering scholar whose passions include mountaineering
and tango. He is the editor of Picture of Health: Medical
Ethics and the Movies (Oxford University Press). His short
stories have appeared in Rock and Ice Magazine, Fiction on
the Web, Flash Fiction Magazine, Active Muse, and Fewer
than 500.

67

HER LOVING ARMS

by Marta Pelrine-Bacon

Ella Cairnsworth didn’t mean to kill her he would smile at her and say, “Your love
boyfriend today. She loved him most of the makes me feel like I can fly already.”
time, and when she’d imagined murdering
him, she’d planned on poison. Poison re- “Sorry,” Ella said to his body at the
quired no muscle and no mess. He certainly bottom of the ravine. “I couldn’t give you
was a mess now. super powers.” A dark stained bloomed be-
neath him.
His body lay crumpled and bloodied at
the bottom of the ravine. It was a shame A shadow caught her attention and she
to have ruined his pretty face like that. His looked up. A vulture soared. She hurled her
prettiness was what first caught her atten- cell phone at the thing. “You can’t have him,”
tion. she shouted. Her phone shattered below.
“Damn.”
The rescue crews were coming and she
had her story. She had enough tears, cuts, But looking down at her busted phone
and bruises for them to believe she’d al- meant looking at him. “I’ll miss you,” she
most tumbled over with him. There was no said. She held her arms out in front of her.
reason to tell them her boyfriend had hit Her arms were strong after all. She smiled.
her with the rock. Why start confessing his
tendencies now? His mother was going to The whipping of the helicopter cut
be upset as it was, and Ella liked her boy- through the air. Ella searched the sky in sev-
friend’s mother. Poor woman. eral directions before she saw its black dot.
She thought of pitching something at it too.
Staring down at her boyfriend’s body, “If anyone is going to pick up his bones, it
Ella still felt his chest against the palm of should be me,” she said. She’d used to run
her hands. She’d had the weight of him in her fingers along his muscles when he was
her hands and then nothing but air. He’d in a good mood. Maybe if he’d been in a
shouted. Moments after his weight against good mood on this beautiful day…
her vanished, so did his voice.
The helicopter finished the last mile of
He must’ve been surprised her arms its journey, and it hovered over her with
were that strong. “You feel as frail as a its wind and noise. Rescuers came down a
bird,” he said once while holding her wrist. rope ladder and Ella rather wished heaven
He liked birds. He liked to say if he could worked liked that. If angels dropped ropes to
have a super power, he’d want to fly. Then earth when you were in trouble, you’d know

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Revista Literária Adelaide

exactly where and how to go. But ropes, she His bottom lip was ripped and his eyes
sighed, weren’t from angels. There’d never swollen and coated with blood. To every-
been ropes when she’d needed them before. one’s surprise, a word escaped his throat.
It gurgled and rasped, and it brought blood
A rescuer wrapped a blanket around her up with it. “I.”
and began to check her bones and shined
a pinpoint light into her eyes. Looking for “Hush, tough guy,” said a rescuer. “Don’t
injuries and guilt, Ella imagined. try to talk.”

Other rescuers were lowered them- “I.”
selves down to her boyfriend. “He’s alive,”
came the call. “He’s alive!” “Really. Hush.” This rescuer checked her
boyfriend’s pulse again.
She trembled, her heart wrenched. No.
No. No. He said he’d never leave her and Ella was going to cry. She knew her boy-
she’d never leave him. He said it every night. friend would speak if he wanted. “You’ll
Now she was the one falling. listen to me,” he liked say before knocking
her to her knees. He had a beautiful voice.
“This one’s in shock,” her rescuer said
kneeling beside her. The medic rummaged “Listen,” he would shout and wrench her
through his pack. “That’s quite a gash by her hair. “I have something to say to you.”
you’ve got above your eye,” he said.
A bubble of blood formed at his mouth.
“I fell,” she mumbled because medics “I.”
believed in falls. Everyone believed in what
they expected, and she believed her boy- The rescuers looked over at Ella.
friend was dead.
“I.” It was the last thing he said.
“You’re lucky you didn’t go over the side
too.” The rescuers did things Ella didn’t un-
derstand—things to start his heart, things
“Is my boyfriend going to be all right?” to find his pulse, things to stop his blood
The words clawed her throat. leaving his body. In her boyfriend’s hand
was the rock that had opened the gash over
The medic furrowed his brow. “You rest. her eye. He always had a tight grip.
Explain what happened later.” He buckled
straps around her for the helicopter to lift Ella touched the nearest rescuer on
her up. “You keep your boyfriend in your the back. He startled and turned. “Miss—”
prayers, sweetheart, and maybe he’ll turn “May I have that?” she asked and pointed.
out all right.”
Confused the rescuer looked at the boy-
In the helicopter, she rested on her own friend’s body. “The rock?”
thin stretcher, her rescuer beside her, but
she kept her eyes on her boyfriend, strapped She nodded. The other rescuers were
into place. The air smelled of blood, sweat, working less furiously now. The rescuer
and dirt. Other rescuers bent over him, pried the bloody rock from the young man’s
cleaning up wounds, covering gashes, and fingers.
Ella couldn’t see what else they were doing
to save his life. The rescuers muttered amongst them-
selves. “They must’ve been a pretty couple,”
said one.

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

“Poor girl,” said another.
“Sad,” said her rescuer.
Ella held the rock. It was pretty. The
weight reminded her of the strength in her
arms.

About the Author

Marta Pelrine-Bacon: I’m an author and artist in Austin,
Texas. I’ve had flash fiction published in 50 to 1 (Drifting
through Space) and Flash Fiction Magazine (Devotion). I’ve
a had a short story published in The Austin Review (The
Longest Love Letter). And two of my fairy tales, Fear of
Apples and The Sky Fell in Love published in Cabinet des
Fees and The Enchanted Conversation, respectively. My
debut novel, The Blue Jar, was published by Plum Tree
Books/UK in 2013.

70

DEATH AND
BASEBALL

by Red Rollins*

He parked at the subway station and took was electricity in the crowd. The destitute
the train to Union. The southbound train with a hope. Somehow the winning meant
was filled with blue jerseys—couples, gangs everything to the people when they came
of women, gangly men with turkey hats, together. It was war. Chants of clustered
punks, and Eastern European skinheads. cancer cells rose and dove. He rooted for
He got out and flown with the crowd along the Rangers. He wanted to rip the game
the high concrete wall to the entrances. out of his life. It was a disease. He followed
Surrounded by the self-absorbed crowds in a scalper’s voice.
their jerseys, hats and phones—“I’m here.
Yeah. I don’t see you. Yeah. Yeah. I’m here. “Tickets. Get your tickets,” shouted a
What? I can’t hear. Where are you ...” He small dark man looking up the street in a
backed to the wall. The concrete surround- deep voice. He faced the incoming crowd
ed them. The city of concrete, steel and and scanned the blue faces. When his eyes
glass, walls, pavements and overpasses. It blinked, his whole face shrunk in a twitch.
was the efficient, affordable and economic “Tickets. Get your tickets.”
Stone Age for the 21st century. He looked
around and pulled out red, blue and white A short, fat man in a white jersey, glasses
pill. He threw back the pills and drank them and Tintin hairstyle approached him. They
down with the Jefferson. This was the final turned away and conversed. Fat man’s
hurrah before he got back on the horse. Life hands articulated a point. Then he pointed
was fun, frustrating and hard for a sensitive into the crowd.
and intelligent man with an addictive per-
sonality and wrong peer group. Every now “Get out of here,” scalper waived him off.
and then he dove deep and then recovered.
He abused like a dolphin leaped for air. He “Come on! I’m just trying to make a deal.
inhaled. The night was coming. He listened Come on!”
for the scalpers. ALDS—he didn’t even
know what it stood for—Game 5. There The scalper waved him off. Amos saw the
fat man exhale and he put his hands on his
hips while his gut jiggled below his scrotum.
He looked around. Amos waved at him.

