Adelaide Literary Magazine No. 31, December 2019

Revista Literária Adelaide

“Your father was a great man.”
“I know.”
The two women sat there, staring at the
bracelet that in that moment, brought her
husband – and Emily’s father – back to life.
If only for that moment.
It was exactly how he would have wanted it.

About the Author

R.J. Fox is the award-winning writer of several short
stories, plays, poems, a memoir, and 15 feature length
screenplays. His first book – a memoir entitled Love &
Vodka: My Surreal Adventures in Ukraine was previously
published by Fish Out of Water Books. His debut novel
Awaiting Identification was released last spring and was
placed on MLive’s top 10 Michigan books of the year. Both
books – which were initially screenplays – are currently
being developed into feature films. He is on board as a co-
producer for Love & Vodka. He also recently published a
collection of essays entitled Tales From the Dork Side. His
work has been published in over 30 literary magazines and journals. He is also the writer/
director/editor of several award-winning short films. Fox graduated from the University of
Michigan with a B.A. in English and a minor in Communications and received a Masters of
Arts in Teaching from Wayne State University in Detroit, MI. In addition to moonlighting as
a writer, independent filmmaker and saxophonist, Fox teaches film and literature in the Ann
Arbor Public Schools, where he uses his own dream to inspire his students to follow their
own. He has also worked in public relations at Ford Motor Company and as a newspaper
reporter. He resides in Ann Arbor, MI.

49

SOBER RIDER

by Michael Hetherton

They watched them come. Summer mono- vehicles sat scattered in the yard, weeds and
liths plodding relentlessly toward the city grass growing up among them. The short,
on the plains. The birds silent. In the pre- bald man, with indistinguishable tattoos on
storm stillness sunlight lit the houses on his biceps and forearms, greeted him happily,
the streets above the river valley, the storm wearing stained shorts, worn running shoes,
clouds coming, milky-grey and oil smoke- and a dirty white t-shirt with the sleeves tore
black, soon darkening all of the sky, shad- off. He limped, one leg atrophied from injury
ows over all the land now, hard, jagged or birth defect, Ty assumed. He provided Ty
threads of lightening flashing out of the with a loaner while he fixed his truck. He did
darkness, tearing open the breathless still- the work for next to nothing.
ness. Then came the deep, rumbling thun-
der, rolling on and on, louder, louder, ex- “A recluse. But he’s happy—and harmless
ploding in house-shaking krr-acks over the these days.” Bobby said, later.
lightless, now wind-thrashed city. Residents
peered out their vibrating windows at the “What happened to his leg?” Ty asked.
approaching cloudburst, dreading ice-white
hail with the inevitable dark torrents of rain, “Hip and thigh are still full of shotgun pel-
in a country where rain seldom falls. lets,” Bobby said casually.

Ty stood outside Maverick’s Quonset-ga- Ty had months before, using a small in-
rage looking at the sky. When he was just heritance, and his own meager savings from
twenty-one years old, he remembered, his past menial jobs as a down payment, man-
old truck had needed frontend work. Bobby aged to get a high interest bridge loan for
Batra referred him to Maverick. his first spec house, in the bright, windy city
of Lethbridge, Alberta, and was renovating
“He looks rough,” Bobby said, “but he’s it. Bobby Batra had brokered the buy.
a sober saint. Any bad people he used to
know are dead or in jail. Best mechanic “You happy with it, man?” Bobby asked,
around.” smiling, as he confirmed the acceptance of
Ty’s offer.
Ty found Maverick then working in his
dilapidated garage near a run-down house- He said he thought he was, and thanked
trailer on the outskirts of the city not far him.
from the river. Rusty, partially dismantled
Ty had moved there from Regina, Sas-
katchewan. He needed gas on a random

