Adelaide Literary Magazine No. 46, March 2021

INDEPENDENT REVISTA
MONTHLY LITERÁRIA
LITERARY INDEPENDENTE
MAGAZINE
MENSAL

ADELAIDE FOUNDERS / FUNDADORES
Stevan V. Nikolic & Adelaide Franco Nikolic
Independent Monthly Literary Magazine
Revista Literária Independente Mensal EDITOR IN CHIEF / EDITOR-CHEFE
Year VI, Number 46, March 2021 Stevan V. Nikolic
Ano VI, Número 46, Março 2021
[email protected]
ISBN-13: 978-1-955196-00-0
MANAGING DIRECTOR / DIRECTORA EXECUTIVA
Adelaide Literary Magazine is an independent inter- Adelaide Franco Nikolic
national monthly publication, based in New York and
Lisbon. Founded by Stevan V. Nikolic and Adelaide Franco GRAPHIC & WEB DESIGN
Nikolic in 2015, the magazine’s aim is to publish quality Adelaide Books LLC, New York
poetry, fiction, nonfiction, artwork, and photography, as
well as interviews, articles, and book reviews, written in CONTRIBUTING AUTHORS IN THIS ISSUE
English and Portuguese. We seek to publish outstanding
literary fiction, nonfic-tion, and poetry, and to promote Peter Roxburgh, Michael Emeka, Jack
the writers we publish, helping both new, emerging, and Hutchinson, Claire Ibarra, Meghana
established authors reach a wider literary audience. Karanjkar, Mark Blickley, Mike Lee, Sarah
Schiff, Elissa Field, Patti Cavaliere, Richard
A Revista Literária Adelaide é uma publicação men- Ault, Vipul Lunia, Alan Massey, Katie
sal internacional e independente, localizada em Nova Sweeting, William R. Stoddart, Julia Gross,
Iorque e Lisboa. Fundada por Stevan V. Nikolic e Ade- Mitchell Near, Mickki Garrity, Audrey
laide Franco Nikolic em 2015, o objectivo da revista é Renner, Henry Alan Paper, Liz Shine, Zach
publicar poesia, ficção, não-ficção, arte e fotografia de Murphy, Reed Kuehn, Vincent Barry,
qualidade assim como entrevistas, artigos e críticas Delancy Gunther, Charlotte Gorrell, Courtnei
literárias, escritas em inglês e por-tuguês. Pretendemos Hill, Anthony Tanner, Wendy Miller Norris,
publicar ficção, não-ficção e poesia excepcionais assim George Gad Economou, Allissa Barker,
como promover os escritores que publicamos, ajudan- Yvonne Blackwood, Melissa Ballard, Teresa
do os autores novos e emergentes a atingir uma audiên- Douglas, Scott Ocamb, Tommy Sheffield, Jeri
cia literária mais vasta. Griffith, Dan Shiffman, Mike Nolan, Pawel
Markiewicz, Wendell Hawken, J.M. Allen,
(http://adelaidemagazine.org) Daniel Edward Moore, Andre Swanepoel,
John Kaniecki, Linda Imbler, Isaac Cohen,
Published by: Adelaide Books, New York John Drudge, William Ogden Haynes, Pablo
244 Fifth Avenue, Suite D27 Vascan, Lisa Molina, Mark Burke, Jennifer
New York NY, 10001 Silvey, Mark J. Mitchell, Emalise Rose,
e-mail: [email protected] Megan Harrison, Ashley Tippit, Januário
phone: (917) 477 8984 Esteves, Charlie Madden, Vyara Kozareva,
http://adelaidebooks.org Marilyn Mox, Jennifer Novotney, Edith
Tarbescu, David Landi, Fatoumata Fofana,
Copyright © 2021 by Adelaide Literary Magazine
Janet Mason
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be
reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written
permission from the Adelaide Literary Maga-zine
Editor-in-chief, except in the case of brief quo-tations
embodied in critical articles and reviews.

CONTENTS / CONTEÚDOS REMEMBER HAWAII
by Mickki Garrity 108
SHORT STORIES
RETURNING
THE FIG TREE by Audrey Renner 115
Peter Roxburgh 7
JUNKYARD DOG
LOST by Henry Alan Paper 117
by Michael Emeka 10
HUNGRY
SPLIT THE G by Liz Shine 122
by Jack Hutchinson 18
437 WILTON STREET
ALTERATION by Zach Murphy 127
by Claire Ibarra 24
PELIOS HAS DEPARTED
MAYA by Reed Kuehn 129
by Meghana Karanjkar 29
UNDERLYING CONDITION
THE BIOLOGY OF COURAGE by Vincent Barry 138
by Mark Blickley 33
AROUND THE CORNER
THE LIVES OF ANGELS by Delancy Gunther 146
by Mike Lee 36
CRUSH
THE MEMORIAL OF by Charlotte Gorrell 150
MRS. E. BENJAMIN HANNECKER
by Sarah Schiff 41 CAKE RUSH
by Courtnei Hill 152
SECURITY
by Elissa Field 50 THE PIZZA PLACE
by Anthony Tanner 155
THE LAST GOOD BAD GUY
by Patti Cavaliere 56 WELCOME TO THE FUNHOUSE
by Wendy Miller Norris 157
EDENVILLE DAM
by Richard Ault 61 ONE OF THOSE LIFE-ALTERING DECISIONS
by George Gad Economou 160
TO BALANCE THE TALLY
by Vipul Lunia 71 THE DOORKEEPER
by Allissa Barker 174
TUPPERWARE
by Alan Massey 76 NONFICTION

EDNA REMINISCING
by Katie Sweeting 78 by Yvonne Blackwood 179

KINGFISH OF LOUISIANA REMAINS
by William R. Stoddart 86 by Melissa Ballard 183

DOG DAYS ZOMBIE RUN
by Julia Gross 91 by Teresa Douglas 186

A SUBTERRANEAN PURGATORY 3
by Mitchell Near 99

Adelaide Literary Magazine

MY LAST TRIP MENACING HEAVEN
by Scott Ocamb 189 by Mark J. Mitchell 269

RIVEN STORM CINEMATOGRAPHY
by Tommy Sheffield 198 by Emalise Rose 272

CYPRUS: A PAINTERS JOURNAL TIME
by Jeri Griffith 206 by Megan Harrison 274

THE PUSH SUNDAY
by Dan Shiffman 211 by Ashley Tippit 275

OUR BEAUTIFUL TAHOMA PEGASUS
by Mike Nolan 220 by Januário Esteves 277

POETRY THAT LEAP
by Charlie Madden 280
SONNET
by Pawel Markiewicz 229 STINGER
by Vyara Kozareva 282
NEW TIME
by Wendell Hawken 230 SISTERS
by Marilyn Mox 284
GENES
by J.M. Allen 234 WAKING UP
by Jennifer Novotney 286
SEXT
by Daniel Edward Moore 236 INTERVIEWS

BUTTERFLIES EDITH TARBESCU
by Andre Swanepoel 238 Author of
ONE WILL, THREE WIVES 293
CHRONICLE
by John Kaniecki 240 DAVID LANDI
Author of
WITHIN THE DIN THE NOBLE HOUSE OF THE LANDI 296
by Linda Imbler,
Translated by Isaac Cohen 244 FATOUMATA FOFANA
Author of SADJIO 301
ALIVE IN ROME
by John Drudge 246 JANET MASON
Author of
PARACHUTE THE UNICORN, THE MYSTERY 305
by William Ogden Haynes 249

EVOLUTION 2.0
by Pablo Vascan 255

SPIRALS OF SOUND
by Lisa Molina 258

SOLACE
by Mark Burke 264

SYNTHETIC PLANES OF HOPE
by Jennifer Silvey 267

4

SHORT STORIES



THE FIG TREE

Peter Roxburgh

Izabela’s earliest memory is of picking fruit market and wiped their sugary flesh against
from the fig tree that bordered the stream her father’s lips.
which ran along the bottom of her garden.
She was probably four or five years old; it *
was before she had started school in the
village. Her father would hook the tree’s Three days before her twenty-first birthday,
branches, pulling them down close to the Izabela graduated from Wroclaw with hon-
ground, and Izabela would pick the sticky ours. Her obligations fulfilled, she packed
fruits, carefully placing them in a woven her bags, said goodbye to her mother and
basket before the branch catapulted, re- the broken fig tree, and headed to London.
turning skyward. Every year the autumn
rains would swell the stream to a raging As she stepped off the coach at Victoria,
torrent, and this would feed the tree: the she expected to see a surging metropolis,
tree and Izabela would grow in unison inch full of life, full of British people going about
by inch, foot by foot. As the best fruits their business. She’d imagined rows of red
moved forever upwards, it was always Iza- telephone boxes, London buses travelling
bela who would collect them whilst her fa- here and there, and the shimmering lights
ther hooked the branches. of the West End. She would meet a hand-
some gentleman who would say, ‘Good
When she was twelve, their roles re- afternoon, how are you?’ and then invite
versed; Her father no longer having the her to join him for afternoon tea. Instead,
strength to pull at the branches. Izabela a derelict—dirty, dishevelled, and reeking
would hook and tug; her father would of drink—pleaded for change. She blanked
steadily and deliberately collect the fruit. him, pulled her coat tight, and dragged her
The following summer, her father sat belongings out into the twilight of the city.
amongst the meadow flowers and watched She was heading to Jakub’s—a friend of her
as Izabela collected the fruit from the low- father’s—in Ealing.
hanging branches. That was the last summer
they collected figs. The following year, a Jakub’s place was a four-bedroom mai-
great storm split the tree’s trunk in two so sonette above a charity shop. It smelt of
that one half, gashed, splintered and gaping, cabbage, stale cigarettes, and fried pork
dipped its branches down into the flowing mince. The entrance was a fire escape
water below. Izabela bought figs from the that emptied into an alleyway, which was
home to the wheelie bins of neighbours
and surrounding restaurants. During the

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daytime, the alley was bristling with life: or ballerinas. Occasionally, she would treat
kitchen staff emptying fryers into drains, herself to a coffee, but always sitting alone
Polish kids with shaved heads kicking balls thinking about her dreams, her ambitions,
around, and groups of young Turks smoking and when they would come true.
cigarettes down to the butt. At night, this
was a place where dealers, prostitutes, and *
rent boys plied their trades.
Sunday morning and the building was al-
Izabela took a room on the top floor. She ways still. Sometimes, Jakub would slide
shared with Wioletta, who’d arrived two the kitchen window open and listen to the
weeks before from Katowice. When Wio- sparrows flitting back and forth, picking at
leta wasn’t out with friends, she infuriated the remnants of the previous night’s dis-
Izabela with the tinny sounds of her iPod carded takeaways. Other times, he kept
repeating S Club and Girls Aloud. Izabela it closed, preferring to guard the room’s
escaped by talking to Jakub; he reminded warmth and block out the fetid stench of
her of home and of her father before he’d spoiling food which had not made it to the
become ill. She knew that Jakub had spent restaurants’ bins. This Sunday, the window
most of his life here, in London, yet his child- was open, and the whistle of his kettle
hood memories evoked memories of her drowned out the sparrows. He wrapped
own childhood, the simplicity of country life a fatigued tea towel around the handle,
and country ways. Likewise, Jakub enjoyed poured a little water over coffee grounds
having her around. She listened to his sto- and the rest into a large ceramic bowl. He’d
ries, how he had come from a distinguished wash himself after breakfast, his Sunday
Jewish family, until Stalin had invaded Po- breakfast of apple pancakes.
land and his father had fled to Britain with
his family, a suitcase of clothes, and a copy Many years ago, Aga would make him
of the Torah. And Izabela reminded him of apple pancakes. She used to add a spice
Aga, his late-wife, in the way she spoke with that elevated them, made them special. He
that self-assuredness and how she flicked didn’t know which spice she used; so he’d
her hair in that same girlish, nonchalant taken to adding a little cinnamon and im-
way. aging she was there with him eating pan-
cakes, drinking Plujka coffee, and listening
No one stayed at Jakub’s for very long; to the birds. Of course, she wasn’t there,
it was a staging post. He would take them hadn’t been for many years, so he was
in, give them a bed, find them work, and flicking through Friday’s Metro, scanning
send them on their way. Three weeks after the headlines, and occasionally reading
Izabela arrived, Wioleta left. Jakub had the articles beneath. Contented knowing
found her a job, some kind of food pro- that the world was just as crazy as ever,
cessing, somewhere near Ely over in the he folded the paper, pushed it to the back
East. Izabela didn’t seem to have a glimmer of the table, and picked up the morning’s
of a job; it was if her degree had no value mail. He flipped the envelopes one by one
here. So, she spent her days in Walpole back onto the table: electricity bill, credit
Park watching the sparrows gorging them- card offer, cash for your home, council tax
selves on cast-off breadcrumbs, and chil- demand. He stopped at a franked letter; it
dren acting out scenes of pirates, cowboys, was addressed to Izabela. He turned it over

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to read the sender’s address; it was from a by one saw that they were addressed to her,
temp agency. He folded the envelope and Izabela.
slid it into his pocket.
Jakub returned, clutching a well-worn
* clothbound book. She clumsily tried to
hide the envelopes, but it was too late. His
It was six months since Izabela had arrived. face contorted, he raised a clenched fist
Others had come and gone, but she was and opened his mouth to speak. Then, in
driftwood trapped in the ebb and flow. an endless moment, his face drooped, the
Jakub had been kind enough to let her stay book tumbled to the floor, and he stum-
on, giving her a room of her own. And she’d bled towards her, collapsing, sprawling at
got into the habit of taking her morning cof- her feet.
fee with him, listening to his stories. On one
particular morning, he’d gone in search of *
a book, a book he was sure would interest
her. So she sat at the kitchen table, hands Today, at a certain maisonette, above a
seeking warmth from her mug, and took in charity shop, in North Ealing, Izabela wel-
the accumulated history of the room. Her comes the coach-weary. She takes them
eyes came to rest on a faded picture of a in, gives them a bed, finds them work, and
much younger Jakub, standing proudly next sends them on their way. On Sunday morn-
to a plain-looking girl in what must have ings, she opens the kitchen window, pours
been her Sunday best. Izabela moved to steaming water onto coffee grinds, and
the mantelpiece to take a closer look when makes apple pancakes. And, when it’s the
she noticed a bundle of half-concealed, season, she goes to market, buys figs, di-
folded envelopes. She took them and one vides them in two, and wipes their sugary
flesh against Jakub’s lips.