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“You want tickets?” phone and started typing. “I just want to
see the view. What is it? Right field...”
“Yes. That would be great.”
“I don’t fucking know. I got to go. Take it
“My buddy didn’t turned up, so I only got or leave it,” Amos started walking.
one,” Amos felt his voice resonating within
his inner ear again. “Wait! … Wait, wait, wait,” fat man fol-
lowed. “I’ll take it.”
“That’s no good. I need three,” fat man
turned up weepy eyes. He had nice eyes and “$300.”
he used them when he didn’t get his way. A
giant toddler, smart, privileged, sensitive “Those are the worst seats in the house.
and immature with no regard for others. The floodlights fixture obscures the 3rd base.
Did you know that?”
“Sorry. … The game is about to start,”
pushed Amos as the fat man walked away— “...and you are paying for beer.”
the silhouette of a small head over arched
back and a single curvature of fat that “Wow, wow!”
merged his arms and shoulders.
“You gonna bitch or you gonna pay?”
Amos saw him walking up to a blonde
with a kid. She was ugly and tried very hard The fat man paid. His eyes were full of
to cover it—high heels, tight leatherette sorrow, eyelashes flapping. Amos handed
pants, biker jacket and platinum hair falling him the ticket.
over her pressed up breasts. Makeup, Botox
and silicone. If she were alone Police would “I’ll see you inside … don’t forget the
question her on her intents. Whore. The kid beer.”
could have been 11, a faceless tween in a
hoodie, skater sneakers and $10 jeans. They The fat man walked up to the L.A. whore
all looked in his direction. Fat man’s hand and the kid with the air of disappointment
pointed at the watch. The woman listened and said his goodbyes.
and nodded. The kid lowered his voice.
Fat man pointed at the kid. She resolutely Fat man was right. A large, steel flood-
shook her head, and the fat man spread his light construction obstructed the 3rd base.
arms in question. Conversation continued. Surrounded by 50,000 people, the floor be-
The scalper was gone. Fat man turned back. neath his feet shook. His knees were about
to nudge the head in the seat below him.
“I’ll take the ticket.”
“Excuse me,” said a voice and Amos
“$300.” caught a white Jersey in the corner of his
eye. The fat man held a tray of nachos with
Fat man froze, “No way.” a hot dog on his stomach.

“It is what it is.” “It’s you,” Mack tucked sideways and the
fat man passed, sat, exhaled and splurged
“Where are the seats?” his fat generously over the armrests. No
wonder airlines want to charge an extra
“I don’t know. Somewhere in the 500s.” seat to the fat.

“Let me see it.” Amos showed him the “Great crowd, huh,” said the fat man and
tickets. The fat man pulled out a large bit the hot dog.

“Yeah.”

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“God, these are shitty seats.” it and carefully placed it to his lips. His face
cringed and then opened.
“Yeah.”
“That’s some nice stuff you got there.
“What happened to your buddy?” That’s amazing. What is that,” he looked at
the iced tea bottle and passed it back licking
“He couldn’t make it. Where are your his lips.
wife and kid?”
“Jefferson.”
“Couldn’t afford three tickets—sorry,
couldn’t get three tickets—so I have sent “Oh—oh I have had Jefferson before. It
them to the movies. We drove down here was at my buddy’s bachelor party in Vegas.
from King’s Cross. I’m Gabriel.” Chewing, he Some party. What’s the best thing you ever
extended his arm over the nachos.” drank?”

“Amos.” “Jefferson.”

“Nice to meet you,” Gabriel worked the “Mhh. For me it would have to be … Ma-
hot dog. callan 25. That’s a nice, nice whiskey,”

“What about that beer?” “Mhh-hmm.”

“Huh. Didn’t occurred to me that you The fat man couldn’t help himself. A
were serious.” child, egocentric and insecure at the same
time, a fat bastard designed for the 21st
“I was.” century, he needed to keep scores in his
favor and brag about your assumed worldly
“Ok,” Gabriel scanned the crowd. “Wait experience —better, faster, stronger, pricier,
for the concessions to come through.” smarter, the liquor he drank, the cars he
drove, the women he fucked, the deals he
Amos noted a Rolex and a thick golden got, the arguments he won, and Star Wars
chain and a cross at the end of it around conventions he attended—the measure of
Gabriel’s thick neck. life was the non-life in others.

“You Catholic?” “Still, I’m more of a vine guy.”

“Yeah. How could you tell?” “Mhh-hmm.”

“I got a gift.” The fat man pulled out a large phone,
took a picture of himself, and posted a
“… Yeah. My parents are from Uruguay. I social update, “chilling at the #game5 w/
grew up here, though,” he chewed. friends, sipping Jefferson’s #classy #bluejays
#cometogether”.
Someone threw the first pitch. The
crowd roared. Amos checked his phone. He missed a
call from Berlin and an unknown number
“Alright, let’s go! Time to bag it! We are with 2 messages.
going all the way!” People got off their seats
and those who didn’t stretch their necks. A “Hello Mr. Mack. This is Inspector Peter
sea of blue t-shirts and white towels. Amos Grabowsky. There has been an incident in-
pulled out the iced tea and drank. Gabriel volving Mr. James Ford and we are looking
judged.

“Here. This bottle cost more than your
picket,” Gabriel took the bottle. He smelled

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

for people Mr. Ford has been in contact over “Ok. I’ll be there.”
the past several days. Please give me a call at
9053691165. Thank you—Next Message— “Thank you, Mr. Mack.”
Amey. Police came to our house looking for
you. Something has happened to Ford. They “Sure.”
looked very concerned. Are you ok? Have
you seen Ford? I’m so scared and confused. Amos dialed home.
Baby. Please call me, baby. Please. Come
home. I miss you. I’m not well.” “Hey.”

Amos stood up and walked to the Exit sign. “Amey! Thanks God.”
He felt seven feet tall, broad shouldered. The
stadium vibrated, his mind was steady as an “Hey, don’t worry. Something happened
anvil but his body was diluted. He found a to Ford. The cops just want to ask some
quiet place and called 9053691165. questions about him. Everything’s fine.”

“Hello.” “I’m so scared.”

“This is Amos Mack.” “Don’t worry. I’m ok. Everything’s ok. It
has nothing to do with me.”
“Hello Mr. Mack. This is Inspector
Grabowsky. Thank you for calling me back.” “But I’m scared. Can you come home
please?”
“What happened?”
“I’m at the game. It’s the 3rd inning.”
“Well, Mr. Ford has been involved in an
incident and we want to speak with ev- “I don’t know what that means. Please
eryone that may know what has happened.” come home.”

“Is he ok?” “That means that the game just started.
It’s ok. Everything’s ok. This is the biggest
“I’m afraid not. Mr. Mack, do you mind game in two decades. I’ll be home soon.”
coming to our office as soon as possible?
We are just trying to piece together the “I don’t care about the game. Why don’t
events of the day together.” you care about me? I’m not feeling well. I
have bruises all over. Why are you being so
“What happened to him?” selfish? Can you come early?”

“I would rather discuss that in person. “I’ll try.”
Can you come?”
“Why can’t you just come. You are so
“Sure. Is tomorrow ok?” selfish. How did I deserve this? What did I
do?”
“We would prefer immediately.”
“Can you please drop it? I’ll come, but let
“I’m sorry but I’m tied up in the city at the me finish the game.”
moment, and the game is on, so it may take
several hours.” “Fuck you. Fuck your game. You are such
a nasty person. I hate you. Don’t come, then.
“Ok, then. I’m in the office but tomorrow Don’t come home at all. I don’t want to see
morning will do. We are at the intersection you again.” The line went silent.
of Main and 9th.”
His mind was centered, his body was
melting away, and his rage was quite

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palpable. Heavy and burning like tar, erupting “Cookbooks, flyers, articles, press re-
into space like bands of plasma from the sur- leases … .”
face of the sun. Pointless and uncontrollable,
the red rage blistered his face as he walked “Anything I could have heard off?”
through the dark corridor. The dragons
danced, spun one over the other as a nest “I have a blog with The Star.”
of vipers. He sat. Gabriel’s nachos were gone
and he was holding a beer. The players were “What about?”
lesser than ants. 2-1, and someone at the
bat. Electrifying, roaring crowd, ground “Investing.”
shaking, ankle-deep in garbage of wrappers,
carton, popcorn, and paper cups. The crowd “That’s impressive. Does it pay?”
roared. Towels spun. The steel beams shook
like an earthquake. “Tons. I just bought myself a new BMW.
One of those X-5 SUVs.”
“Where is my beer?”
“Nice,” Gabriel’s eyes went blank as he
“You were gone, so I didn’t get you one. digested the jealousy. “I find most writers
Let me know when you see a vendor.” are pretentious pricks. They toil in obscu-
rity, but once they hit it big, they go all out,
Amos looked around. A vendor in bright buying fedoras, turtlenecks and silk scarfs.
yellow t-shirt walked just a row away. Amos You are ok though.”
waved. The vendor approached.
“Amen.”
“Two beers.” He passed one to Gabriel.
“I’m a designer. Good money, too. Digital—
“Hold on,” Gabriel reluctantly scrambled everyone loves digital these days. The web
for his valet and paid. is a gold mine. They all think it will change
their business, so that’s what I sell them.
“Thank you,” said the vendor and walked Last year I cleared 6 figures, working with
away. the big dogs, McDonald’s, Starbucks, … that
kind of clients.” He leaned over, “I also get
“Helluwa game. Rangers are tough, thou. to skim off the top on projects. Cash. Makes
I hate that little what’s-his-face rookie. He for a very nice bonus,” he laughed proudly
has no sense and it’s working out for him. and pulled out a bag of gummy bears. Amos
I hate it.” finished the beer, dropped the cup on the
ground, looked around, and waved at the
“Yeah. Is baseball big in Paraguay?” vendor. Gabriel’s face hardened.