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road trip, and liked that a river ran through “These are wild pheasant breasts. My
the prairie city, and you could see moun- Langar. I’m going fishing. I like to eat as much
tains in the distance. He’d been raised by his as fish,” Bobby said, laughing.
single mother, living most of his life in a rent-
al-subsidized 4-plex. His mom, from a poor Chunks of charred pheasant meat hung
farmer family, had fallen out with them and on sticks. Ty watched him slide the hot
they’d more or less disowned each other skewers into pitas, and ladle on grilled on-
after she met Ty’s father. She worked shift ions and peppers.
in a commercial laundry, and was seldom
home or awake during the day. When she “You got sunglasses and a hat?” Bobby
was, her youth seemed drained out of her. asked.
Most evenings she smoked, and drank wine
until she fell asleep in her chair long before “I got a hat.”
bed. So he had grown up pretty much on his
own, wandering the local streets, though he “Come fishing with me. We’ll sign the pa-
was far from streetwise. One thing his mom pers and head out,” Bobby said, making it
taught him was to always set aside a little sound more like a demand.
money from his wages for a “rainy day”, and
she’d made him open a bank account. Ty, always having had trouble saying no,
passively agreed.
Bobby Batra looked to be in his mid for-
ties, heavy set, with a dark, deeply creased Bobby led him into his large open house,
face, the skin under his eyes puffy, baldness almost empty of furniture or adornments,
shining in places on his skull under thinning and he signed the papers.
black hair. The day after Ty accepted his first
buy offer Bobby pulled up at the house on Bobby stocked and closed the cooler and
a large, black, rumbling Harley-Davidson, a they left.
Sober Riders sticker on the faring. A young
woman sat on the back of the bike wearing “I stay outdoors on my own as much
a black leather jacket too large for her. as I can, away from temptation. The Har-
ley’s great for that … and fishing,” Bobby
“This is Lacy,” Bobby said. told him as they drove across the rolling,
drought-stricken open prairie south of the
Ty only glanced at her, too shy then to city. “Ever fly-fish Ty?”
say anything.
He had never fished, but thought he
Bobby, with his toothy smile, congratu- might like to learn.
lated him again and shook his hand.
Within the hour they turned onto a
After another reno and sale Ty drove his rough trail through the pale grasslands, a
old truck to Bobby’s house to sign papers. blue view of the Rocky Mountains in the dis-
He lived in a large, recently built two-storey tance; then into the fringe of steep, grassy
modernist, another Sober Riders poster in coulees. The trail wound down to a slim
the window that Ty initially mistook as a Block river in the valley.
Parent sign. Bobby’s SUV and Harley were
parked in the driveway. He found him on the “Rainbows and a few browns live in some
back deck standing at a smoking barbecue. of these pools,” Bobby said, pulling to a stop
in the grass.

He opened the rear of the SUV, unloaded
a backpack and set out fishing gear. The call

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

of grasshoppers beat up from the dry grass. moved tall pale-yellow grass along the
He pulled a portioned fly rod from a case shore. As he stepped forward he stumbled,
and put it together. “Your first lesson, Ty.” startled, over bones in the grass, a ribcage
He attached an expensive looking green and and skull picked clean white. Probably a
gold metal reel to the rod and showed him winter deer. Death everywhere, and always,
how to string the leader through the eye- even in the most beautiful places. His father,
lets. He opened a leather fly case, looked who he had little memory of, had died vio-
through the tiny colourful flies and picked lently in a federal prison. His mother had
one. “This is a hairwing dun.” He knotted it left home for a few days when he was ten,
to the leader. and told him when she returned. She’d had
uterine cancer that spread, and died just
He opened the cooler and took out two thirty months ago, his final, failed year in
brown bottles. “I’ve been sober for years, high school. He walked on, and sat back in
but when I fish I like to have just one.” He the warm grass on the riverbank.
put the tinfoil-wrapped food and the beer
into the backpack. When he woke from dozing sweat trickled
down his neck. He saw Bobby making his
Bobby led the way. The path opened into way back, puffing, and sweating too.
a sunny, grassy meadow. The marble-green
river swirled soundlessly beyond the shore He dropped the pack and rod by Ty. “Pretty
grass. Bobby dropped the pack, removed slow.”
the bottles and pushed them into mud
along the stream. Bobby kneeled then by the stream and
scooped water into his brown, pale-palmed
Up river he said, “Here we go,” stripping cupped hands. He splashed his face and
line. wiped his palms over his head. He pulled
the beer out of the mud, rinsed off the
He worked it into a looping cast, de- brown bottles and cracked off the caps with
scribing what he was doing for Ty. The tiny a hiss. He handed one to Ty. Then he took a
fly found the moving water and the floating long drink, his eyes watering.
line drifted. The air was still and hot along
the river. Ty, already sweating, watched him. “Where are your people, Ty? Your mom
and daddy?”
Near a riffle Bobby got a hit. “There,” he
said, and worked a small, splashing rainbow He told him they were both dead.
close. He bent down to the silver trout and
rested it in his palm as he gently unhooked “So you’re on your own. I guess I knew
the fly, then released the fish, flashing, back that already. Well, you know where to reach
into the current. me if you ever need anything.” He looked at
him. “I’m serious, man.”
The meadow narrowed to a strip of grass
along a high cutbank. Bobby offered to let Ty nodded, “Okay.”
Ty try a cast, but rather, let him move up-
stream on his own. Bobby set down his beer and knelt on
the gravel bank, clasped his hands, closed
Ty walked back along the river. He stood his eyes and bowed his head. After a mo-
listening now to the quiet riffle of the ment of silence he opened his eyes and
mountain water over stones. A light breeze crossed himself. “I usually say something
before a meal. I’m from a Sikh family. But I

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married a Catholic girl once upon a time in them, and started here.” Bobby shrugged.
my younger years. I have my own faith now, “There’s no such thing as coincidence, or ac-
you might say, with a few borrowed rituals,” cidents. I let the real power make the big
he explained, his eyes sparkling. calls,” he said, putting the empty bottle in
his pack.
He opened the pack and took out the
food. They sat back in the sun and ate the “I used to drink too much,” Ty blurted out.
tender pheasant pitas. “And smoke dope.”