About the Author

Peter Roxburgh is fresh to the world of fiction after having
been published by Microsoft Press, Sams Publishing,
and various magazines on topics as diverse as software
development and rock climbing. He holds a first-class
BA honours business. When he’s not writing, he coaches
executives on communication skills and techniques.

9

LOST

by Michael Emeka

Night had fallen by the time I returned from did I land at the place than Mummy bought
hawking banana for Mummy. I stood the a gigantic head of banana, cut and piled it
large steel tray against the wall and handed up on a large tray and beseeched me to go
her the cash I’d made. Looking stern, she sell it for her. I obeyed that first time, sold
collected it, moistened the tips of her right off every bunch and handed the money to
thumb and forefinger and began counting her in the evening. But she had more set
it. She held the money as if it was millions out for me the following day. And this time
and counted it at a snail’s pace. Picking up and in the days that followed, she no longer
a note, she squeezed it with great attention, asked but ordered me with threats of put-
to be sure there weren’t two stuck togeth- ting ground pepper in my private places if I
er. If she got distracted even for a second, refused. And as for enrolling me in a school,
she’d start afresh. After what seemed like no one raised the topic anymore.
a century, she muttered, ‘O zuru ezu. It’s
complete.’ Parting the curtain to the house, I went
in. I greeted Daddy seated on his favourite
I heaved a secret sigh of relief and chair, the shabby two-seater sofa opposite
walked towards the front door. She had to the television. He returned my greeting,
threatened to put pepper in my privates any eyeing me. Since I turned fourteen, and
day I come back from hawking and there’s then fifteen, Daddy now looked at me with
money missing. something akin to hunger in his eyes. But
Mummy cooked often for him. And some-
Mummy didn’t thank me for my efforts, times when she’s not around, I’d cook. Ei-
nor show even the slightest sign of appre- ther way, he never goes hungry. He even
ciation. That I would hawk for her wasn’t had a potbelly from the beer and pepper
part of the arrangement she and her hus- soup he drank with friends in the evenings.
band made with my family, through an in- So it gave me no small discomfiture seeing
termediary––Onudibia––when he came to that hungry expression on his face. But he
our house, looking for a housemaid. The only looked at me that way in Mummy’s ab-
arrangements had stipulated that I would sence.
care for their two young sons, Gemezu, six,
and Obinna, four, and help in cooking and Daddy and Mummy were not my legit-
cleaning. They’d agreed to enroll me in a imate parents. My father’s late while my
school while I performed these chores. No true Mummy lived in our village, Lokpanta.
one had mentioned hawking. But no sooner I’d started staying with the couple when I

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Revista Literária Adelaide

was eight years old. Onudibia, an agent, *
had brought me to them and he used to
visit regularly. But he stopped coming after The house was in complete silence when I
some years. I learnt many years later that woke at dawn. A cricket trilled from one of
he had died in an accident on his way back the several cracks on the walls of the living
from Owerri, where we lived, after one of room. The old straw mat upon which I slept
his visits. As Mummy and Daddy had never on the floor was cold. My teeth chattered
met my parents––Onudibia was the only despite the thin wrapper covering me. But
connection between them––I was system- on the warm mattress beside my mat slept
ically lost. Daddy’s and Mummy’s children. They had
forbidden me from sleeping with the chil-
Later that night, I went to the bath- dren, so I don’t inconvenience them. But on
room, an unroofed structure with a gaping some frigid nights, I stole onto the mattress
entrance at the back of the house, to and perched on its edge. Whenever I heard
bathe. Finished, I went into the house and the connecting door to the bedroom opening,
straight into the adjoining room, Mummy’s I’d rush down to my chilly mat and pretend to
and Daddy’s bedroom, a wrapper wound be asleep. On certain nights, notwithstand-
around my body with its tail end tucked ing, I forgot myself and slept on the mattress
under my left armpit. I lowered the wrapper till daybreak. In the morning, Mummy would
to my hips and was massaging cream into smack me awake with oaths pouring from her
my skin when the curtain separating both lips, and once again she’d warn me to stop
rooms suddenly opened and Daddy came making her children’s sleep uncomfortable.
in. Mummy was outside while the children
were in the living room. As soon as I saw I heard rustling sounds from the bed-
Daddy, my hands flew to my chest, and I room. Then the drone of Daddy’s voice. He
crossed them over my naked bosom, my seemed to tell Mummy something. But for
eyes round and focused on his face. a moment she didn’t respond to whatever
he was telling her. And when she did, it was
‘Sorry,’ he croaked. He went to the cup- a low and grudging mumble. She must be
board by the corner, fumbled around, nei- angry at him for disturbing her sleep. She
ther taking nor dropping anything and often complained that whenever he woke,
headed back towards the living room. But he always expected her to wake too.
as he tried to exit the room, he bumped into
Mummy at the door. Daddy was saying something; Mummy
responded less grudgingly than before. And
‘Papa Gemezu, O gini? What is it?’ after a while, they were having a proper
Mummy asked because Daddy was acting conversation.
weird, almost like a thief. She looked past
Daddy and saw me standing naked in the ‘… I know,’ Daddy was saying. ‘But do you
room. In shielding my breasts with my think she hears us sometimes?’ They were
hands, I’d forgotten the wrapper. Slowly, it talking about me.
slid down and lay bunched up around my
feet. Seeing Mummy now, I snapped out of I didn’t hear Mummy’s response. She
the shock of Daddy’s unexpected entrance, spoke in such whispers. But Daddy didn’t
reached down, drew the wrapper up and care. He spoke with his normal voice.
wrapped it around me.
‘I don’t think so.’ She sighed. ‘She sleeps
early; and deeply. But wakes on time.’

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

‘So she might be awake now?’ of fast-rushing liquid striking a hard surface
came from outside within seconds. Back in,
‘Maybe. I trained her to be rising early.’ she bolted the door, returned the lantern to
its former position, turned the wick down,
Their voices went down a fraction. Dad- surveyed the room once more and returned
dy’s voice became a drone. Mummy’s just to the bedroom.
ceased to exist. I sharpened my ears and
listened. The man was telling his wife some- Their bed squeaked as she lay back down.
thing about selling his old motorcycle and
buying a tricycle. He always waxed with ‘Do you sometimes consider that she
plans in the morning. But most of the things should be in school instead of hawking ba-
he told his wife he’d do, he never did. nana?’ That was Daddy’s voice. Mummy
hated the idea of me going to school be-
‘Keke is safer and yields a lot more money,’ cause it meant no one would hawk her
he was saying. precious banana for her. And whenever her
husband raised the subject, she always re-
‘Ezi okwu? Really?’ sponded with a harsh rejoinder that often
bereft the man of words.
‘Ehenu! There’s even talk that the gov-
ernment is considering banning ina-aga ‘Do you have the money?’ Mummy
in the city centres.’ Ina-aga is motorcycle fired at Daddy. In the silence that followed,
transportation, popularly called okada. That that simple question seemly grew roots,
was what Daddy did for a living. sprouted branches, flowered and birthed
fruits. But they were not the fruits Daddy
‘Why would they do that?’ would have liked and enjoyed. They were
fruits of introspection and self-assessment.
‘They said people are using it to do evil.’ If he had money, we wouldn’t be living in
this house, and he’d own a car, not a fairly
Mummy snorted. ‘What’s the work of used motorcycle he had bought from a
the security agents then? Banning ina-aga friend. If he had money, they would have
won’t end crime. Excuse me.’ sent me to school, in Mummy’s estimation.
Though they weren’t rich, they could still
I quickly shut my eyes and rolled over. A have sent me to school if they had wanted.
rustle of sheets. A squeak of the bed. A bolt
being drawn. The connecting door creaked Mummy’s question must have knocked
open and Mummy stepped out. Left arm Daddy off balance, for he said nothing for
clamped to her side, holding down the end long moments. The squeak and groan of
of the wrapper wound around her plump their bed as they shifted on it punctuated
body, she stopped and surveyed the semi- the silence.
dark room.
‘What about her people?’ The woman
After a moment she went to the lantern deftly changed the topic, not unaware of
by the corner and turned it up. Shadows the toxic atmosphere her question had
receded. Lifting the lantern, the woman generated. ‘Have you made any progress in
went over to her children on the mattress. locating them?’
She checked them, adjusting their sleeping
wrapper, which was in a tangle at their feet, ‘No. I’m still working on it. But any day we
and displaying motherly affection and all. decide she has stayed enough with us, we

Finished with the children, she rose
with the lantern and went out. The sound

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Revista Literária Adelaide

can take her back to her village ourselves. Rousing himself, Daddy went to the cur-
I’m sure…’ tain, parted it and looked outside. Then he
brought his head back in and closed the cur-
‘Any day we decide she has stayed tain properly.
enough?’ Mummy sounded angry and dis-
pleased. ‘When will that day be? Are you I followed him with meek, puzzled eyes
prepared to do all the dirty jobs she does as he went to the curtain. And as he began
around the house if you take her back?’ An- towards me, I stared on at him, his face, his
other harsh question and as before Daddy eyes. I was at a loss regarding what he was
clammed up. After a while, he sighed and trying to do.
said, ‘But she can’t be here forever.’
Daddy came towards me. ‘Amaka, I like
Mummy didn’t answer him. you. Inu? Do you hear me? I like you.’ He
squatted and placed his large hand on my
‘Does she want to keep me here forever, chest. My hand flew to his, to push it away,
running errands for them and hawking ba- but I was unable to. His hand was rock solid.
nana for her?’ I wondered as I rolled over on I gazed up at him with tremulous eyes, gazed
my cold mat. Tears sprouted in my eyes and deep into his eyes.
coursed down my left temple.
Daddy breathed faster as he squeezed
* me. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll marry you. You’ll be
my second wife. You hear me?’
After that night, Mummy began loading my
tray with extra bananas. The load became I didn’t seem to hear. Everything in the
heavier, the work more tasking. I started room shimmered as my eyes misted with
coming home late. tears. Daddy’s face blurred. I had an urge to
blur him out of existence. But the weight of
One day, feeling feverish and running his hand on my body reminded me starkly
high temperatures, I cut my hawking short of the inevitability of this moment.
and went home to rest. Few minutes after
I’d returned, the front door opened and ‘I said you shouldn’t worry. You’ll be my
Daddy came in. He filled the doorway with second wife. Why are you crying? You don’t
his enormous frame and stared at me as I believe me? I said I’ll marry you. This is my
jumped to my feet to greet him. He asked house. If I want to marry a hundred wives,
what I’d come home to do, and I replied that I’ll marry a hundred wives.’
I wasn’t feeling well. Daddy left me there
and went into the bedroom. He muttered ‘Mummy, somebody’s in our house.’
he had come home to get the receipts to
his motorcycle as he planned to sell it. After Daddy was so shocked to hear his son’s
a while, he re-emerged and stared down at voice, he rose at once and dashed into the
me stretched out on my mat on the floor, bedroom. In seconds he was out again:
covered up to the neck with a wrapper. ‘Dry your eyes, dry your eyes.’ I obeyed and
He said nothing to me at first, just stood began drying my eyes. Hardly had I finished
there like a statue, staring soulfully at me. doing that when Mummy came in.
I thought he looked hungry and wanted to
ask him if I should prepare something for Something didn’t seem right to the
him. woman as she stepped into the living room.
She stared at me for a few seconds, then

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

she glanced around the room. Her eyes set- ‘Be careful with men,’ she began. ‘Any
tled on the tray still full of bananas. man who calls you but shows no interest in
buying a bunch, ignore him. If you’ve already
‘You sold nothing,’ she muttered, frowning. brought your tray of banana down, lift it, re-
‘What happened?’ place it on your head and walk away.

‘I’m not feeling fine.’ ‘Don’t allow any man to touch your body.’
My mind flew to Daddy at once. I saw his
‘That’s why you rushed home? You could hungry eyes and his huge hand closing in on
have stayed and sold a little more. Bananas my body and shuddered inwardly.
are perishable.’
‘If any man forcefully tries to grab your
‘Aren’t I?’ I asked in my mind. But to private parts,’ Mummy went on, ‘shout for
Mummy, I said nothing. Daddy emerged help.’ If I’d shouted for help that day Daddy
from the living room. The frown on his wife’s grabbed my private part in the living room,
face stayed in place as if it were a mask. She I’m sure Mummy would have heard my voice
didn’t even bother to say a greeting, and as she approached the house. Some neigh-
the man himself, not unaware of the ten- bours, too, might have heard me. I wondered
sion in the air, said none to her. what would have happened afterwards.

Daddy went to the large TV cabinet and ‘Are you listening to me?’
continued his search, even as I suspected
he may have found the motorcycle receipt. ‘Yes, ma.’

‘What are you looking for?’ Mummy’s ‘Even if they promise you heaven and
mouth barely opened as she asked the ques- earth, you know men are natural-born trick-
tion. Her firm jaws, set in lines of displea- sters, don’t agree.’ I remembered Daddy’s
sure, moved slightly as she ground her teeth. promise that he’d marry me if I let him have
his way. But I knew that was a barefaced lie.
‘My motorcycle receipt,’ Daddy answered
airily, not bothering to look at her. He raced ‘Do you understand me?’
back inside and soon emerged holding the
thick wad of receipts aloft. ‘Found it.’ ‘Yes, ma.’