“Not at all. It’s all soccer,” Gabriel shook “My friend is a rich guy, so we are cel-
his head. “So what do you do?” Gabriel initi- ebrating—two beers.” The vendor handed
ated the conversation where he would ulti- over the drinks and collected the money.
mately get to talk about himself last, getting Amos’ rage was subsiding and shaping into
the one-up. a heavy black mass behind his eyes, a tumor
fed by the fat man’s words, his pretense, his
“I’m a writer.” ego, his greedy drooling mind and his dis-
gusting physique. Fat, greasy fingers strug-
“Oh a writer,” Gabriel’s face had the very gled with the gummy bears’ package. Amos
common expression of surprise and amused pulled out the knife and slit the bag open.
respect. “What do you write?”

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

“Easy there, killer.” some more, walked out of the stall, and
washed his hands and face. Jacket price la-
Amos pulled out the Jefferson, had a bels stuck up at the back of the collar. He
long drink and handed the bottle over. dried his hands. Dizzy, his mind was nearly
The greedy lips sucked, and Amos saw the out, just a glowing wick in the darkness of
backwash. The crowd came off to a rising, the rage. Deep silence surrounded him as if
deafening roar, people stood to their feet, his ears were waxed and he was submerged
arms up and out, and white towels spinning. in crude. The madness was calm but ready
Amos got hit at the back of the head. He to spring. He took off his jacket, snapped
stood up. 2-2. Nauseous, he tried to un- the knife open and cut the string that held
ravel what has happened. He forgot about the label. He put the jacket back on and
the wound, and now the back of his head the label into his pocket. Berlin kept all the
throbbed again. Gabriel was high-fiving price labels until they decided to keep the
a stranger. Amos sat back down. The roar product for sure. He stared at himself in the
carried on. mirror with the blade in his hand. Snap—
Snap—Snap submerged in crude.
An hour later, the argument on the field
was over. Suddenly, the whole building shook in
violence and with a beastly roar the stall
Gabriel was reading off his phone, “The door jerked open behind him and the fat
catcher threw the ball back to the mount, man jumped forward. “Grand Slam!”
and hit the bat in the process. That means
the ball was live, so the player on 3rd was al- Shocked and surprised, Amos turned
lowed to score. So it’s 3-2.” He had no feeling and thrust the black blade in the center of
about the game. It was a social pose. The the fat man’s chest. He felt the blade turn
game was too important not to protest so as it made way between the ribs and fur-
Amos was forced to watch the endless mute ther through the softness of the left lung
conversation of blue, gray and black insects and into the heart. Amos let go of the
at the field shouting and pointing. Amos knife. They both stood in shock and silence
checked the phone. Message read “Why are looking down at the handle in Gabriel’s
you such a nasty person?” The black mass chest. Gabriel released a soft chuckle from
behind his eyes swelled up. He got up. “Are his twisted, oily face. Blood seeped around
you going to the toilet? I’ll come with you. the handle and the fat man tried hopelessly
This game is really stretching up,” said Ga- hold on to the walls, and then dropped his
briel. Black mass swelled further. Amos was phone, and fell backwards, hitting the un-
nauseous. flushed toilet. He landed sideways, left arm
broken underneath the weight of the body,
The hallways were empty. They followed legs apart, right arm twisted atop, and head
the signs. “It’s an amazing game. I can’t be- nearly under the wall of the stall. He gasped
lieve I’m here. I have to message my wife.” for air and gargled. His pants were still
half way down his white, hairy ass. Amos
Amos walked into a stall and vomited. stepped over him. Unable to move and
breathless, Gabriel’s wide eyes watched
“Ho-hoo, you ok, buddy?” Amos and his arm tried to reach out. Amos
looked down. He was terrified and amused
“Yeah.” Amos heard the fat man passing
gas over the bowl and then splashing. His
phone keyboard chimed. Amos vomited

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by his indifference and hate. “This is what He realized that killing a complete stranger
you get when you don’t wipe your ass and in an empty toilet at a sporting event of the
don’t wash your hands.” Amos pulled Gabri- decade was likely the best way to get away
el’s valet and put it in his pocket. He pulled with it. They would likely catch him in any
up his sleeves and yanked the knife out of other situation, but this one was perfect. He
Gabriel’s chest. The blood spilled over the never touched the door handle, kicking the
white t-shirt. He pushed Gabriel’s gurgling doors open; the toilet flush, soap and paper
head back and against the tile under the towels were all hands-free, and he always
toilet bowl and slit his jugular. The last of used a paper towel to open the door. The
the blood pressure sprayed blood upwards only better way would be using the disabled
onto the toilet wall and bowl. Amos folded toilet, but that would mean sharing, and
Gabriel’s legs into the stall, closed the door, no stranger would agree to it unless he or
washed his hands and the knife, pulled the she was a wife, husband or a whore. And
baseball cap into his face, zipped up the people who found him likely stomped all
jacket and walked out. over the place to see and destroy any and
all evidence. It was quite elegant. The only
He stopped in the dark underpass and thing behind was a dead stranger, a kid, and
turned his jacket and baseball cap inside a whore of a widow. The death should flat-
out. Now he just looked even more like a tened the face fillers and show natural hair
baseball fan. He disposed of the rest of the color at the root for a while. All the anger,
pills—red, blue and white—in a homeless solitude and resentment—fat man’s kid
man’s paper cup. would grow to be real human being, dam-
aged, frightened and fighting to death, al-
Sitting in the subway, the pharmaceuti- ways fighting like a beast at its last rope. The
cals wore off, and his mind was lucid and Absurd had its sweet spots.
clear. The dolphin was back in the ocean,
cells oxygenated and free to move forward.

About the Author

Michael Majernik chose the pseudonym Red Rollins* for
this story, which has been adapted into short form from
his novella The Mechanical Bull (yet to be published). He
published a collection of short stories Alibist (Life Rattle
Press, 2009), possesses a degree in English Literature,
Communications, and Professional Writing, and for the
past decade worked in journalism, communications, and
public relations. His writing style integrates elements of
transgressional fiction, magical realism, and creative non-
fiction. His new fictional work (in development), Heal, aims
to incorporate storytelling a form of spiritual medicine
and maximize the healing aspect of storytelling for reader’s benefit—in other words, he’s
working on a “book that heals.”

77

THE MAKEOVER

by Adelaide Shaw

Maggie’s worries were not about the hot, She walked with a hunch to her shoul-
dry Santa Ana winds that blew into Los ders and slowed her steps. It mattered little
Angeles raising temperatures and tempers if she missed the bus and came in late or
and creating a high fire danger. Her worries not at all. It mattered little what she did.
were of a different nature. The heat exacerbated her feelings of use-
lessness and helplessness. Financially, she
It was day two of the second Santa Ana would manage, but what would she do?
in a month. Maggie stepped out the front
door of her craftsman bungalow and sucked She had begun right out of high school
in her breath. If you owned a house in the working for a pittance and had slowly
hills or canyons you checked the local news learned the business and the craft of re-
often and kept your family and pets and im- storing furniture. A friend of her father’s
portant documents near-by, ready to flee, gave her the job, something to do before
perhaps for a few hours, perhaps forever. deciding what she really wanted to do.
It was sad for the families who lost their Grubby work, not for the fastidious who
homes in the current fires, but they knew didn’t want to get their hands or clothes
the dangers when they built their homes dirty, who wrinkled their noses at the smell
and accepted the risk. She lived in a built-up, of turpentine and paint, who coughed
family friendly neighborhood with small and sneezed at the slightest sprinkling of
house lots and no open areas of unchecked dust., who shied away from any product
vegetation. with safety and cautionary warnings, who
were afraid of personal injury when using
As she walked to the bus stop, the hot a hammer or saw. Maggie loved the work,
wind caught the brim of her straw hat, transforming a dilapidated couch or chair
nearly blowing it away. with stains, broken legs and leaky stuffing
to a sturdy and attractive addition to any-
“Damn,” she muttered. Useless in a Santa one’s home. The temporary job became
Ana without being tied on, she carried the permanent.
hat in her hand. Today she would be set free,
severed from her job of 40 years, her posi- Without her work she was a nobody.
tion, terminated. It was she who was ter- Some older customers came back again and
minated. She was redundant, not needed, again with their worn but loved pieces and
surplus, outmoded. Whatever term that asked for her.
was used, she was out.

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“Maggie, you’re an artist, a genius. My Maggie gave a nod and a wave and
mother loved this chest. Now it’s gorgeous headed for the office. Since Tessa died five
again.” years earlier, Maggie helped in the office. It
was his wife’s death that sent Miguel into
“My daughter will shed tears of joy with a slow spiral downward, refusing sugges-
my restored baby cradle.” tions for changes and becoming closed and
withdrawn. He was resigned to the shop
For the past several years Miguel’s closing and his empty life. But, his life was
Makeover Shop had been losing business. not empty; he had a son and a grandchild
Buy New was the mantra of the current on the way. He had possibilities before him.
culture. Why spend a couple hundred dol- Maggie had none, and felt the weight of
lars on Grandma’s old rocker when a new lonely years ahead without purpose.
one is much less? People didn’t care that
it was of inferior quality and workmanship. She could try to find work at some furni-
Who cares if it falls apart after three years? ture manufacturer making new furniture or,
Dispose of it and get another one. Such a perhaps, in the office. She knew a lot about
waste, such a disregard of craftmanship, keeping accounts, ordering, and scheduling.
such a lack of appreciation for family history. But no, no. That was just wishful thinking.
Maggie had been moaning the same dirge Living near three bus lines, she didn’t need a
for years. She had seen it coming and had car for work or anything else. These manufac-
told Miguel to revamp the shop, sell new, turers were far away and she would have to
but inexpensive furniture for those who transfer busses too many times to get to any
didn’t care about real quality, but wanted of them. And, who would want her at her age?
only the veneer.
***
***
By Thursday afternoon the last of the or-
She entered the pink stucco building ders were finished and delivered. Miguel
through the open bay door. With the ad- and Steve were gathering what they want-
vent of closing his shop, Miguel had put ed to keep and loading the truck. Maggie
off maintenance on the ventilation system, put a few fabric remnants, hand tools and
and it was often necessary to keep the bay brushes in a large shopping bag. Tomorrow,
open. Three floor fans whirred in an inad- whatever was left would be hauled away as
equate attempt to disburse the fumes and trash, and Miguel would hand over the keys
provide some cooling. It was a large space to the landlord.
with work benches, metal cabinets, shelves
and walls stacked with tools, paint, varnish- She gave a last farewell look, remem-
es and lacquers, sample books of fabrics, bering a time long ago when there were five
piles of remnants and new and old wood. or six workers hammering, sawing, scraping.
The cavernous space, with an operating
Miguel was reupholstering a wing chair ventilation system, was cool and comfort-
at one end; Steve, his son, was adding brass able. The radio played music all day. There
hardware to a refurbished chest. Jocko, the was talk and laughter, as well as grumbles,
youngest worker, who had the least amount but they were few. Crying was useless, and
of skills, had already gone to work for a de- she squinted to stop the flow of tears and
livery service. memories.

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

With slow steps she circuited the room, anxious to see how many layers of paint
brushing a hand along the walls, the empty there were.
shelves and a dusty bolt of fabric ordered
for a customer who changed her mind. The “Miguel. I want this cabinet. You don’t
woman didn’t like the bright red hibiscus want it do you? Is there room in the truck?
flowers, walked away and left the fabric. Will you take it to my house?” Nearly run-
Miguel had shouted several curse words ning outside the building, she panted out
and wrote off the expense as uncollect- her questions. Grabbing Miguel’s hand, she
able. “Maybe someone will like it,” he said pulled him inside.
each time it was suggested that it go in the
dumpster. But no one liked it. It became old “Dios mio! I remember that cabinet.” He
and useless. Like she was. Maggie gave an looked at the exterior and the interior and
inward smile. Being flamboyant and loud related to Steve how he found it and wanted
didn’t guarantee you a lasting place in this to restore it for Tessa. “Never the time. Al-
world. ways the customers. . . then. . . I forget.”

As she moved away her eyes caught a bit He reached for the cloth he always car-
of white behind the bolt. Pushing it aside, it ried hanging from his belt and wiped at the
fell with a thud, sending up a swirl of dust, paint stripper.
causing her to cough. There stood a liquor
cabinet, found on a street curb and picked “Gloves,” Maggie shouted, but Miguel
up by Miguel. It had been a someday project shrugged. The stripper hadn’t been on long
for his own home. The intricate carvings enough to soften the paint sufficiently but
along the edges were clogged with paint, enough to know there were more layers
as to be almost obliterated in some places. under the white. The cloth was smeared
with white, black, red and white again.
Maggie opened the swinging doors and
clapped her hands at seeing the unpainted “Ahh. Imbecile. Only an imbecile does
interior. She stroked the natural walnut, this.” He gave the cabinet a slap. “Too late
smooth but dulled with time and neglect. for me. I’ll bring it to your house tomorrow.”
The cabinet had two pull down inner doors
with shelves fitted for glasses and liquor ***
bottles. On the bottom were an insulated
drawer for ice and a rack for wine bottles. On Saturday Maggie was up early. It was
The interior just needed a cleaning and pol- the first weekend since she was a teenager
ishing, but the exterior would require much that she had real plans, plans that did not
more. include cleaning the house which didn’t
needed cleaning or doing the Sunday Times
With a brisk step she walked to a bin crossword puzzle. She felt a shiver of ex-
holding empty cans and bottles. Putting on citement slide across her skin, not because
rubber gloves she reached inside, shaking she was going to the beach or bike riding
cans until she found one with some paint with friends; not because she was going to
stripper still in it. She poured the thick liquid a movie and get burgers afterwards. Those
on the cabinet, retrieved a brush from her days were long past. Friends left for college,
bag and spread it over a small section. She married, moved, made new friends. It was
should be wearing goggles, but was too an effort starting fresh with strangers. It
wasn’t like growing up with classmates, the
same ones every day, every year. There was

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no one like Lisa, who always said, “Come on, middle-class workers to up and coming
Maggie. You know you want to come to the professionals, some of the craftsman and
game.” Or like Connie, with her make-up adobe houses extended upward with a
tips and hair styling, always telling her, “Put second floor or expanded outward in the
a little effort into it. You have to try.” She back or on the side, creating an architec-
had tried, but she was still Maggie with no tural style that had no name.
make-up and no styled hair.
The paint was bubbling. Maggie donned
She gathered her supplies and set to her protective gear again and got to work.
work. Wearing rubber gloves, goggles, a
face mask, long-sleeved shirt and plastic ***
apron, she hummed softly as she applied
stripper to the cabinet. She worked on “What are you doing?”
the shaded porch in front of her house. At
seven o’clock the street was quiet, as was An older woman carrying an umbrella
usual for a Saturday morning. It was cool, in one hand and holding the leash of a
but by noon the heat would be back, along small frisky dog with the other called out
with the winds. to Maggie. After a brief explanation, the
woman cautioned her to drink plenty of
Using a paint brush, she covered a small water as she worked, wished her a pleasant
section and sat down to wait. After twenty day and continued on her walk.
minutes, when the paint began to bubble,
she scraped it away with a plastic scraper, As the morning moved on, the heat in-
applied more stripper to those areas where creased as well as the passersby. Everyone
a residue of paint remained, waited and who passed the house looked, asked
scraped again. When the grain showed questions, commented. There were more
clearly, she gently wiped the surface with dog walkers, mothers with baby carriages,
mineral spirits using fine steel wool and weekend dads with their kids out for pan-
wiped again with a soft cloth. Without cakes at the diner, shoppers on their way
pausing, she began the process on another to the bus stop, joggers. You had to be
section. young, she thought, until a man about her
age jogged, or rather fast walked, past the
Waiting in between steps was a test of house. Maybe she could do that, walk, not
patience. At the shop, she usually had two jog or fast walk, just walk to get some ex-
projects going and went from one to the ercise now that she had her days free. She
other. This was the first restoration she had could lose a few pounds. But, she would
done for herself, and she wanted it to be walk early, not in mid-afternoon. Crazy in
perfect. this weather. Crazy for her to keep working
and sweating on the porch. Take a nap. A
She waited in a faded canvas chair and power nap. Wasn’t that the jargon? She
sipped her coffee, remembering when the probably heard it from the kid Jocko who
house belonged to her parents. Other than used it as an excuse for loafing on the job.
being repainted and having air conditioning
installed, the house remained the same, not ***
so with several other houses in the neigh-
borhood. As the people changed, from On Sunday morning church goers on their
way to or from the Methodist church on