Mummy just gazed at him, her eyes dark ‘Okay. Ngwan.’
and brooding.
Handling my male customers on the
The man looked around. ‘What? Why road based on Mummy’s instructions
are you so quiet? Isn’t your day going well?’ wasn’t much of an issue. My biggest head-
ache was Daddy. He had ramped up pres-
‘My day has been going well.’ sure on me after that first day, promising
to buy me whatever I desired. Aware that
‘Okay. See you later.’ And he fled from the our meeting that day was coincidental, he
house. now tried to sweet-talk me into cutting my
hawking short and coming to meet him at
* home at a prearranged time. But despite all
his promises and cajolery, I did not for once
One day, just as I was about to go out, heed him. One morning I awoke and found
Mummy reiterated the warnings she’d been Mummy dressing up and packing a bag.
hammering into me since I started hawking
for her.

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Revista Literária Adelaide

‘I’m travelling home,’ she told me at the he spoilt me with. He became more relaxed
curious glances I threw her way. She then and approachable and smiled more often.
gave me instructions on how to run the Not used to such treatment, I became in-
house while she’s gone. I thought she would toxicated by it. I let my vigilance down, as a
leave out hawking. But after the long chores result, feeling like I was the woman of the
she had set out daily for me, she still ex- house. And by the time I realized what was
pected me to go hawk for her, even if it’s for happening, it was already too late.
a few brief hours.
Something happened to my boldness
When she finished dressing and was ready during those days Mummy was away. It grew
to leave, she took me outside and told me, to such a level that when she eventually re-
frowning, ‘Make sure you do nothing stupid turned and was speaking to me, gazing at
with my husband. Do you understand me?’ my eyeballs, I gazed back at her. She must
have felt a frisson of fear run down her spine
‘Yes, ma.’ I wasn’t the one trying to do on one occasion, for she kept stumbling over
something stupid with her husband, but her her words and stuttering. She then tried in-
husband trying to do something stupid with jecting steel into her voice.
me.
‘Get me a bowl of clean water and come
‘I see the way he looks at you nowadays,’ and meet me in the bathroom.’ She wanted
she continued. to do her virginity test. I stood around in-
decisively after she gave me this instruction,
‘Which way ma?’ considering my options. Not in this life was I
going to let her stick her grubby hand in me.
‘My friend will you shut up! Mechie onu
gi! Do you think I’m blind? I’m warning you. ‘Did you hear what I just said?’
Stay away from my husband if you don’t
want me to put pepper in your vagina.’ I ‘Yes, ma.’
wondered why she was warning me instead
of her husband. ‘Now, go get what I asked and meet me
at the back.’ She stomped off towards the
She pointed at my crotch. ‘You’re still a bathroom.
virgin and I know it for sure. When I come
back, I’ll check. God help you you’re no In the living room now, I stood, looking
longer a virgin when I return.’ around. I’d rather run away than let her
carry through with this plan. Just as I about
Mummy spent seven days in her village, to gather my things, a tumult of shouting
Ndielu. Throughout that week, I didn’t once and screaming erupted in the neighbouring
go out to hawk. Daddy saw to it. As soon compound. I parted the curtain, looked out
as his wife left, he gave me the money for and saw Mummy and other neighbours
that week’s worth of bananas. And each running towards the compound. I waited
day, after I’d taken the children to school, I’d until they were out of sight, then lifting and
come back home and meet him. We would placing the tray of bananas set out for me
sit in the living room, chatting like mates, on my head, I went out.
watching movies and eating bananas.
In the days that followed, Mummy did
Those seven days passed with the speed not talk about the test again. But she never
of a Christmas day. Daddy went to work late failed to threaten me with it.
each day and returned with loads of gifts

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

* The man whistled. ‘Your banana is expen-
sive.’ He picked up a bunch and bargained
Midday. The weather was swelteringly the price down to a point I found accept-
hot, and the air shimmered with the heat. able. As I waited for him to count out the
Dressed in a red blouse and blue knee-length agreed sum from his wallet, my eyes strayed
skirt, I stood at the kerbside and waited beyond him to the road. At that very instant,
for the yellow old bus approaching to stop. a child, in his bid to pick up what looked like
Squeaking and groaning like an overbur- a toy lying in the middle of the main road,
dened beast, the rickety bus drew abreast darted into it and narrowly missed getting
of me and stopped. The main door rumbled hit by an over speeding Chevrolet saloon car.
open and passengers dismounted. Cries of alarm erupted from every side.

I hurried towards it. ‘Buy banana. Ba- ‘What happened?’ the man asked me in
nana. Madam, make I bring am?’ I asked a surprise.
certain woman staring at me in Pidgin En-
glish. The woman shook her head. I didn’t know how to narrate everything
I’d just witnessed. So shocked was I that I
‘Banana. Buy banana.’ I went round to lunged into exclamations of surprise full
the other side of the bus. ‘Buy banana. Dey of invectives against the woman who had
dey very ripe.’ I lifted a bunch and held it up. been walking with the child.
‘Banana.’ Some people glanced my way but
didn’t show any interest in buying. ‘Lele watawanyin. O dika o di ihe nle
emeye la ishi ye….’
The last set of passengers disembarked
and the conductor of the bus, a shag- As soon as I began, the man turned and fas-
gy-haired youth, drew the door shut. The tened his gaze on me. ‘Where are you from?’
bus shuddered into life and rolled along. It
picked up speed in a moment and sped away. I hesitated.

I sighed. I hadn’t even sold a bunch since I ‘Where are you from?’
came out. Almost starting to despair, I walked
over and sat in the shade of a willow tree I said nothing still, recalling Mummy’s re-
close to the road. I placed the tray of banana peated warnings about engaging customers
on the ground beside me and began tracing in private conversations.
out patterns on the ground with my fingers.
‘Are you not from Umunneochi?’
‘Hey! Banana!’ someone called.
I shook my head quickly like an imbecile,
I looked up at the person and she pointed collected the money we’d agreed on, put
towards a certain man down the road, on his banana in a black polythene bag and
the opposite side. The man beckoned me handed it to him. ‘Thank you, sir.’ And then
over as he got my attention. Quickly lifting I bent, lifted my tray of banana, set it gently
the tray of banana, I placed it gingerly on on my head and began walking away.
my head and went off in the direction. The
man was tall and dark and looked rough. The man lifted a hand. ‘Wait. Are you not
from Lokpanta?’
‘How much is your banana?’
That halted me in my tracks. ‘Eh?’
I brought down the tray and placed it
on the ground. I pointed at each bunch and ‘Are you not from Lokpanta? That thing
told him how much it cost. you spoke now, is it not Lokpanta dialect?’

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Revista Literária Adelaide

I stared, too shocked for words. ‘How… ‘I see.’
How do you know?’
‘Are you from there? Are you from Lok-
‘How do I know?’ He chuckled. panta?’

‘How do you know, sir? Are you from Lok- He sighed. ‘Yes. I’m from Lokpanta.’
panta?’
I screamed with joy and began jumping
‘Oh, I thought you were not interested. up and down. ‘Oh! I’m going home! I’m
Have a nice day.’ He turned and began going home to my mother!’
walking away.
He bridled and gazed at me in utter con-
I stood stock-still and irresolute, gazing sternation. ‘What are you talking about?’
after the man’s retreating figure. Then sud-
denly, as if something just clicked on in my When I finally sobered down, I explained
brain: ‘Sir! Sir! Brother! Brother!’ But he to him the circumstances of my life and how
didn’t stop. ‘Sir, biko chere! Please wait!’ I’d ended up with Mummy and Daddy. At
Seeing that the space between us was fast the end of my long narrative, Mazi Onye-
widening, I dropped the tray of banana on kwere, as they called him, understood he
the sidewalk and ran after him. I reached would take me home.
and held him by the arm, halting him. ‘Sir,
biko, please. Are you from Lokpanta? Are Three months after I left Mummy’s and
you from my village?’ Daddy’s house to return to my village, I
came back. But this time I didn’t come alone.
‘So it’s your village after all?’ I came with my mother and my kinsmen.

‘Yessir.’ I was three months pregnant for Daddy.

About the Author

Michael Emeka is a writer, a teacher and lover of nature.
His works have appeared in Volney Road Review, Potato
Soup Journal and Eboquills. A believer in the saying that
the world is the writer’s workshop and an avid reader,
he lives in Lagos, Nigeria and can be found on Twitter @
michael64639151.

17

SPLIT THE G

by Jack Hutchinson

Henry sat down at the Auld Shillelagh and his newfound anonymity. He found a room
made a dismal attempt at splitting the G. in a six-bedroom, semi-detached house in
The black settled just above the bottom of Islington. There were two Australians, one
the harp. His friend and flatmate, Conor Irish, one New Zealander, and one English
Brady, didn’t hold back his laughter. (from the north). The Kiwi and the Geordie
were girls; the two Aussies and the Irishman,
“Good craic that is, Henry.” Conor, were boys. Conor was the last before
Henry to move in. He was a carpenter, but
“You are easily amused.” he hadn’t yet landed a job in London. They
were all very welcoming to Henry, especially
“Immaculate pint though, eh? Best pint Conor.
in London.”
“It’s your round, Conor.”
“Remarkably similar to every other pint
of Guinness we have drunk together.” Conor walked up to the bar and started
talking in a much thicker accent than usual.
“Nonsense, Henry. The pour here is ex- He returned with two more pints of the
ceptional.” black stuff.

Henry himself was an entirely unexcep- “What was that?” Henry said.
tional young man. A privately educated kid
from Brisbane, he made the important de- “He’s a fellow Corkonian. I have to tone
cisions the way he was supposed to. After down my accent around you lot and the En-
graduating from school (where his father glish.”
was an old boy), he studied a Bachelor of
Commerce at university (where his father “Bizarre. Listen, Conor. I’ve been thinking
was an alumnus), worked three years as a we should go to Russia.”
graduate at a Big Four (where his godfather
was a partner), and then moved to London “For the World Cup?”
at twenty-four (a year younger than his fa-
ther was when he did the same). “Yes.”

Unremarkable as he was, Henry felt lib- “Doesn’t it start next week?”
erated and limitless the day he landed in
Heathrow. ‘Extraordinary things happen to “Yes.”
ordinary people,’ he thought. He relished
“Doesn’t Putin need months to look over
your passport?”

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Revista Literária Adelaide

“No. Not for the World Cup. There is a but a pretty blonde airhostess told them, in
fast-tracked visa process.” a charming Russian accent, “Only on flights
over six hours.” In the absence of beer,
“OK. We’ll book everything tonight.” Henry read a Tolstoy novella for three hours;
the other hour he talked football with Conor.
By the time they stumbled out of the pub,
there were tough-looking men dancing on They landed and nervously passed
the street using only their feet. They were through security. Stereotypes of Russian
locked arm-in-arm, in a circle, singing tra- strongmen weren’t as bad as the reality.
ditional Celtic folk songs from deep within Henry and Conor showed them their pass-
their bellies. Henry and Conor fell into a ports and their fan ID’s, and then they were
chicken shop that was stubbornly clinging let through.
on amid the inevitability of gentrification.
A couple of young black kids came and sat They opened their respective Tinder ac-
down with them to eat. They all laughed at counts. They both paid £2.29 for a boost. As
each other’s accents; their hearts were full two average looking young men, they found
of curiosity and generosity. The kids had a their matches in London to be generally
joint and they offered to share it. They all well below average. Not the case in Russia.
smoked together on the street, then hugged Hundreds of beautiful women filled up their
and went separate ways. Henry and Conor allotment of MTS SIM card data.
hopped and tapped on to the 73, then they
tapped and hopped off. They tripped into They took hours to find the hostel. They
their house, waking everybody up. arrived at midnight. They were greeted by
a strange, hospitable woman who spoke in
“There are only pretty rubbish games left,” broken English. They gave her their pass-
said Conor behind his beat-up old MacBook. ports. She mentioned something about
kangaroos. They were shown to their room.
“So what. Let’s take what we can get. Aus- There were eight lively Brazilians yapping
tralia Denmark in Samara – buy that!” Henry in Portuguese about Neymar. Henry and
said, looking over Conor’s shoulder. Conor willed themselves to sleep behind
thin curtains on bunk beds.
“OK. Nigeria Argentina in Saint Peters-
burg?” They woke to an entirely free day. They
had a quick look at the official fan zone,
“Perfect. We’ll see Messi!” and took a free walking tour. Their beau-
tiful, thin, dark-haired tour guide told them
“Belgium Tunisia in Moscow?” that the metro was circular and brown on
the map because a timid engineer didn’t
“Done.” want to challenge Stalin’s coffee stain on
the plans. She told them that the first time
“All up, including flights, tickets and hos- Russians learnt to smile was in 1990, when
tels, we are looking at around £2,500 each. McDonald’s came to town. Another Austra-
That is half of the money in my bank account,” lian on the tour took her Instagram details
complained Conor. “Half of my net worth.” from her when the walk finished.