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

the corner or the Catholic church on the to the new concert halls, theaters, shopping,
next street stopped to chat. Some of the office buildings, and museums. Schools in
same people from the day before returned, the area improved. Los Angeles became a
marveling at her progress and the gradual happening city and that happening flowed
change in the cabinet. It was as if she were northeast. The doctors, lawyers, movie
the weekend’s entertainment, the star of a people, writers, technicians, musicians, de-
reality show. signers, the cappuccino, latte, wine crowd,
filling the cafes and restaurants along the
By early evening she finished removing boulevard had money or expected to have
the paint on the sides of the cabinet. The it and took on the debt in order to live there.
carvings along the edges would be more dif- Brave or foolish, Maggie didn’t know. The
ficult to clean and be slow work. No matter. changes zipped past her. She lived life as a
What else did she have to do? witness, not as a participant.

During the next week she worked in the On Wednesday, she began her morning
cool of the mornings and late afternoons. walks and had a latte at a café on the boule-
Some areas along the edges needed three vard. She recognized some of the customers
applications of stripper. who had passed her house and lingered to
talk. They waved; she waved back.
“HI. I’m Mary Jenkins. This is Slobber.”
The woman, pointing to her drooling dog, “Still working on the cabinet?”
waved a hand.
“I’d like to see it when you’re finished.”
A while later Maggie heard, “Buenos
días. What you do?” A grandmotherly People appeared interested. Maggie had
woman, pushing a baby carriage, stopped met more people in a few days than she
to talk in halting English. had met in all the years living on the block.
Young couples, with and without children,
Some came up to the porch for a single moms and dads, older neighbors who
closer look. “Is this the best brand of paint had been in the area as long as she had. All
stripper? Is it caustic?” living behind closed doors. No. Not so. They
kept their doors open. They went out and
The interruptions slowed Maggie’s work, about, saw life, lived life. It was she who
but this was a new experience for her. After was living behind closed doors.
her parents died she discussed her work
with only Miguel and Steve. Actually, talking ***
at length with anyone was a new experi-
ence. She appeared to be a neighborhood By the following Saturday, Maggie finished
attraction the carved edges. With no more specks
of paint anywhere, she began applying a
She thought about the changes that paste wax.
began some years earlier. There were nu-
merous reasons for leaving the area: new “You’re still at it? You are one determined
jobs, larger houses for larger families, poor lady.” It was Clare from the week before,
school performance. But, change came a young woman who was a screen writer,
again and again. The down town area along with her partner Jason, both with sev-
sprouted new buildings like mushrooms eral credits on their resumes.
after rain, bringing people back to be close

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“What are you doing now?” Jason went their interest in her work. “I can make a quick
on the porch and watched Maggie cover the pasta with clams. And. . . and I have beer.”
last section with wax. “How will you polish
it? I have an electric polisher if you want to She expected them to give a polite no
use it.” thanks because they had another invitation,
a script to finish, a dog who needed to be
Thanks, but no. Hand polishing. Like this.” fed. All good reasons and not necessarily
She pulled from her apron a torn tee shirt lies.
and rubbed the wood in a circular motion.
“Want to try?” She gave Jason the cloth and With a quick exchange of looks Clare
got more cloths from inside. With Clare and Jason nodded. “I’ll help you,” Clare said.
joining in, the cabinet was polished in a “Jason will bring the cabinet inside.”
short time.
“I meant what I said about a video or a
“What now?” Clare asked. blog,” Jason said. “I can set it up if you want.
Think about it.”
“Two more coats of wax on the outside,
then the same for inside.” Yes. Think. Think. Tomorrow the forecast
was for cooler days, no more Santa Anas,
“Wow,” Jason said as he stepped around no more winds, fires coming under control,
the cabinet. “It looks perfect now, but and, for now, the danger passing. But there
you’re the expert. You should do a Youtube would always be that same danger. Always
video or set up a blog and show people how chances and changes. Lives depending
to do this.” on them and one other—choices. Always
choices.
“Can you stay for dinner?” The invita-
tion went from thought to words without Think. Think.
thinking. It was not often Maggie had guests.
Sometimes, when Tessa was alive and Miguel She turned to Jason, and, with convic-
drove her home, they would stay for coffee. tion in her voice, said one word.
She liked this young couple and appreciated
“Yes!”

About the Author

Adelaide B. Shaw lives in Somers, NY. She has three children and six grandchildren. Her stories
and non-fiction have been published in By-Line, American Literary Review, The MacGuffin,
The Griffin, The Toronto Star, The New Haven Register, The Somers Record, The Adelaide
Magazine and others. Adelaide also writes children’s fiction, haiku and Japanese poetic
forms. She has published two collections of haiku, An Unknown Road, available on Kindle,
and The Distance I’ve Come, available on Cyberwit and Amazon. Some of her published work
is posted on her blog: http://www.adelaide-whitepetals.blogspot.com

83



NONFICTION



A GRATITUDE

PERSPECTIVE

by Diana Raab

When my kids were young, I was always re- After the war he couldn’t stand the sight
minding them that they needed to put their of red meat because it reminded him of all
“problems” in the proper perspective. What the dead bodies he’d seen. The mere sight
was I really telling them? I was saying that of blood turned his stomach. He shared how
they needed to be more appreciative of their he watched his younger brother and mother
lives—and what they had—spiritually and being taken away on the death-camp trains
materialistically. I usually said this when they and how he never got to say goodbye. It
were acting like spoiled children—for exam- dulled the grief when we named our son
ple, when my fourteen-year-old said that after his dead brother, but being separated
she needed new clothes after we’d just gone from one’s parents at the age of fifteen re-
clothes shopping for her a month earlier. sults in a degree of pain that lasts a lifetime.

When I was young, my dad was an expert My mother-in-law had her own share
at putting my life in the proper perspective of hair-raising stories to tell when she lived
for me. He shared stories of growing up with a Swiss family while trying to hide from
during World War II in Germany and sur- the Nazis so they wouldn’t kill her and her
viving the Holocaust. He spoke about how sister. While hiding in the family’s basement,
in his early teens he was sent to a concen- they shared food and lived in constant fear
tration camp. He ate only food scraps and for their lives. They didn’t see their parents
at nightfall collapsed on the only things for five years.
there were to sleep on—wooden barracks
with hundreds of other prisoners. He was I’m now sixty-five, only six years younger
grateful for his job in the kitchen peeling po- than my father was when he died. My chil-
tatoes, because he always had food. Once dren left the nest a long time ago, and I’m
he showed me the scar on his forehead in- now blessed to have four amazing grand-
flicted upon him by Nazi soldiers when they children. During this last chapter of my life,
found out he’d taken too much peel off the I see how the mirror reveals my advancing
potatoes so he could toss it to his hungry years. In my younger days, it didn’t matter if
friends in the barracks. I applied facial cream each morning. These
days, if I skip just one day, my wrinkles

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appear like a vulture near a dead carcass. I As I approached the bottom of the
remember the days when I ate all the Val- carton, there was a stack of about fifteen
entine’s Day and Halloween chocolate I de- papers held together in a plastic sheath. I
sired, the scale never revealing my secret felt my eyes momentarily bulge as I realized
addiction. Today, there are no secrets, as my the true value of the treasure I was about to
body’s metabolism has slowed down to a reveal. It was the journal I’d heard so much
crawl. about, written by my grandmother after the
turn of the century. I knew I had my day cut
The older I get, the more I look to the out for me as I read about a life that was so
past for clarity and perspective. One day foreign yet so familiar, a life that threw the
in particular stands out. It was a rainy day, shadow of perspective immediately upon
the perfect time for some spring-cleaning. I mine.
was going through our “catch all” closet and
making piles of what I wanted to keep and I’m sure the journal was typed on one
what I wanted to discard. My first nurse’s of those manual, black, clunky-sounding
uniform from forty years ago was put into Remington typewriters. The single-spaced
a pile called “questionable: to be reviewed document typed on loose-leaf paper had
later.” Then I added Dad’s old figure skates, since turned light brown. White-out correc-
which he’d used to teach Paul Neuman to tion fluid was not yet on the market, so the
skate at Rockefeller Center in New York de- pages were full of “strikeovers.” Grandma
cades earlier. The “giveaway” pile included obviously didn’t care much about writing
such things as old party and wedding invi- in paragraphs, as the twelve pages were
tations, the kids’ first Halloween costumes, written in one unbroken stream of con-
birth announcements, expired coupons, sciousness.
New Year’s Eve hats, and incomplete decks
of playing cards. The “must-keep pile” was Over the years I gathered bits and
the most fascinating. It included baby pic- pieces of information about Grandma’s life
tures, school notebooks, kindergarten and concluded that she’d had her share of
photos, Dad’s favorite clothes, stamp and misery, but I had no idea that reading her
coin collections, framed photographs with journal could make me so appreciative for
broken glass, awards won in tennis tourna- my own life. The tears poured down my
ments, autographed paraphernalia, and old face as I realized the origin of my love for
posters. writing and how Grandma’s words flowed
as smoothly as the tears from my eyes, eyes
This task certainly took me down memory that have seen little misery in her lifetime. I
lane. Occasionally I would stop and gaze at continued to read, and after just a few lines,
what I’d found, and an entire era would be I ran to the bathroom adjacent to my study
illuminated by a piece of memorabilia. But and grabbed a newly opened box of tissues.
there was a special treasure that I stumbled
upon which, as a writer, made me stop and Grandma had been born in Poland in
stare. Before my eyes were some cartons the early 1900s. Her journal was a reflec-
of papers that time had yellowed. They in- tive piece about her earlier years. She
cluded old report cards, letters I wrote from began with her dad discussing one night
camp, and important documents, many of during dinner how war had just been de-
which I’d thought were lost. clared—Austria-Hungry against Russia. The
following morning she watched “swarms

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of soldiers marching” among the school- quarantined. It was not long after that her
children on the street in front of her house. father died, also of cholera and apparently
She wrote: “Just when we thought the sol- with no warning. Grandma was left alone in
diers were leaving, they walked in reverse the world with her eight-year-old sister. “I
[turned around and went back] and got was only eleven years old and very scared,”
aggressive. Horses were running without she wrote. “My oldest brother left town
riders on their backs. Those [many] who to take a job in Vienna, and soon after my
had riders had no arms nor legs and blood youngest brother followed him. The once
pours out of their bodies. Their clothes were full and lively house became empty and
torn. They were hungry and ate anything in more than half the town’s population died.”
sight. They raided our refrigerators and on
the streets we held out jars with water and Grandma found solace in the daily ritual
they drank eagerly at times reaching out to of going to school, as she said it was the
get a drink that they had no time to swallow. only time she could be a child. But although
My mother was frantic. She wanted to run she received a lot of assistance and food
with the army, but dad refused to leave.” from caring neighbors and the school, she
never felt it was enough, nor could it com-
One day grandma roamed the streets pensate for the loss of her parents. With
and saw menacing-looking Cossacks her sister, she decided to hitch a ride on
dressed in long black coats and fur caps, the slow-moving train to Vienna to find
with ammunition slung across their chests her older brothers. Visiting their homes
and swords in their hands. “I ran when I brought more horrible revelations to the
saw a young boy on the deserted street and girls’ young hearts. The brothers’ wives
the Cossacks were hacking him into small practically slammed the doors in their faces!
pieces. His mother ran to pick up the bloody They said they had enough trouble feeding
pieces on her apron. My father finally de- the mouths of their own children. Finally,
cided it was time to leave and go to Poland the two sisters were placed in a small or-
as the fighting continued relentlessly.” phanage. There, the heartache of wearing
rags for clothes and not having enough food
As they were preparing to leave, a severe to support their growing bodies continued
cholera epidemic hit the small Polish town. to haunt them. Grandma’s writing ended
“First only a whispering with single cases with her high school graduation and her
here and there and then we all went into a struggle to get a job as a bank teller.
state of horrified stupor. The stores closed.
There was no school. There was no visiting, ***
no handshakes and no taking money from
others. Some people had a little bag of cam- I was unable to process Grandma’s story
phor around their necks, which was thought in one sitting. She had so many feelings of
to offer little protection against the disease.” loneliness, anger, and resentment. Her life
was filled with turmoil and grief, and as I
Grandma’s parents developed cholera. look around today, I’m amazed that out-
Finally, her mother died a slow and inevi- side of raising three amazing humans, my
table death. My grandmother witnessed life is calm and predictable. There are no
her burial in a mass grave of thirty or more scary-looking soldiers marching down my
people. Some of the deceased had family street and no deadly epidemics to fend off.
and some did not. Mom’s entire family was

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In fact, most of us are so lucky to have the to collect these things while he should be
lives we do, so we need to be more aware collecting worms or stamps.”
of the dire situations that others have gone
through in order to place our lives in the Joshua’s collection grew, and anyone
proper perspective. who visited our home, whether they
wanted to or not, received a guided tour
After reading Grandma’s story, I had a of his favorite friends. He was very consci-
visceral sense that life was just utterly un- entious about checking off his in his book
fair. I wondered why Grandma had endured which ones he owned and their apparent
so many hardships and why I had been so value. At one point, I realized the true
lucky my whole life, always surrounded by value of those adorable, furry creatures. I
good people and experiences. I felt that served one of my gourmet casserole din-
so much injustice had occurred, and I was ners when Joshua asked to be excused
feeling sorry for a woman I hardly knew. for a few seconds. He dashed out of the
kitchen, across the dining room and living
While reading, I took a break to make my room, and headed for his bedroom. He re-
family’s favorite dinner, pasta. After we sat turned to the kitchen with a huge shopping
down and had been eating for a few min- bag filled with beanies. He sat on the floor
utes, my daughter, who was fourteen at the and looked up at all four of us sitting at
time, looked up from her plate and asked, the table just finishing dinner. “Wait, wait,
“Mom, why are you so quiet tonight?” don’t go anywhere,” he said, holding his
hand out straight in our direction as if he
“Actually, I’ve been reading my grand- were a traffic cop.
mother Regina’s journal, and I’m still in
shock. I really must share the stories with “I want to introduce you to my beanies,
you guys.” and then I will tell you their names. You
betta pay attention because I will test you
As usual, we gobbled down dinner, and afterward, “ he said. His two teenage sisters
the kids, in their nightly robotic fashion, looked at him quizzically and then glanced
cleared the table. The girls loaded the dish- back at me while rolling their eyes, obvi-
washer, and my son went back to his favorite ously tired of his beanie-baby enthusiasm.
pastime—curling up on the blue corduroy
sofa and watching television. Later, the girls “May we be excused?” they asked simul-
joined him. I returned to the lush sofa chair taneously.
in my study and continued reading Grand-
ma’s story. “No,” my husband and I responded
without the slightest hesitation.
I must have had the concept of “perspec-
tive” on my mind because the following day “Hurry up,” Rachel said. “I have home-
there was another incident that triggered work.”
some powerful emotions. My then–eight-
year-old son, Joshua, joined the ranks. He “C’mon,” said Regine. “What’s taking you
finally decided that collecting beanie ba- so long?”
bies was the thing to do. Family trips were
then geared around which stores sold these Joshua proceeded to dump all his babies
stuffed toys. My husband remarked in his on the floor, and one by one he began re-
usual wry tone, “You’re encouraging my son citing their names and then putting them
back in the shopping bag.

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“Slow down,” my husband requested, re- supporting my son’s addiction, it was well
membering that he would be “tested” and worth the ten minutes of watching all three
didn’t want to make a fool out of himself. of my children giggling together for the first
time in a long while. It was simply a case of
“OK, I’ll start over,” Joshua said. “‘looking through this window” and “now
looking through that one.”
In frustration, his older sister said, “No
way. I can’t take this, Mom.” Joshua con- Perspective is important to me. Knowing
tinued to plow through the names of his about my past gives me insight into the
forty-odd beanie babies. He spared us all present and ideas about the future. My
the little sayings on the red heart-shaped grandfather once told me with conviction,
tags. We were lucky because he really loved “You watch, my dear, history will repeat it-
talking, and especially loved making up sto- self. Mark my words.” Although he men-
ries. He methodically named each and every tioned this in the context of the fashion in-
beanie baby, moving them from one pile to dustry (he was a style nut), we could see
another. For the first time he was in con- how it could apply to other aspects of our
trol of his two older sisters. I never thought lives. Now that I’m the age he was when he
beanie babies could bridge the gap between spoke those words, I realize the truth in
siblings who bickered about everything. But, what he said.
for however much money and time I spent

About the Author
Diana Raab, MFA, PhD, is a memoirist, poet, blogger, and
award-winning author of ten books and 1000 articles/
poems. She blogs for Psychology Today, Psych Central,
Thrive Global and many others. She frequently speaks on
writing for healing transformation. Visit: dianaraab.com.