“You’ll survive. Vodka and beer will be Henry and Conor had a look at Lenin’s
cheap. We’ll get jobs when we get back.” Mausoleum, and then settled in at a British

They flew from London to Moscow four
days later. The Aeroflot food was awful by
airline food standards. They asked for beer

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

pub just outside the Red Square. A friendly was messaging a girl named Anastasia
barman brought them complimentary shots whom he had matched with. He had ar-
of vodka with their pints of beer. The atmo- ranged to meet her outside Tverskaya sta-
sphere in the pub was electric. There was an tion at 7PM. He had one more shot of vodka
electricity in the air of the whole city. then apprehensively went on his way. Conor
had hit a wall by this point. He had his shot
“This is brilliant,” Henry said. of vodka too, but then headed back to the
hostel.
“What did you make of the mausoleum?”
Conor said. Henry navigated his way through the
metro to Tverskaya. The interiors of the sta-
“It was pretty cool to see his body up that tions were so dramatic that Henry felt like
close.” an actor playing a character from his Tolstoy
novella. He revelled in the long escalator
“I sympathise with his ideas.” journey under a concrete dome. He exited
the station and bathed in the warm late sun.
“Marxism? It doesn’t work, Conor.” He sent a message to Anastasia, describing
his navy linen shirt with two buttons un-
“That’s easy for you to say.” done. Five minutes later, a small blonde girl
wearing glasses and a smart, professional
“It’s easier for you to say you sympathise black dress approached him. She looked
with a murderous revolutionary than it is for just like her pictures.
me to point out the abject poverty and the
millions of dead bodies,” said Henry with an “Henry?”
air of self-righteousness, feeling that truth
was on his side. “Yes. Hello Anastasia. Nice to meet you,”
he said, as he put out his hand for a pain-
“My family are working class people,” fully awkward handshake.
said Conor. “My father is a union man. He
fought so I could earn a decent wage and “I know a bar this way,” she said in self-
work on safe sites back home.” doubting English, pointing in the direction
of the Kremlin.
“I’m not saying there is no place for
unions. But my family would’ve been mur- “Sounds good. You speak good English.”
dered if they happened to be Russian and
alive in 1917. Anyone with a bit of wealth “No I don’t.”
was fair game.”
Anastasia led Henry through the busy
“Perhaps they shouldn’t have been so streets. She took a turn into a quiet car park
greedy and corrupt then.” and Henry got nervous. Finally, to his relief,
they arrived at the bar.
“Classy, Conor. And the Marxists were
incorruptible, were they? Anyway, can we “What would you like to drink?” asked
put class politics aside? We are both un- Henry.
employed nobodies in London, and we are
both drunken tourists in Moscow.” “Guinness,” told Anastasia.

“Fair play, Henry.” “You drink Guinness?”

They both retreated into the OLED black “Yes.”
holes that they held in their palms. Henry

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Revista Literária Adelaide

Henry went up to the bar. The barman “I like him but many Russians hate him.”
smiled at Henry in a knowing fashion, ac-
knowledging his cross-cultural Tinder date. “Why?”
Henry gave the barman his roubles, and
then brought the two pints of Guinness “I don’t know. How do you say? Too dark?
back to their table. Even for us.”

“My friend that I am travelling with is “But you don’t think so?”
Irish. Do you want to learn how to split the
G?” Henry asked Anastasia, prompting a very “No. I have depression, so maybe I enjoy
confused look. “See the G in Guinness written the darkness more than most.”
on the pint glass? You need to try to get the
black of the stout as close to the middle of “I’ve had some mental health struggles
the G as possible with your first sip.” too. Nothing too bad, though.”

“I don’t understand,” said Anastasia. “I didn’t expect to be talking about music
or literature or mental health tonight,” she
Henry demonstrated for her. It was a su- said. “I thought you might only want to dis-
perb attempt – extremely close. Anastasia cuss football.”
did not seem very impressed. She laughed
faintly. “Of course I am not going to come on a
date and rabbit on about football.”
“Do you like music?” Henry asked.
“Rabbit on?”
“I like Leonard Cohen,” Anastasia replied.
“Ah, I mean, talk too much about.”
“I love Leonard Cohen.”
“Oh, I see.”
“Really?”
There was a pause that was only trivially
“Yes. I’ve seen him three times.” uncomfortable.

The date had taken a positive turn. They “Would you like to eat pelmeni after this?”
had found some common ground; ground Anastasia asked Henry.
with firm and deep soil. They relaxed, and
started looking a little deeper into each “Is that the dumplings?” Henry asked An-
other’s eyes. Anastasia had a tote bag on astasia.
the floor beside her, with the contents all
exposed. “Yes. There is a good place near here,” An-
astasia told Henry.
“What is that book in your bag?” Henry
asked. “I would love that,” Henry told Anastasia.

“The Brothers Karamazov,” Anastasia re- They started walking and their hands
plied. naturally landed and folded in each other’s.
They arrived at the restaurant and Anastasia
“You like Dostoyevsky? I like Notes from negotiated their way to a table. There was a
Underground. I wish I could read it in Rus- small TV in the corner where everyone’s eyes
sian. I don’t have the attention span for The regularly scanned. Russia were playing Egypt
Brothers Karamazov or Crime and Punish- on it, and they were leading. Anastasia or-
ment.” dered Baltikas and pelmeni from a waitress
who was giggling, assumedly for the same
reason that the barman prior had smiled.

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

“Can I ask what you think of Putin?” vicariously proud. They got a few selfies to-
Henry asked Anastasia. gether. They arrived at the metro.

“Yes. I was waiting for that question. I am “Anastasia, do you want to have a drink
not a supporter, but there is no alternative at my hostel?”
either.”
“I’m not too sure.”
“I see.”
“That’s OK. I understand either way.”
“We are a bit worried about becoming
isolated, like, ah, you know, North Korea. “I do want to.”
But I think this World Cup shows we are all
just people. It will be good for Russians to “Then come.”
see everyone from the outside world.”
And so she did. They arrived and the
“I haven’t noticed even a hint of hostility Brazilian guys were out in the common
in the 24 hours I’ve been here,” Henry an- area chatting with a group of Mexicans who
nounced. “It makes the diplomatic issues all had just arrived. Everyone’s mood was exu-
the more abstract and puzzling.” berant. They were all delighted for Russia.
Conor was fast asleep in the room. Henry
“Yes. Moscow is not usually quite this and Anastasia sat down with the group and
friendly, though,” Anastasia explained. “For chatted for a bit, before sneaking off and
example, it is usually seen as weak to smile climbing up the two-step ladder and into
in public.” Henry’s top bunk bed.

“I had a tour guide who said that Russians Henry pulled across the curtain, and
didn’t know how to smile until local staff at then they made love quietly, on their sides.
McDonalds were trained to in 1990.” It was the only way feasible. They fell
asleep on the same sides they made love
Anastasia laughed properly for the first on, crammed together on a sparing single
time. Henry laughed with her. The conversa- mattress. There weren’t any more words
tion eventually lost some momentum, but between them. They were welded together
they were both still utterly charmed by the as one, like those Olympic kayakers and
situation. The match ended and Russia had their kayaks.
defeated Egypt 3-1. The restaurant stood in
applause. Strangers embraced each other. Henry woke first in the morning. An-
astasia was still an extension of his body.
Henry and Anastasia paid and hit the Henry knew she wasn’t a dream, as much
streets. Their hands met again. Chants of as he knew anything wasn’t a dream. He lay
RUS-SHI-YA echoed loudly. There was a long in bed with a supreme sense of satisfaction.
line of cars in traffic; almost every one of Anastasia eventually woke too, then smiled.
them had their horn honking. A few men The Portuguese chatter started up. Henry
climbed on top of cars but they quickly could discern Conor’s movements from be-
jumped off without causing much damage. neath him.
It was wild without feeling dangerous or
menacing. Anastasia—meek, mild, and cer- “Henry, get up. We’ve got to get to the air-
tainly not patriotic—couldn’t help but feel port. We fly to Samara in an hour and a half.
a strong sense of national pride. Henry too Henry!” Conor ripped open the curtain. He
couldn’t help but feel deeply moved, and smiled at Henry then mumbled, “Hurry up.”

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Revista Literária Adelaide

“I’m sorry, Anastasia. I need to get to Sa- I can clearly understand in English. It goes,
mara for a match.” ‘you know this life is full of many sweet com-
panions, many satisfying one-night stands.’”
“It’s OK. You get ready.”
“You really believe that?”
“I’ll message you when I’m back in
Moscow? We are coming back in a week for “As much as I believe anything.”
another match before we go home.”
“I’ll message when I’m back in Moscow.”
“Only if you want to. There’s a Leonard
Cohen line I like,” Anastasia said. “It’s one

About the Author

Jack Hutchinson is a youngish Brisbane-based poet and
writer who is starting out. Jack is a quantity surveyor by
trade, and also holds an MBA from London Business School.
Jack’s poetry has been published in The Raw Art Review.

23

ALTERATION

by Claire Ibarra

With dreams of chasing Richard through remember. Even when she wasn’t actually
dimly lit subway stations and the dark, sitting at the sewing machine, cutting a pat-
wooded trails of Central Park, Margaret tern, hand stitching buttons or a zipper, she
had a fitful night. Yet, when she woke up in was at least thinking about designs, looking
the morning something was different. Mar- through magazines and making sketches.
garet shuffled down the short hallway to
the kitchen. She put on the coffee to brew But also there had been Richard, the
and then opened that week’s New Yorker, love her life for more than thirty years and
which was resting on the kitchenette table the father of her children. When he died
for two, but was her personal space for one. last year, from a sudden heart attack while
It was cluttered with fashion magazines, lying in bed next to Margaret as she slept,
sketchpads, art pencils, and a box of choc- Margaret began to work even more. Now,
olates her daughter Joyce had given her for while resting her hand on Richard’s pillow,
her birthday over a month ago. she decided she wouldn’t leave her bed.

Margaret’s slippers glided along the All that morning she channel surfed,
maple floor as she strolled into the living and was especially thrilled when she found
room/work room/studio. That was where all “Bringing Up Baby” playing on the AMC net-
her inspiration, musings, and designs took work. Later when she got hungry, she or-
form. She walked over to the dress form dered Chinese and made sure it was enough
standing proudly on a wooden pedestal, food to last a few days. That was the only
headless but seemingly alive, and gave it an time she got out of bed, when she had to
affectionate stroke. It was naked that day. buzz in the delivery boy and pay.

Now she walked back into her bedroom Once she got the food, she dove back
and climbed into her queen size bed laden into bed. She ate with chopsticks straight
with layers of creamy white: sheets, bed- out of the cartons. At some point in the af-
spread, pillows and throw pillows—a sea of ternoon, she drifted into a nap while “Ver-
snowy, fluffy comfort. When she lay down tigo” played on AMC.
she had a strange feeling like she could dis-
appear into those folds and layers forever. When she woke up it was dark out-
side; she could see the soft glow of green
She was relaxed in a way that she hadn’t neon lights from Charlie’s Coffee Shop. She
been before, at least that she could ever leaned over and put her hand under the
bed, feeling around for the cartons. She

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Revista Literária Adelaide

pulled out one–it was vegetable Lo Mein, embedded. She looked under the bed,
her favorite. pushed the brown paper bag out of the
way and grabbed at the various cartons of
The telephone rang. “Hi, Mother. Just stir fried rice, Kung Pao chicken, Buddha’s
checking in, how was your day?” It was Joyce. delight and egg rolls. She had cold Chinese
for breakfast and, though soggy and greasy,
“Hello, dear. My day was glorious.” it was delicious.

“Okay, you remember the client I told you After brushing her teeth, she considered
about. She saw one of your gowns at the King- showering. Why was it necessary to bathe
sley Christmas party last year, and she wants every single day? Of course, walking the
you to make her one. She’s even given me a noisome city streets with all that pollution
down payment. I’m a bit nervous, I could get or taking the subway one would need to
into trouble for this, but she’s adamant.” bathe daily. But if she lived in bed, it would
be unnecessary—a complete waste of pre-
Joyce was always a bit nervous. She cious water supply. So Margaret decided
worked as personal shopper at Lord & every other day was quite enough, and
Taylor. There was a conflict of interest; Joyce washing her hair twice a week was plenty.
should be selling one of their gowns, not
one of her mother’s. She carefully went through her folded
stack of pajamas on the closet shelf and
“I can’t say I’ll have the time, honey.” Mar- chose a pale blue Victorian nightgown.
garet was surprised by her own response. Once changed, she climbed back into bed
and slept until two in the afternoon. She
“Mother, I thought you needed the work. thought she heard the phone ring once or
You said you needed clients for the holidays. twice, and when she woke up the red light
Things have been slow, you said.” Joyce was on the answering machine was flashing.
starting to get that whiney tone she used
when anything unexpected happened. Margaret hit the play button and Joyce’s
nervous voice chirped. “Mother, Mrs.
“I did, didn’t I? Well, not anymore. Just Coleman is very disappointed about the
tell her I’m booked.” dress and she asks that you reconsider. She
has the color chosen, and she mentioned
“How did I ever agree to this in the first shoes purchased and—“ Margaret hit de-
place? Okay, but just know I’m very disap- lete message.
pointed. I’ll call you tomorrow,” Joyce said.
The next message was from her best
Margaret smiled to herself and turned friend, Gayle. “Hey sugar pie honey, you
off the TV, which had been playing at a low know the song, just checking in. How about
volume all day, and she enjoyed the silence. lunch next week? Call me.”
She drifted to sleep, only to awaken a short
time later. Her teeth felt gritty and her Margaret picked up the phone to call
mouth was dry, and then she remembered Joyce. She hesitated a moment and then
that she had forgotten to brush her teeth. put down the phone. She decided to call
Oh hell, I’ll do it in the morning, she thought Gayle first.
and once again was lost in slumber.
“Hello, my dear and enlightened friend.
The next morning, the feeling was still How have you been?” Gayle said.
there. Margaret thought it would be a
passing sensation, but instead it felt more

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

“Gayle, I miss you. Let’s get together for She soon drifted off to sleep only to
lunch on Friday, here at my place.” awaken a short time later, and once again
thought, Oh hell, I’ll brush my teeth in the
“Are you offering to cook? That would be morning.
a first, Marge.” Whenever Gayle was being
sarcastic, she called Margaret ‘Marge.’ It was After a few days, she decided it was time
a slight annoyance that Margaret had put to enforce one rule: she must brush her
up with for the past twenty years. “There’s teeth every night before falling asleep. But
a great new Indian restaurant you’re going she was relieved that the feeling was still
to love, let’s meet there.” there. She had worried that her new self
would vanish at some unexpected juncture,
This threw Margaret off. She thought for but instead she found herself perfectly con-
a moment before replying, “I would rather tent while wasting away another morning
stay home. I’ll make something simple, or lying in bed.
we can order in.”
Margaret remembered that Gayle
“Is there a reason you don’t want to be was coming over for lunch. She decided a
seen in public?” Gayle asked. “A bad haircut shower was in order, but when it came time
or botched Botox?” Gayle chuckled at her to dress she once again browsed the stack
own joke. of pajamas. This time she found a pearl-
white satin top and pant. She adorned it
“Nothing like that. Just come over.” with a chartreuse silk scarf and gold hoop
earrings, and she looked very presentable,
After Margaret dialed Joyce’s number even with her slippers on. She had soup and
and felt herself lose some steam. “Hi, honey. sandwiches delivered from the deli on the
How was your day?” corner.