91

FIFTY YEARS
WITH CATS

by Terry Sanville

No, not the musical – but actual four-legged Marguerite let the shivering longhaired
felines, critters that own property around tabby in, a female who immediately found
the world and allow some humans to act our space heater and flopped before it.
as their staff. Men are supposed to scorn
them. And being a man, last time I checked, We petted her and she purred so loud
I grew up in California distrusting the do- that we named her Evinrude after the com-
mestic variety. Besides, our family had dogs pany that makes outboard motors. But Evin-
and in the 1950s early television extolled rude loved the outdoors more than a toasty
the virtues of Rin Tin Tin and Lassie. Cat he- room, spent her days roaming the Merry
roes didn’t exist. No tabby ever signaled to Circle honeymoon cabins likely built during
June Lockhart1 with a loud yowl that Tim- the 1920’s. Now all I really remember of
my had fallen down the well. Evinrude is her purr. It helped change my
attitude towards cats, and they use it so ef-
But slowly, those sly creatures wriggled fectively to their advantage.
their way into my life and became family
and compassionate friends. Marguerite and I left Oklahoma in 1970,
drove her Ford Falcon pulling a U-Haul
It wasn’t until 1969 when I returned across country to the small seaside Cali-
from Vietnam and lived in a tiny stone fornia town of Cayucos, to a shoebox-sized
cabin in Medicine Park, Oklahoma that I apartment. I headed back to college on
had my first cat relationship. Everything is the GI Bill at Cal Poly University in San Luis
a relationship these days. I lived with artist Obispo, my wife to a new job as a graphic
Marguerite out on the windswept plains, artist.
about a half hour drive from Fort Sill, where
I worked as an Army clerk and she as a civil During our life together, Marguerite
service illustrator. One cold winter’s day, a and I have walked everywhere. And living
furry creature batted at our cabin’s window. in a town with a beach and the Pacific a

1 Actress June Lockhart played Timmy’s mother Ruth Martin on TV’s Lassie from 1958 to 1964.

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hundred yards away felt perfect. But our the first time. At night mother and son
next cat found us while we wound our way would sleep together on our bed, black
inland, into the coastal foothills along Old curled against white, the perfect ying and
Creek Road. Off to the right sat a huge pile yang of felinity.
of abalone shells that local divers had dis-
carded. Across the pile scrambled a sleek After only six months, we moved from
black cat, meowing loudly, making a beeline Victorville back to San Luis Obispo, to a
for us then following us home. We named vastly superior job and an apartment along
her Abalone (shortened to Baloney) in a busy arterial. We were amateurs on how
honor of where she found us. to transport cats. Not having carriers, we
deposited Baloney and Schmoot in the Fal-
Three months later she came with us con’s back seat, in a closed cardboard box
to Morro Bay, to a slightly larger house lined with comfortable blankets. Baloney
overlooking the ocean, on a street lined handled the trip with great aplomb. But
with giant Monterey pines. Baloney loved Schmoot broke free and freaked out over
to climb trees, chase squirrels, and cap- the car’s speed and the scenery flashing
ture lizards and eat them under our bed at past. Maybe he thought he had changed
night. We’d wake to the sound of crunching into a cheetah, chasing down zebra in the
bones, both of us too disgusted to look until Serengeti.
morning. I wonder if they too taste a little
like chicken? Complaining loudly, Schmoot clawed
his way over the car’s upholstery, crawled
One day we found her under our car up under the dashboard, and nestled
being humped by a huge black male with among the wiring for the entire five-hour
golden eyes. Two months later she gave trip. Nothing showed but his twitching tail
birth to kittens in the middle of the night, hanging down. Guess what we used to dis-
in a cardboard box next to our bed. Now we lodge him from his hideaway?
had five cats to serve: the mama, two black
kittens, and two ugly white things with dirty I worked sixty-hour weeks and Margue-
faces, paws, and tails. As the kittens grew, rite went back to school to earn a Bachelor’s
the white uglies turned into beautiful Sia- Degree in Biological Science and a national
mese. A friend adopted the female Siamese. scholarship for graduate studies. We’d lived
We kept the male, and the two black kitties only a year or two in San Luis when Baloney
we took to the local pound, years before died suddenly. Our bed felt empty at night,
there were such things as “no kill” shelters. one of the family gone. We couldn’t really
What a heartbreaking experience. Mar- replace a family member, it didn’t feel right.
guerite and I vowed never to be faced with So for the next nine years we were a one-cat
that abandonment feeling again. We have household. Living on a busy street, Schmoot
spayed and neutered our cats ever since. wouldn’t be safe from traffic. He readily
adapted to indoor life, developing his own
In 1973, Baloney and her son, Schmoot, strange vocalizations when complaining
allowed us to take them into Southern Cali- about birds landing outside his window.
fornia’s high desert for my first job as a city
planner in Victorville. We arrived during a Like many of us, as Schmoot aged he grew
winter storm. It’s hilarious to watch fair- into a wide affectionate animal. At night,
weather cats trying to negotiate snow for he slept on my wife’s chest, fortunately

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

head-to-head. We’ve had cats that did oth- we named Dinky Dau meaning “crazy.” Choi
erwise. He lived to be old enough to be seemed content to watch Dinky tear around
issued a California Driver’s License…long the house and claw the hell out of our furni-
before Toonces2 on Saturday Night Live got ture. The duo settled in as indoor cats.
behind the wheel.
In the 1980’s, Marguerite and I began
Putting Schmoot down was our first eu- an annual tradition of taking winter vaca-
thanasia. Strong sedatives injected by our tions to Santa Catalina Island, 24 miles off
kind vet put him to sleep and stopped his the Southern California coast. We stayed in
heart, peaceful but still pitiful to watch. The Avalon at the Zane Grey Pueblo, the former
slow rise and fall of his stomach, then still- home of the famed western writer. His
ness. Forget all that circle-of-life crap. His house had been converted into a hotel. We
death hurt. stayed at the Zane Grey the week before
Christmas, often a cold and windy time but
For a year or two we took an emotional free from the summer crush of tourists.
break from cats. One day we shopped at a
local mall, a common California activity in One year we met Charlie, the Pueblo’s
the ’80s. A cat rescue organization offered mascot, a 20+-pound male. He sure knew
pets for free adoption. In one cage, sitting how to charm vacationers, doing the ole
quietly like a deposed prince, rested a siz- rub against the shins and loud purring, then
able Siamese with dark chocolate points rolling onto his back and offering his ample
and tail. Every once in a while he’d cut loose belly for rubbing. And he’d probably do any-
with the classic Siamese yowl, but other- thing to be allowed to stay inside a hotel
wise seemed to handle confinement. He al- room at night, away from the bitter wind.
lowed us to pet him without complaint. He
knew cat staffers when he saw them. He stayed with us for several nights,
sleeping on the bed above our pillows. He
We took him home, then to the vet to was clean and flea-free, well almost. But his
have him checked over and get his shots. main problem turned out to be his snoring.
He looked about two years old and had He snored so loud that it woke us, not to
already been neutered. When Marguerite mention himself. But we put up with his
and I went to pick up the Siamese, we left nasal proclivities. After a couple of annual
with a companion for our big brown wonder, vacations he was gone, a short-term island
a male kitten that the vet called a Snowshoe romance to be sure.
Siamese. The white and tan kitty had been
abandoned on the vet’s doorstep a few days After seventeen years renting a house
before. Once again we had two masters. in San Luis Obispo along a busy street we
scraped together our meager dollars and
At that time I had started writing about bought a mobile home in a well-landscaped
my Army experiences in Vietnam. With that and comparatively quiet park. Choi and
war-torn country on my mind, we gave each Dinky thrived, charmed the hell out of vis-
cat a Vietnamese name. The big male we itors during my wife’s annual open studio
called Choi Oi, loosely meaning “Oh Dear” art sale. We sat with friends and strangers,
or in today’s parlance, “WTF.” The kitten drank good California wine and scratched

2 Toonces appeared on NBC TV’s Saturday Night Live as a recurring character between 1989 and 1992.

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our furry wonders behind their ears. They and clawing the living hell out of our front
behaved well, left few messes (every house screen door, we let her in the house. After
cat has “accidents” of one sort or another), that she shunned the outdoors and we had
and grew fat with age. to reestablish our litter box protocol.