“Did you get my message, Mother? Mrs. By the time Gayle arrived, Margaret
Coleman has called me twice today and I had set out the lunch over her bed. “Ta-da,”
don’t know what to say.” Margaret said as she ceremoniously led
Gayle into her bedroom. “It’s a picnic!”
“Take a deep breath. It’s simple. I already
said I won’t do it, so just tell her to find “Absolutely marvelous, darling. You’re re-
someone else.” For a brief second, Margaret ally getting eccentric in your old age.” Gayle
thought she might be making a mistake, but took off her shoes and climbed onto the
then the thought passed. bed. “Hand me a couple of those pillows.”

However, staying in bed was more work She arranged them under her arm and
than she had imagined. rested propped up. The two chatted about
their kids, Gayle’s latest trip to the west
Joyce must have sensed something awry. coast, and about a few new movies out.
Very slowly and with an air of suspicion, she
said, “Mother, I think I’ll drop by on my day Gayle then remembered, “I brought des-
off. You’ll be home, I suppose?” sert; I’ll go get it. It’s a fat free, nearly zero
calorie chocolate cake.”
Margaret felt like saying, ‘Yes, I’ll be
wearing my pajamas, watching a movie on They both picked at the cake–it was dry
AMC, and eating cold Chinese.’ Instead she and tasteless. “You know, I have something
said, “What time?”

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Revista Literária Adelaide

much better,” Margaret said. She dashed box to Joyce. Her daughter chose a piece,
into the kitchen and brought back the box cautiously though, like she didn’t think she
of chocolates and a bottle of Pinot Noir with really had a choice in the matter.
two wine glasses.
“Oh, you didn’t tell me this was perma-
“And they’re Godiva!” exclaimed Gayle. nent,” Gayle said in a more serious manner.
“I thought this was just for today.”
The two indulged themselves, and
laughed about Gayle’s last blind date. Since “I don’t know how long it will last. But
her divorce, she started using a dating service, for now I’m perfectly content, so there’s no
which kept them both highly entertained. need to worry,” Margaret explained as she
popped another chocolate in her mouth.
“I’m not expecting to find the love of my
life; I mean it’s possible, but can’t I just meet “Well then, don’t look so concerned,
a normal guy? Make a new friend? Have a Joyce. I think your mom deserves a break.
decent night out without it ending in a com- Susan Sarandon and Holly Hunter have
plete fiasco?” Gayle complained. worn her designs for Christ’s sake! Did you
know Barbra Streisand wore one of your
Just as Margaret and Gayle were at the mother’s gowns to the Oscar’s?”
height of silliness, Joyce arrived.
“Yes, of course, I knew that. But that was
Joyce walked into the bedroom, where in 1979.”
there were cartons of food, crumpled dirty
napkins, an empty wine bottle, and choco- “One could live contently forever from
late wrappers scattered all over the white that single accomplishment. You both stay
bedspread. Shoes, scarves, a coat and purse put. I’ll make us tea,” Gayle offered. She
were lying on the floor. rose from the crowded, messy bed and
strolled down the hallway while humming
“Hello, Mother. And Gayle. What’s going “The Way We Were.”
on here? Looks like a party.”
Margaret pulled out a photo album
“It is a party, honey. Join us–just take off she had stored in the drawer of her night-
your shoes and climb in.” stand. She browsed through pictures of the
summer they spent in Maine.
Instead, Joyce sat at the edge of the bed
with her knees together and back straight. “This seems very ethnic, Mother,” Joyce
said.
“Mother, I don’t mean to pry, but what
have you been doing the last week?” “What do you mean, ethnic?”

“I’ve been resting, actually I’m taking a “Well, living in bed just seems like
vacation—for an indeterminate amount of something a long-suffering, eccentric for-
time.” eigner would do. I’m sure that some García
Márquez character has done this already.”
“Just last week you were working on a
gown, and looking for clients.” Joyce was so Margaret was taken aback. She hadn’t
responsible it made Margaret’s heart ache. been trying intentionally, at least not on
a conscious level, to be eccentric, but she
“You’re right, but now I have decided did have to admit that she liked the idea of
that I’m not leaving my bed. Would you being unique.
like a chocolate?” Margaret handed the

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

“That has nothing to do with it,” she their own way, sheltered in a corner of their
spoke as she still flipped through photo own world.
album pages, looking at her three children
when they were little and painfully adorable. Margaret was thinking about Richard.
He lingered everywhere all of the time. It
“Are you fulfilled, Joyce?” The question was so generous of him to go in his sleep
popped out. like that—quietly and without a fuss. He
was always so civil and stoic, even at his
“Is that an existential question, Mother? own death. Margaret had sensed some-
I mean, I guess so. Anyway, what do you thing was wrong—when she felt his body
hope to achieve by staying in bed?” Joyce rest too heavily next to her, she had tried to
began to adjust her attire, pull at her blouse shake him awake…
sleeves and tuck loose wisps of hair into her
bun with fidgety gestures. Once alone later that evening, Margaret
walked into the living room and turned on
“It’s not that I hope to achieve anything. a lamp; the room was still dim. She stood
Now look at how cute you were as a little in front of a framed black and white pho-
girl, happy and carefree on the beach with tograph of Richard and herself. They were
all that sand in your hair,” Margaret said. in their thirties, smiling, both good-looking
she thought.
Joyce leaned over and stared at the pic-
ture, as if unable to recollect that carefree Margaret touched the picture, then
child. Richard’s face with her index finger. “We
had a fantastic life,” she whispered.
Gayle returned carrying a tray with a
teapot and cups, and all three sat together. Suddenly she said in a loud voice, “I miss
Margaret was limp and draped herself you.”
across the bed; Gayle leaned against the
headboard softened by pillows; Joyce still Margaret stood waiting in silence. She
sat at the edge of the bed, blowing into her went back to her bedroom. Margaret
teacup and taking small sips. climbed into bed, and thought about the
new Indian restaurant. She hadn’t eaten In-
They were quiet as each settled into dian food in long time, and it sounded good.
their own thoughts, sitting comfortably in Maybe she would call Gayle in the morning.

About the Author

Claire received her MFA in creative writing from Florida
International University. Most recently, Claire’s fiction has
appeared in Still Point Arts Quarterly, Embark Literary
Journal, and Twisted Vine. Claire’s poetry chapbook Vortex
of Our Affections was published by Finishing Line Press
in 2017. Claire’s forthcoming novel Fragile Saints will be
published by Adelaide Books in 2021. She lives and teaches
in Colorado.

28

MAYA

by Meghana Karanjkar

Her tiny fingers tightly clutched the back- She felt Alice’s warm hands in hers. ’You
pack. A small, pink suitcase lay by her feet. will be fine. I promise.’
She and Alice sat next to each other on the
dark beige, traditional sofa. Her legs dan- Maya nodded, looking at the dark green
gled a few inches off the floor but she sat Persian carpet. ‘Will you come visit?’
straight, despite wanting to sink in the soft
hand embroidered cushions. White Orchids ‘Of course. And we can FaceTime with
and Red Roses poured from the intricately each other as well.’
designed black vase which sat patiently on
a large coffee table. Silk curtains swayed A smile crept at the corners of Maya’s
with a gentle fall evening breeze from the mouth, not wanting to lose the only person
large bay windows. The large cathedral ceil- she now had a close relationship with. The
ing made the living room look even roomier. loss of both parents and little brother to a
Alice twitched momentarily as she scrolled deadly accident had left unhealing scars.
through her phone, put it back in her purse
and removed it again. Maya shook her She still woke up every night, clenching
legs banging them lightly against the sofa. the sheets and swallowing a scream that
Glancing at the ceiling, a large chandelier rose from the pit of her stomach. Dizzy
with small sparkling beads stared back at with fear, she’d felt her parents’ blood as
her. Fascinated, she saw hundreds of Alice’s they lay mangled in the middle of the road
and Maya’s reflected in the lights. when a drunk driver hit them in a head-on
collision. Maya was the sole survivor. The
Maya had not expected that her fourth tiny, frail body of her little brother Jonas
foster home in less than two years would be had lain limp on the other side of the road.
this mansion with just one inhabitant. Ne- She had screamed ‘Daddy! Stop!’ when the
glect, addiction, abuse and abandonment headlights of the out-of-control car came
had followed her relentlessly in the other crashing towards them. Her shrieks and
three. She had learnt quickly the mean- wails pierced through the thick of the night
ness of adult humans. A cool draft whistled till she lay exhausted and unconscious in
through the windows and grazed her pale the ambulance.
skin. Maya zipped her thin jacket. She hud-
dled closer towards Alice, her case worker Each night, she dreamt of the harsh hos-
- the steady, predictable presence in a tur- pital lights as they wheeled her to look at her
dead parents’ bodies. Her mother’s beau-
bulent life. tiful face was half covered with gauze and

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

dressing where a deep wound had cracked had the cool water , Maya studied her new
open her skull. Her handsome dad with foster parent from the corner of her eye. She
a contorted look on his face. He had sus- looked rather stern but had a certain soft-
tained internal injuries when the steering ness to her. Alice had mentioned that Mrs
punctured his stomach. She’d begged to see Jackson wanted to give a meaningful, whole-
Jonas but they would not allow her as she some life to a child as her reasons to foster.
would never be able to wipe out the image. She wore casual khakis and a floral, sleeve-
Every night she prayed before sleeping that less blouse. Her lean arms looked toned and
she would not wake up. Every morning she she looked younger than her age at 60.
woke up, guilty and ashamed.
Shuttling between foster homes Maya
‘Hello Maya, Alice. It’s so nice to meet had a unique perspective on human adults,
you both.’ Maya turned startled to look at one that she trusted and used for self pro-
Mrs Jackson who had entered the room. tection. The walls that she had painstakingly
She realized suddenly that she was staring built were not going to fail her. Each brick in
at her new foster mom. that wall was soaked in her emotions and
baked in the heat of longing for her family. It
‘Hello Mrs Jackson. Nice to meet you too’ made her strong, impenetrable, somewhat
Alice stood up immediately to shake her aloof.
hand. Mrs Jackson bent to shake Maya’s
hand. ‘This is the last one to sign’ Alice looked
at Mrs Jackson. A large pile of papers had
‘Lovely to meet you, at last.’ She said, gathered by now.
looking at Maya.
‘That’s fine, no problem’ She said peering
‘Please do sit down’. from the top of her reading glasses.

Her eyes were kind. She was tall and She heaved a sigh after signing and
lanky with broad, athletic shoulders. A leaned on one of the cushions.
sharp nose and long chin however gave
her the appearance of a strict principal. Her ‘Thank You , Mrs Jackson. I know it’s a lot’
husband of forty years had recently passed Alice had a apologetic tone.
away and her grown up kids lived far from
New York. The entire estate with its man- ‘You are welcome. Let’s all go get dinner’
sion, cars and money was bequeathed to
his beloved wife. She was established in her ‘I would have loved to but need to run. I
own right, a known playwright recognized have another appointment in an hour’ Alice
on and off Broadway. said, gathering her belongings.

‘Can I get you’ll some juice or coffee? She picked her purse and the small bag
with all the files and papers. Maya’s heart
They both declined. lurched and a small lump formed in her
throat. Alice had been the only stability
‘Maybe some water then?’ thus far. She wanted to stretch the moment
so that she would not leave. Looking away
‘That would be great, Thank You’ Alice from Alice , she hid the tears that had welled
said. up in her eyes. The large house looked men-
acing, about to engulf her making her want
She removed all the paperwork that to run away from it and its lonely, old owner.
needed Mrs Jackson’s signatures. After she

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Revista Literária Adelaide

‘You will be fine, Maya.’ Alice said stuffing fireplace in their small home.Their tanned,
the papers in her bag. She had also grown sun kissed faces with hair flying in the
quite fond of her over the years. wind was etched in her memory. Her mom
looked carefree and content. Her dad’s
‘Call me if you need anything’ she said. hand wrapped around her shoulder and his
Her voice was soft and muffled. other held Maya’s hand. The picture was
lost when their house was foreclosed and
Maya nodded, looking away. She walked all that she had now was a small passport
with Alice to the door, slowing down her steps. size picture of mom and dad. This she car-
ried with her in the wallet of her small bag.
‘Bye now. I will miss you’. Alice bent down
to give Maya a long hug and left before they The long dining table with eight chairs
could both burst into tears. was huge and unnecessary. There was only
one resident in this mansion in any case,
‘Come Maya. Let’s eat dinner’ Mrs Jackson Maya thought. The food however laid out
was waiting for her as she approached the on the table looked delicious and inviting.
living room. Mrs Jackson taken time to research into
what she liked. The piping hot Mac and
Passing through the hallway she showed Cheese was garnished with small bits of
her the formal dining room and the study bacon. A tray was neatly stacked with garlic
with a large office table and a leather swivel bread drizzled with some extra cheese.
chair. The long passage to the kitchen Bowls of fresh made salad topped with
dine-in had recess lighting and the walls grape tomatoes and strawberries looked
were decorated with family pictures. refreshing. Each serving had a tall glass
of freshly squeezed orange juice. Maya’s
‘This is Michelle, my eldest daughter who stomach rumbled as she inhaled the deli-
lives in Seattle now. She is 25.’ Mrs Jackson cious smells. She waited politely to be in-
pointed at a family picture where they all vited for dinner.
were sitting by the pool on a summer af-
ternoon in the backyard. The ladies wore Mrs Jackson pulled a chair for Maya.
stylish cool dresses with matching hats.
‘Please help yourself’ she said, while
‘James, the youngest is 23 and is on the seating herself opposite her.
west coast’.
‘Thank you. It looks delicious’
‘And this is my husband, Mike. This was
taken in Belize a few years back. We used to She filled her plate with food shyly
travel frequently till Mike’s passing last year.’ without trying to look greedy and waited
Mrs Jackson’s face creased in a smile as she till Mrs Jackson filled her’s before eating.
looked at the picture. The hot, cheesy pasta hit the walls of her
stomach and began to soften its hungry
Maya would have been proud of her edges. The cool, crunchy salad with the
family too. Jonas, her little brother would lemon dressing added a zest to her meal.
have been 8 years now. Their dog, Cooper
was probably 5 years and hopefully with a ‘The food is really good’ She took a
loving family like theirs. He had to be taken spoonful of the warm pasta.
to a shelter after the accident. A large
family picture on a beach with the waves at ‘Thanks, Maya’
their feet had adorned the mantle on the

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

‘Your school bus stop is just around the It had been a long tiring day. The maid came
corner. I see a lot of kids your age in the in to clear the dining table. Mrs Jackson usu-
community’ ally had her coffee served in the family room.
They got up and moved towards the warmly
‘That’s great’ she poked her fork around lit room filled with house plants. As they
to catch hold of a lettuce , cucumber and to- reached there, a white poodle came
mato at the same time. She was shy and awk- bounding up to Maya shaking his tail excit-
ward and had a hard time making new friends. edly. He licked her hands and kissed her face.
Her two best friends at school were her only She picked him up and held him in her arms.
friends. Nor did she desire to have more. Sitting him down on the floor , he ran in cir-
cles around her. Mrs Jackson got up from the
‘And Halloween is coming up so we can sofa and sat down with them. A gentle
go shopping for a costume’ Mrs Jackson breeze blew in through the bay windows. A
looked expectantly. slow fire crackled in the fireplace. Maya had
a glimpse of a future with this unlikely family
‘Yes, sure’ Maya stared down at her food in a huge house that now seemed a little
with concentration. warm and gently welcoming.

After she had finished her meal she
hoped there would be no more conversation.

About the Author

Meghana is a new and aspiring writer and this is her
second story that she is sending out for publication. She
is originally from India and has made New Jersey her new
home for the last 20 odd years. She loves writing short
stories as well as flash pieces. Her home is surrounded by
her loving family of husband, two teenage daughters and
a adorable cute Lab puppy.

32

THE BIOLOGY
OF COURAGE

by Mark Blickley

Photograph
by Katya Shubova
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Adelaide Literary Magazine

My name is Jull Soares and I am a bastard. return to wherever we were the year before
This is not a particular opinion that I, or any- our birth. As I was born in 1959, I will simply
one else that I’m aware of, has placed on me. return to whatever I was doing in 1958 and
It is objective truth. My mother was an unli- that’s where I will be for eternity. There
censed sex worker and neither she or I have seems to be very few second chances in life
any inkling of who fathered me, although a and I suspect the same will be true in death.
couple of gringos are among the suspects.
I like lying on this ledge, becoming part
There is nothing more painful than of this glorious mural. I feel as if I’m a hori-
longing for things that never were. Many of zontal recruiter enlisting pedestrians to take
my friends grew up with fathers and when some time outs during the day and not to
I was young, I was very jealous. However, fear exposing themself in public. Often kids,
based on what I’ve witnessed in films and mostly teenagers, come over and tease me
in real life, it doesn’t seem that I missed out that I look dead when they shake or kick
on much. If you are loved—it doesn’t matter me into awakening. I can appreciate their
by whom or how many—you’ll be fine as concern or forgive their mockery, but I don’t
long as you feel worthy of being loved. like it when they pee in a wine bottle and
try to force me to drink. Or pour it over me
I am old now, but I do not think that I fear while I sleep.
death. Sometimes I get upset that while I
am rotting in the dirt others will be drinking Sleeping in public can give you inter-
beer and dancing, or laying on a beach with esting insights into human nature. It’s been
closed eyes, caressed by the sun. My love my experience that the good are pretty
of history has been an enormous help in evenly matched with the bad, although
smothering my panic of not being alive. it does tip a bit more in favor of the posi-
tive. Many people think I’m just a homeless
Ever since I was a child, I’ve adored misfit and don’t realize I’m actually giving
hearing city elders tell stories about Cart- them a chance to join me in creating a tem-
agena. How my ancestors fought and killed porary public family. Compassion and cru-
the Spanish invader Juan de la Cosa when elty is what I frequently dream about while
he tried to steal a 132 pound golden por- I sleep on this beautiful ledge, and is what I
cupine from our Sinu temple. And how we often wake up to.
citizens repelled an attack of the English
armada that included George Washington’s Since I was a child, I’ve always hated
half brother Lawrence. Or when the great shoes. Most men like to appear tough. If a
North American female matador, Patricia person really wants to be tough it must start
McCormick, one of the finest bullfighters of with their feet. Our ancestors probably went
her time, slew a bull at the beloved Circo tens of thousands of years travelling in their
Teatro. Streaked in blood, she knelt by the bare feet—tough, grizzled, calloused—but
animal she just killed and stroked its head not indifferent. Growing up without family
while screaming out, “I love this brave bull!” except for my mother, I don’t think of being
shoeless as a sign of poverty. I am walking
I can accept and enjoy that all these in the footsteps of my ancestors where each
events took place without my being alive to step I take is headed in the direction of a
witness them, so why should I regret events family reunion. The soles of my naked feet
I will be unable to experience after I die? I scrape along the same paths where the
have come to believe that when we die, we

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Revista Literária Adelaide

souls of my forebears once walked. Please think I would be writing in this notebook
forgive my clumsy attempt at poetic word- and accompanying these words with im-
play, but it is a holy trail. ages torn from magazines, newspapers and
catalogues? The European woman who told
A human head should always be cradled. me my pillow was textile art also said that
That is why I always carry a pillow in my I have a collagist mentality when I showed
pouch. A good pillow allows you to dream in her a few of my notebooks.
color. My pillow is very old and even when
I wash it has a distinctly peculiar smell to Do not pity me as homeless. Celebrate
it. That’s because of the many beautiful me as one who possesses the special gift
dreams and disturbing nightmares bur- of being able to live alone. Sometimes I am
rowed inside it. My sweat and tears puddle forced to enter the dark doors of slavery,
into the stains of my life. A kind European but I maintain the wherewithal to escape
visitor once told me I should consider my back into freedom and return to this col-
pillow as a work of textile art. I’m not sure orful ledge.
what that means, but I like how it sounds.
And so here I lay, precariously balanced
It is a pillow almost as old as me. My between moments of exaltation and the
mother made it for me when I was still fear of being disturbed. In between those
“shitting yellow” as she used to like to say two points lies the secret to a healthy and
in her colorful way of labeling me a baby. productive life. Boredom is not having
Each day I ensconce myself into this bright nothing to do, but feeling like nothing is
yellow mural, beneath a stunning young worth doing. No one volunteers to experi-
woman with legs spread, as if birthing me ence life. We don’t have a choice. That is
onto this ledge. why anyone who completes this journey
without taking short cuts is heroic.
Freedom is isolation. Slavery is the oblit-
eration of isolation. I abhor flophouses, Can you spare a few pesos in support of
government housing and charitable hos- a pilgrim’s progress?
tels. Once you lose your ability to desire
isolation, you become a slave. Creativity Thank you.
can only flourish in silence and solitude. If
I was in some kind of forced shelter do you May you be spared a life of inertia in mo-
tion.

About the Author

Mark Blickley is the author of ‘Sacred Misfits’ (Red Hen
Press) and a proud member of the Dramatists Guild and
PEN American Center. Hs latest book is the text-based
art collaboration with fine arts photographer Amy Bassin,
‘Dream Streams.’

35

THE LIVES OF
ANGELS

by Mike Lee

It was one of those nights; the freaky snow- adorned with the requisite number of Pabst
storm that never comes but once a com- and Pearl beer signs, interspersed with soft-
et’s pass here in this part of Texas. The car ball teams going back to the mid-70s and
breaking down in the back of beyond in fish fry winners, and after 10 minutes we
Travis County, the slippery trudge on the figured out one of the customers had a
shoulder of the Ranch Road through three thing for Barbara Mandrill, judging by the
inches of snow. The first time we had a win- incessant plays on the jukebox.
ter storm in this part of Central Texas was
in 1978, and coming upon a roadside beer The roadhouse reminded me of my only
joint, thrown up conveniently where years acid trip. Tripped alone again while lost in
later it was likely going to be torn down for a colored haze—but in reality, this is a fig-
a 7-11, a strip mall and a row of condos and ment of one’s own imagination that you
faux food joints. could have pulled off with a little effort with
concise thought.
Yet, that was the future, and for now the
beer joint served as our oasis, and for a cold I ended up with a headache and a sense
and wet Alan and me, this was to load up I am someone else for three days. You have
on coffee while hoping for either help with to realize that things don’t run as you want,
the car, or for a ride back into Austin from but you have to understand that things are
some kind stranger who wasn’t creepy or a not as bad as they could be.
serial killer.
The walls were painted a greasy yellow,
We staggered through the door, trying to with cracks and lights that just made it look
look as pathetic as possible without leaving worse, kind of how an archeological dig at
an impression as too fucked up and wearily old Carcosa would probably have looked like.
made our way to an empty booth. The booths were a tan vinyl, patched up here
and there with grey electrical tape, which
We took a look around, while waiting matched the Formica tabletops, which I
to order. The beer joint was one of those thought startling. The floor was once a black
dreary southern affairs with the walls and white checkerboard turned into the

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Revista Literária Adelaide

plains of Nazca, chipped and stained, missing were hunting squirrels on the side of a
panels revealing a soft gray under board. The mountain in the middle of Nowheresville,
bar was not in too bad shape; the red top North Carolina before I moved down to the
did not match the rest of the roadhouse, but bright lights, big city of Austin. I actually
since this place looked so sleaze central, it have grown to despise the city as much as
served as a counterpoint signature, a clean the backwoods, but in the country, there ar-
dotted I on an otherwise sloppy flourish. en’t any decent record or bookstores.

The customers matched the décor. So So, in the city I shall remain. Anyhow, I
nondescript, I almost mistook them as the treat people with equality: everyone is a
furniture, but after a while I understood jerk as far as I am concerned, though where
there were individual traits in each that did you are coming from just gives a basis in the
set them art from the Formica and fading facts I see when I observe the individual or
signage and photographs. The man in the group.
booth in front of us wore his loser’s face
under his red Chevy cap, and his funky While I appraised the sum total of the
green hunting vest resembled a lifejacket. place in pesos, Alan ordered coffee and two
He had nothing going for him, as well as his Falstaffs from the waitress. I added another
wife, or girlfriend next to him. She had the coffee, feeling this was going to be a very
bleached mannequin thing going on. long night for us if we couldn’t cage a ride
before the bar shut down at two.
After we sat down, they seemed to fade
into the décor. In retrospect, I wondered We looked around for a television so we
what they thought of our conversation, if could catch the Saints game, but there was
they were even paying attention, or if they not one, but didn’t mind since they would
saw us as nothing as I saw them. have lost anyway. We also began to suspect
that our unacknowledged entrance would
The guys at the bar lolled on their stools, make it extremely difficult for us to find a
none of them had noticed our entrance or good Samaritan to get us out of our predic-
pretended not to. All of them lamely put- ament and away from this place.
ting on a tough face in the onrush of adver-
sity as their lives were unknowingly sinking In the meantime, I drank my coffee,
into the earth. Like, tough man, getting their while letting the Falstaff sit for a bit before I
farming and ranch subsidies cut out from felt ready to drink. It was only 8:30 so there
under them by Reagan, then voting for the was plenty of time. I looked through the
bastard en masse because he was bringing window to see snow was beginning to slow
America back. down, a very good sign, indeed.

I thought, smooth thinking, move up Alan and I passed the time talking. We
to the head of the class so I can laugh my made a good pair of Jacks, been through a
ass off behind your back. “Oh my, how lot together since high school, and remained
the mighty have fallen, oh yeah, have the on speaking terms, a fact that shocked the
mighty fallen,” I’d say, knowing their way of others in our social circle.
life is passing in front of their blinded eyes.
We do, however, have our differing
Now, don’t get me wrong here. I was personalities. Alan was raised in Houston
raised country. In fact, my first fifteen years before moving to Austin in junior high,
and is usually quiet, unassuming, with a

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

sentimental manner—the kind of guy who Amber, was high. Very high, and excit-
is great around children and drunks while able. She majored in modern dance and
I am a fiery cracker from the sticks, with painted. I ended up shotgun, because Alan
nary a kind word for much or many, and was well into his cups and was snoring by
an arrogance that a teacher back in high the first downhill curve back into town.
school was positively ChurchillIan. That
certainly showed itself in college, where I I was buzzed, but with Alan out of com-
lazily planted myself for the past six years, mission and Amber on something psyche-
sort of floating along, taking just enough delic and babbling nonsense, I felt more
classes not to be threatened with proba- than a twinge of terror as we drove through
tion, though keeping a three seven five the snow flying sideways against the wind-
grade point average since the day I entered. shield. I kept my eyes on the road, and that
Alan graduated and is taking a break before wide expanse of light ahead, my hands
graduate school. gripping on the dashboard, determined to
survive.
We are both outcasts, both where we
grew up and here in Austin that held our She talked about a book titled The Rose
friendship together. That and also we had Cross and the Goddess, and it was hard to
managed to work out the delicate intrica- keep up with her banter about universal
cies of the art of conversation. We talk up symbolism, side references from Jung, and
a hell of a storm. Fifty years ago, we would how wisdom can be found in a tomb deco-
have made a great comedy team, nowadays rated with a phoenix. It was hard for me to
we’re able to sometimes disgust or amuse, keep up, even sober.
but always catch the attention of our friends
and acquaintances with our endlessly re- Amber sure liked her Sun Ra. Plutonian
lentless flow of words. Nights was playing, which normally would
be pleasant, but Amber kept talking over
We share many interests, such as ob- the music. Either rambling about the re-
scure German novelists, music—mainly old vealed mysteries of Isis, saying things, like
rock and roll and blues—tastes in certain “go man go,” like she was a 1958 Beat at a
types of modern art, television shows, pol- Greenwich Village coffee house listening to
itics, sports, history, sociological theories, Ginsburg, Kerouac and Corso reading. I sort
Jungian psychology, but most of which in all of liked Corso, but other two were too un-
our glory expound upon the peeves, prats hinged and thus off the margins for me.
and peccadilloes of our friends, enemies
and the unknown every person who hap- But Sun Ra was cool. Just wished I could
pened to cross our path with oratorical skills enjoy the smooth time changes, but Amber
that would shame Daniel Webster and slap- was in Technicolor mode and I had to focus
ping one-liners on the table like we had the on the highway, which came up and down
winning card in a high stakes blackjack game. like a rollercoster through the Texas Hill
Country.
In a word, we are assholes.
Suddenly, out of nowhere, Amber asked
So, we annoyed everyone within lis- why I didn’t have a girlfriend.
tening until his Amber, Alan’s wife arrived
to fetch us from the storm. “Well, it isn’t like I’m not trying,” I said,
not wanting to touch on the subject.