Choi died first. Dinky hung on for a while, While Zoey had enough love for both of
lonely for his lost partner, and finally made us, she liked to sleep on my lap at night as
his last trip to the vet at age fifteen. we read and watched TV. While this arrange-
ment sounds charming, for a man, having
Life in a mobile home park is much like a twelve-pound feline crushing his junk for
any other residential area, with quiet or hours on end is no picnic. And then there’s
loud neighbors, friendly or reticent ones. the problem of cutting off circulation to my
One coach across the street housed a couple legs. But getting her to move only caused
with their pretty five-year-old daughter. The angry complaints and even after pushing
large woman wore long hippie skirts and her away, she’d eventually resume her fa-
flowing blouses, the man sported tattoos. vorite sleeping position.
While cats may fill Marguerite’s and my
need for an immediate family, we joyfully A gentle cat, Zoey liked the attentions of
watched the father play with his daughter small children. A friend’s little two-year-old
and hear her laugher float on the wind daughter liked to play with her. The girl’s
down our street. name is also Zoe. Zoey the cat lived a pam-
pered life with few medical problems until
Then the father got hurt on the job, the end. She graced our household until di-
messed up his back really bad. He couldn’t abetes and kidney disease caused her last
work and the pain from his injury drove him trip to the vet.
to self-medicating. The couple’s arguments
filled the afternoons, sometimes sounding Again, several months passed as we
violent. As the family fell apart, their cat, a mourned Zoey’s death. Then our vet gave
calico named Zoey, began visiting us. During us a call: another abandoned cat needed
that summer she’d hang out on our shaded a home, a spayed female that we named
porch, lay in one of our laps and purr. Alyssa. When we questioned the vet about
Alyssa’s health, she couldn’t tell us much
Finally, the husband disappeared. One about the cat’s history although her current
afternoon the little girl came over and told medical condition seemed stable. When we
us that she and her mother were moving took her home, she had a dense dark coat
back to Iowa. Close to tears, she asked us with golden swirls and a strange looking tail.
to take care of Zoey and then poured the
cat out of her arms into my wife’s lap. We Only later did we find out that the cat
gladly accepted. had been abused by a previous owner,
locked in a garage and abandoned for days,
Zoey lived with us for over ten years. At left to urinate and defecate anywhere she
first we tried to keep her outside and free wished in that confined space.
ourselves from the chore of litter box main-
tenance. We lined a cat carrier with soft bath We also later found out that Alyssa
towels and placed it in the protected corner proved to have long hair. Her coat grew out
of our covered porch, her food and water and she developed a lion’s main on her chest.
bowls close by. But after much meowing But she looked beautiful, flicking her fluffed

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

tail like some Burlesque fan dancer. Unfor- of game. After an hour’s chase up and
tunately, she never got over the trauma of down stairs, with my wife and I huffing and
being locked away in that garage and often puffing, we retreated and told the current
refused to use a cat pan, highly problem- caretakers to capture their kitties and we’d
atic for an indoor cat. But she showed and pick them up the next day.
accepted affection and enjoyed having
her long coat brushed out and sometimes We’ve taken care of Magic Man and
trimmed for the summer months. Cinnamon Girl for over three years. The
are playful and race each other around our
We estimated her age to be about seven home, their favorite game being what I call
when we took her home. She lasted five years “Sniff Ass.” And like a lot of cats, they go crazy
with us before her final trip to the vet. I had chasing the red beam from a laser pointer.
a sense that she’d lived a hard life far beyond
what we knew. We felt good about treating I highly recommend getting feline litter-
her with kindness during her final years. mates. The bond they have can be strong
and loving. In our case, the female always
Our current masters came to us on seeks out the best spots on the bed to
recommendation from a friend. A young sleep and the male flops down beside her
couple expected their second child to ar- and they curl into an embrace. Since they
rive any day. Plus, the husband had scored each weigh about 15 pounds, their bed-
a new job and they needed to move to a time habits severely limit my wife’s and my
place that didn’t allow pets. Just a little over mobility – you try shoving thirty pounds of
a year and a half old, their two cats were cat out of the way at 2 AM. And we have
littermates, a neutered male and spayed fe- no need for an alarm clock. In the morning,
male. Fully housebroken, they slept curled Cinnamon Girl likes to wake me by walking
around each other at night. on my face, neck and other sensitive
body parts, strangely within the same fif-
We named the male Magic Man because teen-minute time frame, for the self-serving
it sounded a little like his former name Ma- purpose of getting fed.
gellan. The female we called Cinnamon Girl
because her belly has cinnamon-colored fur But when my wife gets a migraine, Cin-
with solid dark spots that make her look like namon Girl is right there, snuggling up to
an ocelot. Marguerite and offering sympathy.

The cats’ previous staff had already After five decades we know our home
moved out of their old house but left the cats wouldn’t be complete without feline com-
behind, replenishing their food and changing panions. All of our cats have had a strong
their litter pans daily. They gave us the en- sense of independence. But they re-
trance code to their vacant home and told sponded well to kindness and each showed
us we could retrieve the cats at our leisure. affection in their own unique way. No, I
wouldn’t count on a cat yowling out loud to
At first we tried coaxing the beasts into alert June Lockhart that Timmy had fallen
their carriers. No luck there. Then we tried down the well. I would rather teach Timmy
cornering them in a room…but they knew to watch where he’s going…and have smart
the house’s layout much better than we did independent pets instead. But then, we’re
and proved much faster. I think they thought cat people!
our attempt to catch them was some kind

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Revista Literária Adelaide

About the Author

Terry Sanville lives in San Luis Obispo, California with his artist-poet wife (his in-house editor)
and two plump cats (his in-house critics). He writes full time, producing short stories, essays,
poems, and novels. Since 2005, his short stories have been accepted more than 370 times
by commercial and academic journals, magazines, and anthologies including The Potomac
Review, The Bryant Literary Review, and Shenandoah. He was nominated twice for Pushcart
Prizes and once for inclusion in Best of the Net anthology. His stories have been listed among
“The Most Popular Contemporary Fiction of 2017” by the Saturday Evening Post. Terry is a
retired urban planner and an accomplished jazz and blues guitarist – who once played with
a symphony orchestra backing up jazz legend George Shearing.

97

CAMPING
AS SOLACE

by Josie Hughes

1992 travel, using the car Mother drove to Texas
to give me after my oldest son was born.
Pregnant with my youngest son, be-
tween semesters working on a PhD in We drove into campgrounds along the
playwriting, I planned a trip with my hus- planned routes, for many years, enacting a
band and 3-year-old son to visit my family, routine which provided us the opportunity to
mostly living in Maryland. My midwife travel while broke and on food stamps. Both
needed more information on my medical of us finished college degrees in our thirties
history, since I could not answer her ques- while starting our family, and while going on
tions about anomalies in my self-reporting a family vacations. The campgrounds shared
history of seizures, allergies, and a compro- peaceful shaded surroundings, tall trees in for-
mised immune system. ests or on the banks of rivers and lakes, along
with showers and playgrounds, ideal settings
We camped along rivers, planning our for traversing the country. We developed a di-
road trip to include a stop with my brother vision of labor, able to set up a tent to house
Paul’s family. Since his untimely death from or feed our child, shower and sleep, then con-
a sudden brain aneurysm two years prior, tinue the road to our many destinations.
we spent most of our vacationing time with
Paul’s widow and three young children. I Camping provided solace during the
found out I was pregnant during spring deathbed visit to Paul’s side, after he passed
break at their home in rural Ohio, a five- out at lunch on a Friday afternoon, leading
hour drive from Columbia, Missouri, where to many confusing phone calls from my
we moved to continue our education. Both oldest sister Teri as we travelled along the
my common-law husband and I enrolled in road on the camping trip to and from Ohio.
the U. of Missouri to gain a foothold in the
middle class, to get ourselves out of the 1990
voluntary poverty life we chose in Austin,
working at low-wage jobs while enjoying Mother called me Friday morning, excited
the music and art of our adopted home- about her plans. She was going camping, a
town. Camping provided a low-cost way of

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