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Revista Literária Adelaide

“I know somebody! Do y’all want to “I still see that chicken in my dreams,”
meet?” Amber said.

“Sure.” I looked to make sure she was While dressing, I contemplated the things
keeping her eyes on the road. She was, but they have because of money. They can do
her brown eyes were severely dilated, and I stuff like travel to India, live in a house gifted
remained concerned until we finally hit the by grandparents, and own a broken Eames
suburbs. chair used a coat rack in winter. Yes, they are
different from me, but not enough to have
From that point, it was hoping she picked commonalities in what we deem important.
the correct traffic light while acid dreaming. Such is the complicated job of being human,
She did, and we arrived at their house. and friendship in particular. Class is relative,
at least until it is not.
I thought about taking a cab, but instead
asked to crash on the couch. Dressed, I entered.

Woke up to Rip It Up by Orange Juice “Sit yourself down, man,” said Alan. “Coffee
playing somewhere in the back of the is on the counter. Migas are on the way.”
Craftsman house Alan inherited from his
grandparents. Still kept up, but they weren’t “I think I am approaching functional,” said
into mowing the yard. Amber. She wore shorts and a chopped-up
Julliard t-shirt. She spent a year there be-
I dumped my shirt on an original Eames fore transferring down here.
chair with a broken back. That came from
Alan’s parents. The father was a mucky “Denise is coming by,” she said. “The
muck at Chevron. The chair broke during a drummer.”
party where my old band played in the back
yard. During a cover of Say I Am by Tommy “Cool.” She was in a couple of bands I
James and the Shondells, if I recall. didn’t like very much, but she was good at
it and certainly far better than the idiot I
I liked waking up to the music. The played with in my former band. Wasn’t in-
album is also from a while ago—evoking terested in playing again, though. I wanted
nostalgia. Orange Juice was summertime at to be a writer and focused on writing record
the lake and beers over breakfast tacos by reviews and the occasional feature for the
the tamale stand. Remembered listening to local weekly while waiting tables to make
it in Alan’s dorm room, around the time he the rent.
met Amber in a Classical Philosophy class.
There was a knock on the screen door.
After taking a shower I passed the kitchen. “C’mon in, Denise.”
Amber was at the table, complaining of a
headache. I looked over. Denise didn’t look a
drummer, but she sure as hell was. Or-
Alan was making migas. Deadpan, he ange-red dyed hair, cut in a pixie, wearing
said, “Microdot is cut with strychnine. No a vintage plaid green dress with a Peter Pan
wonder you have a migraine.” collar and black ballet flats. When she en-
tered the kitchen I instinctively stood up. I
Amber moaned in response. was raised by old school Texans. Proper et-
iquette was pressed on me from toddler to
“Baby, you haven’t been this sick since adult.
you ate the train food in India,” Alan said.

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

We all sat down to eat. Still coming herself to lay down, mussing with my hair ss
down from the aftereffects of the microdot, she passed.
Amber stared at her food while we ate.
“Do you still play? I’m jamming over at
Out of the blue, Denise asked me. “Who Dwight Keeley’s house. You’re welcome to
taught you how to eat?” come over.”

I was taken aback. “Um, my grandmother.” “Sorry, I can’t. I have a shift at the restau-
rant. Working noon to eight.”
“You eat like a gentleman,” she said.
“Guys I know wolf down their food like stray “Maybe next time. I hope so.” Denise
dogs.” smiled and dug into her bag, wrote out her
telephone number on a slip of paper and
“Well,” I said. “I am different.” handed it to me. Her hand hesitated and
pressed her fingertips into my palm. Our
“Just raised right,” Denise said. Her voice eyes met. She had the softest green eyes.
had a West Texas twang that evoked Bob
Wills songs and small town teachers and “I’m done at eight,” I said. “Want to do
preachers. Soft tone, but affirmative. It was something?”
attractive.
“I can stop by when you’re done. We can
We talked about bands and respective go out for ice cream,” she said.
jobs. She had a gig working in the univer-
sity registrar’s office. She knew I wrote and I folded the paper into my wallet. In the
complimented me on a review I wrote on meantime, Alan switched the tape to Neu!
The Replacements latest release. Hallogallo filled the room.

Alan got up and put Lives of Angels on After Denise left, Alan gave me a thumbs
the Nakmuchi cassette deck on the counter. up.

“I like them, but not the drum machine,” “Glad we survived,” I said. “I gotta go. I
Denise said. have just enough time to drive home and
change clothes.”
“Never heard of them, but I like the sound,”
I said. “Good luck,” Alan said.

“Good for mornings, though. Laid back.” Rising from my chair, I responded. “Thanks.
She’s a good drummer.”
While the music played, we all did small
talk until finishing breakfast. Amber excused

About the Author

Mike Lee is an editor, writer and photographer in New York
City. His stories are published in Lunate, Ghost Parachute
and trampset.

40

THE MEMORIAL OF
MRS. E. BENJAMIN

HANNECKER

by Sarah Schiff

I’ve thought a lot about what I’d say if I so beloved and dependable had already
were the one leading Mrs. Hannecker’s me- started to fade. Her voice grew thin and
morial service today. It’s a fantasy, I know. scratchy, a pen with too little ink. People
I’m just a coworker. But memorizing lines stopped going to her with their problems,
is what I do, even if I don’t—yet—do it for stopped assuming she’d beat them to their
a living. My only hope is they’ll invite those assigned office chores, had to remember
who cared about her to get up and share deadlines on their own.
something. After all, this is Southern Cali-
fornia. You never know when an agent or She was one of the few people in my life
film executive will turn up in the audience, who told me to follow my dreams and meant
so I’ve been relearning a monologue about it, who assured me that I could be whoever I
a dead lover that I performed in college. wanted, and if I wanted to be a professional
Only a couple lines had to be changed to actor, then I should go for it, it was never too
make it work. late. After all, I had the looks. It’s too late for
me was my invariable stock response. Since
But there’s still so much more to say. my now-wife, Delia, got pregnant shortly
before we graduated from UCLA, followed
No one in the office knew Mrs. Han- soon after by two more kids, I chose the
necker was dying. There was that myste- more practical path toward adulthood, ad-
rious email that went out: “I’ve developed vertising over an acting program. Even if I
some food intolerances, so please forgive did go back to drama school, how would I,
me for not taking part in office celebrations.” with my slightly bulging stomach and gobs of
She’d always been slight, a little hunched, debt, keep up with the younger, better sup-
but before she stopped showing up to work, ported, better connected actors springing
that pink maternalism that had made her

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

up everywhere from nowhere like they’re a deadline, or fell short in their word counts.
goddamn mushrooms? She said she wasn’t a writer but coming up
with catastrophic possibilities—that she
Mrs. Hannecker would just give me that could do. She was a mother, after all, and
trademark sympathetic nod with one eye mothers are used to imagining the worst.
playfully pinched, her way of telling me
there was always time and potential, and It’s definitely true of Delia, who sits at
that I shouldn’t waste either, that I had so home all day, thinking up ways for our kids
much of both. I’d wish then, perhaps ungen- to become injured or get abducted. Either
erously, that my wife Delia had a bit more of that, or she’s developing arguments to have
Mrs. Hannecker in her. If she did, maybe she with their school about its mismanagement
would have let me aim higher rather than of funds and eco-unfriendly curriculum.
focus on the ground in front of me.
I’ve stopped telling her about my audi-
I’m part of the Weather Station’s ad tions, couldn’t stand the doorway inquiries,
team (which is really just me and one other “Did you get it?”—each time hearing You’re
guy). Even though we’re called the Weather wasting your time and mine in her tone.
Station, you’ll only find us online—there ar-
en’t any actual stations. No research is done Since Mrs. Hannecker’s death, the bitter
here, just a website that gets millions of hits days have picked up in frequency, like an
but provides no real answers. We aggregate overactive heartbeat. The only real acting
data from other sources with legitimate me- I’ve been able to do has been in my mar-
teorologists—if there is such a thing. We riage, and it’s an exhausting role to play, es-
stalk the National Weather Service and local pecially because I have to write all the lines.
stations, but the ones with the most accu-
rate data inform the oil drilling and fracking A couple hours before the Memorial, I
companies. They’re the ones we default to call up to Jesse to join me in the basement.
if the forecasts are contradictory. The cousin I need to give the monologue at least one
of the Weather Station’s owner is a petro- practice run with an audience, and my
leum engineer, so we get first-hand access. oldest son is the most amenable to sitting
still.
People come to our website because
we’re good at playing up dire circumstances, “What?”
constantly revise our emergency protocols
(“Do you know what to do in case of a hurri- “Come down here a minute.”
cane? It’s not what you think”; “Top-Ten list
of essential survival items to always keep in “What for?”
your pantry. Get to the store now!”), fre-
quently throw in sob stories about swept- “I need a favor.”
away pets or destroyed family heirlooms.
We’re the Harlequin version of the Weather “Can’t. I’m helping Mom.”
Channel and good at the what-if scenarios.
Or at least those in charge of content are. “Delia!”
Even though she was the office manager,
Mrs. Hannecker actually wrote a lot of it “What?”
when the copywriters got blocked, missed
“I need Jesse for something.”

“Fine, just send him back in a couple min-
utes. It’s all hands on deck for the consign-
ment sale.”

Jesse comes plodding down the stairs.

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“I need you to tell me what you think.” Then, office fridge stocked with sodas and bubbly
after a quick breathing exercise, I go method, water, the cabinets busting with energy
enter another being, another voice, another bars and popcorn, always had a cake or glu-
world—even though they are all also mine. By ten-free muffin arrangement at the ready
the end, I’m crying, a strategy I taught myself when it was an employee’s special day. It
by remembering the pain of once having my would already be set up, without any indi-
balls rammed by a surfboard. It’s what I love cation of her presence—a fairy godmother
so much about acting: how visceral it is. who had evanesced before the celebration
could begin. She was one of those few
“Great, Dad.” people you hear about but so rarely meet,
someone who lived wholly for others.
“Really?”
You could tell by her desk. She sat in the
“Yup. You’re going to do great.” His alcove at the entryway of our tenth floor
smile is so big, it makes me wonder if he’s office space in the middle of a desk that en-
humoring me. Do eight-year-olds already circled her, like a permanently parked UFO.
know how to humor? Push-pinned into every discernible space
of cubicle fabric were pictures of her three
Just to be sure, I set up the camera sons and poems that her husband had
when he leaves, seeking an objective view. written. They’d been married thirty years,
If I give it the okay, I’ll add it to my demo and she always said that she was just as in
reel, which I’ve been secretly compiling for love with him now—if not more so—as she
years. It consists of scenes that were re- was when they first met and fell desperately
corded of me performing in college mixed in love. “It’s just so romantic, being married
with one-acts I’ve put on here in the base- to a poet. To live in love means life takes
ment. I keep editing and reorganizing the the form of art. That’s what Mr. Hannecker
reel, tinkering with the fade-ins and back- always says.” Sometimes she’d play her sons’
ground music. When I’m down here, Delia music during the workday. It was melan-
thinks I’m working on Weather Station stuff choly, chord-heavy, a touch repetitive, not
that I bring home from the office, and now really my taste, but they were doing what
that Mrs. Hannecker is gone, I may actually they loved, and she was their biggest fan.
have to. The plain truth is we’re all going to
have to focus more and work harder, espe- Damn, I was envious of them.
cially Andrew. When the company was just
a start up in his garage out in the Valley, it Now they’ve lost her.
was like he was sweating the money away
with all his misdirected effort. In debt to Now we’ve all lost her.
his few employees, who were overworked
and threatening to leave, it wasn’t until Mrs. It’s strange to show up at the office on a
Hannecker came on board that the com- Saturday. From the parking lot, the building
pany really took off—though I doubt he’d looks dark and airless, but we’re not going
ever admit that. And even though I inter- in. We’re here so we can walk over in soli-
viewed with Andrew, I could tell it was her darity—we, her other family.
word that counted in hiring me.
Apparently Mr. Hannecker had been so
After she stopped eating with us, Mrs. distraught, nonfunctional without his wife,
Hannecker still made our coffee, kept the that Andrew ended up arranging the ser-
vice. When he sent out the email asking

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

where we thought would be a meaningful recognize the members of our building’s
location, someone suggested the park cleaning crew, the UPS delivery guy, the
where Mrs. Hannecker ate her lunch: yo- owner of the bodega down the street. We
gurt, an apple, and a small bag of cashews are standing in concentric circles around a
or almonds every day. Friar’s food. podium decorated with decadent sprays of
pastel lilies and roses, courtesy of Andrew.
Once the trappings for the service had The afternoon weather is typical SoCal
been finalized—time, place, décor—An- beautiful, but the smell of horseshit is in
drew said Mr. Hannecker experienced a the air, courtesy of the horse-drawn buggy
newfound burst of energy and planned out rides that go through this park. I wonder
the program on his own, hiring an old friend if Mrs. Hannecker ever took one, maybe
who owned a billiard hall but had been a back when she and Mr. Hannecker were
minister briefly in his youth to lead the cere- courting—which is what people like them
mony. It hadn’t occurred to me before then would have done, nothing so pedestrian as
that I could have offered my services. “going out,” nothing so romanceless and ef-
ficient as what Delia and I did: hooking up
“I wish she hadn’t kept it secret from us,” drunk and then just going with it. I can see
somebody says now, on our way over to the Mrs. Hannecker in her youthful beauty and
park. Mr. Hannecker no doubt doting upon her
with sonnets and champagne.
“I heard it was an autoimmune disease.”
Standing to my left is a slumping man
“That explains why she kept her distance who introduces himself as Mrs. Hannecker’s
from us at the end—didn’t want to catch mail carrier. “She’d always leave some kind
anything.” of treat in the mailbox for me: preserves,
cookies. Such a kind and generous lady.” He
“I hope they open up the floor for us to sniffs, and a yellow leaf blows onto his chest,
speak. I wrote a little something about Mrs. clinging briefly to the pocket of his blazer. I’m
Hannecker, and I think it’d be nice to share.” tempted to remove it for him then look away
to find tears in so many eyes glinting under
These last words are spoken by Nina, a co- the sun. Already. The woman to my right
pyeditor who’s only been with the company introduces herself as Mrs. Hannecker’s busi-
for a couple years but had grown especially at- ness partner. When I give her a confused look,
tached to Mrs. Hannecker, called her Mother she explains, through snot-rattling sniffles,
Bear, but also would get after the rest of us “We have, had, a house-cleaning business.”
when she thought we were taking advantage
of her: “She’s got enough on her plate.” “Mrs. Hannecker had another job?”

“She loves being helpful.” “I cleaned during the week, she took the
weekend assignments.”
“I wish she’d stand up for herself once in
a while.” Was Mrs. Hannecker a workaholic?
Wasn’t her job at the Weather Station
“You don’t get it,” I’d explain. “It’s just the enough? True, my salary barely covers our
kind of person she is.” mortgage and all the expenses that come
with kids, especially the organic food my
She’d roll her eyes in that enticing way of
hers: “Mooches, all of you.”

Even though we arrive as an imposing
brigade, we wouldn’t have been missed. I

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Revista Literária Adelaide

wife feeds them, but I’m the sole earner Lorne O’Martin explains that Mrs. Han-
and haven’t been working nearly as long necker often would request him to sing her
as Mrs. Hannecker. Did her husband just favorite song, “Danny Boy,” so he felt it only
write poetry all day? And what about her fitting to sing it for her now, one last time.
sons? Based on what she’d said about doing He rasps and holds a fingertip to his eye, as
their laundry and preparing their meals, I’d if it’s the tears’ fault he can’t reach the high
assumed they were school-aged, but I see notes. When he blares the final “me,” he
them now, standing behind a podium in holds it out with a triumphant flourish of
the middle of the circle, and they appear his outstretched hand, and then there is si-
to be at least in their twenties, more like lence. I wonder if we’re supposed to clap.
they’re about to take a stage than attend
their mother’s memorial service. The oldest, O’Martin clears his throat, lifts a Bible
I think his name is Joey, is wearing a tank from the podium and, after rushing through
top with a Day of the Dead design on it. a verse, announces, “Mr. E. Benjamin Han-
The next, Kit, wears a Grateful Dead t-shirt, necker, my lifelong friend, and the lifelong
and the third, Billy, a bright yellow polo friend and lover of the woman we remember
with sleeves that hug his forearms tightly. today, will now read some original poetry.”
I’m guessing he finds the shirt ironic, and
irony at a memorial service makes me un- I hardly recognize the man from the
comfortable. Joey sports a new tattoo on headshot Mrs. Hannecker kept on her desk.
his arm, a heart with the words “In Memo- His look is that of a disheveled but effort-
riam: Mother” inscribed within, and the lessly handsome man who spends his day-
skin around it flames out pinkly. Kit and Billy time hours on a different mental or spiritual
have thick eyeliner on, which seems like a plane than the rest of us. His clothing is all
risky move if they anticipate crying. black, jeans and a turtleneck that hugs his
aged but not insubstantial pecs.
I run through my monologue in my head
again, growing nervous, mouth dry. Will it “Thank you for coming out and showing
be well-received? Move people? What if us—my sons and myself—how much our
they think I’m pretentious, trying too hard? Mandy meant to you and for giving us your
What if it ends up stopping the tears? support in this difficult, difficult time.” Mandy.
I forgot that was her name. Everyone always
Someone places a thickly weighted stack called her Mrs. Hannecker. After a swallow, Mr.
of paper in my hands, and the erstwhile Hannecker continued, “We weren’t worthy
minister, Lorne O’Martin, walks up to the of the love and attention she gave us, but
podium. she gave it selflessly and tirelessly, even until
the moment of her death. She wouldn’t let
“Just this gathering of people is a testa- us stay the night at the hospital and insisted
ment to the kind of woman Mrs. E. Benjamin we go eat, read, see a movie—‘do something,’
Hannecker was. The world has lost one she kept saying. I couldn’t help but write, of
of its great caretakers, one of its guardian course. I wrote a death cycle and would like
angels.” Tissues are passed around, and to share it with you now. If you look in your
I almost reach for one, but I’m distracted program, you can follow along.”
by the crickets chirping their mating songs
like a million vibrating cymbals. It’s like the He reads. He keeps reading. There are
beautiful weather—dissonant. so many poems. Each of their titles is at
least ten words in length, and he pauses

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

meaningfully when he gets to the end of this performance is going on too long and
each one. Yes, his voice is resonant, and I just doesn’t fit.
guess the poems are good, but I can’t help
but wonder if this is going on too long. Or am I want to deliver my monologue. It’s for
I just being impatient? He reads about the her.
stench of death, the blankness of the hos-
pital walls, their indifference. He describes Above us are migrating birds, flattened
in morbid imagery his own weariness, his letter Ms shrinking further into the sky.
lack of faith, the rumpled clothing he wore
as he occupied the room of the near-dead. When they finally stop playing, the sons
hang their heads in unison. I can see their
I guess it’s supposed to be symbolic. black hair is dyed, their blond roots showing
About absence? But shouldn’t he at least at the crowns of their heads.
mention Mrs. Hannecker? I wonder when
he’s going to stop. I wonder if he’s eating The sight fills me with a shocking sad-
into the time for my monologue. ness—the blond hair was their mother’s. I
look around for the traveling tissues, but I
My knees are starting to stiffen, so I have to let the tears fall freely, and, when
bend them in a slow-motion bounce. When my nose begins to run, I resort to the in-
I scan the fellow guests, I notice several fid- side of my sleeve. I can’t remember the last
geting and looking around too—at me, at time I cried without having willed the tears.
each other, at the park, up to the sky. But I seem to be the only one crying now.
The people around me are checking their
The evening air is descending when Mr. phones, with minimal subtlety.
Hannecker finally finishes and introduces
his kids. “Mandy was so proud of our sons, Lorne O’Martin returns to the podium.
Joey, Kit, and Billy, and so am I. They have de- “The talent that Mrs. Hannecker fostered
voted themselves to the artist’s life. Mandy and that we witnessed today is what will
would have wanted you to hear their music, allow her to remain forever with us. Please
and they want to pay tribute to her in the join us for continued remembrance and cel-
best and most sincere way they know how.” ebration and to continue to show our sup-
port for her family at Mr. Andrew Brick’s
From nowhere, the sons have produced home for a light repast. Directions are
vintage electric guitars, a keyboard the printed on the back of your program. Go in
length of a man, microphones, and bat- peace and love.”
tery-powered amps. No wonder Mrs. Han-
necker had two jobs. As if on cue, a single I look down at the program, blotted with
cloud casts them, and only them, in shadow. tears, but I’m no longer crying, more filled
The songs they perform are of a quicker with disappointment and not a little anger
tempo than the ones Mrs. Hannecker that my monologue isn’t happening. What
played in the office, more punk rock than a waste.
moody ballad. It sounds like their despair is
of the angry sort. One of the songs seems As we all drift back across the median
to be about orphaned wolves. to the office parking lot, I keep my eyes fo-
cused on the program as if I’ve so enjoyed
Am I too begrudging? Judgmental? the show that I want to relive it. The front
Maybe jealous. Still, just like their father’s, page is tastefully simple: Mrs. Hannecker’s
name and the dates of her life. She’d just

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Revista Literária Adelaide

turned 51. I’d assumed she was older. And “So sorry.” It’s a navy blue heal, not too high,
we missed her birthday in the office. but sexy.

Inside the program are two insert sheets “Thanks,” she says. “Mind if I lean on you?
with Mr. Hannecker’s poems and the lyrics Don’t want to get my hose dirty.” She grabs
of the boys’ songs. Apparently their band my hand, and I hope she doesn’t notice that
name is Blood Brothers. I turn the program it is shaking a little. But she does. “I’m going
over. Beneath the directions to Andrew’s to miss her too,” she says, then tilts her head
house is a small photo of a much younger back in the direction of the park. “Something
Mrs. Hannecker. She wears a veil draped tells me we’ll miss her more than they ever
over her swept-back hair and is holding a will.”
rose up against her cheek. I was right that
she’d been beautiful, and it gets me crying “You think?”
all over again. I try to hang back so I don’t
have to talk to anybody but stay close “Oh, they’ll miss her cooking and cleaning
enough to hear what they’re saying. and paying for their toys and telling them
they’re so great and brilliant.” With the last
“Wasn’t that lovely.” three words, Nina imitates the calming lilt
of Mrs. Hannecker’s voice, and I feel the
“Such a talented family.” swelling of more tears in my throat but
force them down. It’s like swallowing dice.
“What a shame she won’t live to see her “But they won’t miss her.”
sons’ success.”
Stuck in the line of cars slow-merging out
“I don’t know. I wish they’d let some of us of the parking lot, I deliver the monologue
talk about her.” to myself with all the passion and grief I
can muster, no need to think of my balls to
“I had things I wanted to say.” summon the tears. My best one yet, but no
camera, no audience. Then I see Nina in the
“I’m sorry, but I thought it was God-awful. car next to me. I let her pull in front, and
A travesty,” this more whispered. when it’s time to take the turn to Andrew’s
place, I veer right. I can’t go to the reception.
“I know! It was like a showcase for the I can’t go because when Nina was nodding
men in her life,” spoken even more quietly. her head back at Mrs. Hannecker’s family,
she should have been nodding at me.
“They must have known it was coming
longer than we did. Maybe they’ve had I had depended on her but never given
time to grieve.” her anything in return, never expected her
to expect it. Along with everybody else, I
“He’s not even that good a poet.” had missed her goddamn birthday.

“You know she supported them all her- I don’t know where I’m going, just that I
self.” can’t continue the same way I always do. I
sense the danger of driving with such tear-
I look back and see the sons packing up clouded sight, but there’s nowhere on the
their musical equipment as Mr. Hannecker highway to pull over.
gives them an elegant bow. Their smiles are
subdued. Then I accidently step on the heel Then she’s there. Mrs. Hannecker. I swear
of the person in front of me. It’s Nina, the it, hitchhiking at the end of an off-ramp.
copyeditor, and she’s hopping because her
shoe has come off. I reach down to get it.

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

She’s wearing a too-big baseball cap, but it’s She’s standing with her hands on a
definitely her, and she’s waving at me. The stroller, her head tilted to check her watch
guilt won’t let me keep going, so I swerve then a flick of her head up—as if to catch
onto the next exit with the intent to circle me before I pass.
back, but there’s only an off-ramp, no way
back on. The entrance must be down a ways, But I pass.
around and back, up in the other direction.
Somewhere. I’m in a part of town I don’t She was trying to tell me something, I
recognize. Even though I was born here know, but I’m not turning around this time.
and never left, there are still parts of LA I’ve I can’t head back west. All there is there is
had no reason to visit. I keep to my familiar the sea.
routes. But this one isn’t familiar, and it’s
dodgy too. My car is bumping over what I have to go east on my own, east to the
look like old metal tracks grooved into the home I have built. I have to learn to depend
road, and all of the store signs are in a lan- on myself. Mrs. Hannecker kept giving, so
guage I don’t speak. we kept asking and receiving. Didn’t she
know that since she helped us so well, all
What is Mrs. Hannecker doing here? we could do was depend on it?

I’m starting to panic, can feel the beats At home, Delia is emerging from our
of my heart and the sweat on the wheel. youngest’s bedroom. When she asks how
the memorial was, I can feel the tears again,
I’m lost. Lost in a friendless world, and and Delia softens. She nods and comes in
I’ve left Mrs. Hannecker behind. for a hug. I hold her tight, tighter than I’ve
held her in a long while. “She was a special
The setting sun shines pinkly through the woman,” Delia says, standing back. “But
palm trees and smog, but it may as well be maybe she gave too much of herself away.”
the full darkness of night, because nothing
I’m seeing makes sense. This is the world of I feel depleted, but Delia looks shockingly
delusion. vital. Somewhere along the way, I missed
her resurgence over the past few years, fi-
I keep catching all the reds, so I stop and nally freed from the burden of babies. I’d
start, staring straight ahead, jarred by in- assumed that the things she’s been doing—
terrupted motion. The glow-blue compass the volunteering, awareness-raising, end-
on my rearview mirror tells me I’m going less committeeing—was simply to fill the
east, and relief comes with the knowledge, emptiness, but I was misguided. She’s been
a deeper breath. pursuing her interests and passions, has
double-backed into that energetic world-
I need someone to tell me where I’m buster I met and fell in love with in college.
going, but I have no one to call. Delia takes
care of the house, the dogs, the kids, the There’s pink in her cheeks.
community, herself. But she doesn’t care
about me, hasn’t in years. Maybe I’ve been unfair, blamed her for
my own problems and sadness.
It’s impossible, but there she is again.
Mrs. Hannecker. I must have been wrong Maybe she has time for me now.
about the first one, because this is definitely
her. I aim my lips for the pinkest part of her
cheek, and as I do, it feels as if the distance

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