“Do you have kids?” Ty asked, Bobby’s Bobby looked at him, waiting for more.
house being so large.
“Since grade seven. It’s all we did. All the
“Two. I lost them, years ago,” he said time. Me and a couple friends. I was nothing
matter-of-factly. but a drunk.”

Ty did not pry further. “You still hang with them?”

“I abandoned my wife and kids,” he vol- Ty shook his head. “No.”
unteered after a minute. “They were better
off. I had some real bad years. Didn’t know “Good,” Bobby said, in emphatic approval.
who I was. I was guilty of many great mis-
deeds, and breaking most of the Ten Com- He squeezed Ty’s shoulder as he rose.
mandments. The deadly sins.” Quieter, he
said, “She thought she could save me. It They walked back now along the river to
didn’t work—not from lack of trying on the SUV and stored the gear away.
her part. She remarried years ago. They’re
healthy and happy; her and the children, “It’s not easy to learn on your own. I took
thank God.” formal lessons,” Bobby said. “That’s one way.”

“Is Lethbridge your hometown?” Ty asked “Sure,” Ty said.
quietly, more curious.
Bobby leaned on the SUV. “At your age I
“Vancouver. My father moved us to Cal- couldn’t function outside being the center
gary when I was a kid. After he had a few of the universe. Overwhelmed by ego.
bucks he borrowed more and started buying Fishing gets you outdoors. You need to con-
multi-units. Did real well. I was spoiled, and centrate, but you can’t force it. Relax, be
took it all for granted.” He lay back on the accepting. Be a witness. Murder your anger
grass. “When I was a drunk, or using, it was and impatience. There’s solace in nature—
all about getting more. My twelve steps and reality. I’m thankful I found that.” He
turned inward. That can be a bad trip. I looked at Ty. “But it’s a human world, like
finally gave over to the higher power, the it or not. You shouldn’t stay in the wilder-
supreme light. I was saved.” ness too long.” He held up his keys. “Feel
like driving? One beer, you know.”
The beer made Bobby talkative. Ty lis-
tened as he finished his food. On the road back Bobby fell asleep right
away.
“It was after my father died when I got
clean. My brothers and I took over the prop- He woke as Ty slowed and turned onto
erties. I hated being a landlord. Sold out to his street. At the house he parked next to
Bobby’s classic Harley-Davidson Electra
Glide. When they got out they walked to it.

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

“Take her for a run, man,” Bobby said, tradesman Ty hired seemed to take ad-
wide-awake now. vantage of his youth and naïveté. The man
proved indolent, was habitually late, and
“The bike?” Ty asked, hesitantly. left work incomplete.

“Yeah. Ever ride?” “A guy I contracted isn’t showing up,” Ty
told Bobby.
“Once. A long time ago.”
“Did he take your money already?”
Bobby laughed. “Don’t think about it.
Just hop on and split.” “Half in advance.”

He put on Bobby’s leather jacket and “You’ll make better contacts with experi-
helmet as he ran over the operation of ence. Talk to him. If that doesn’t work, just
the bike with him. The Harley was big and move on,” Bobby advised.
heavy but balanced. He let the clutch out. It
lurched forward, and then went smoothly. After the man missed another day Ty
drove to his house, located in a poor area,
“Ride clean, man,” Bobby yelled as he the yard weedy and strewn with junk. He
pulled away. found him in the back by a garage. The man
looked up, surprised.
He took the first turn carefully. Bobby
waved when he looked back. “Couldn’t make it again today Ken?” Ty
said, already angry, and shaking slightly.
The Harley rumbled, and moved
smoothly. He crossed the bridge over the “Oh, yeah,” is all he answered.
river and up the long coulee slope. He
touched the throttle and the bike, quickly “Have you spent the money I gave you?”
and easily, rumbling louder, accelerated
into the next shift, moving on up the slope “Why?” he said, shrugging.
without effort, the flood plains of the
Oldman River below green and bright. Be- “I want the cash in my mailbox by tonight,
yond the treeless subdivisions it opened for work not done.”
into prairie, the mountains in view again.
Then there was nothing but sunburned “Pardon me?”
empty grassland. Heat waves obscured the
highway. Atop a long slope Ty could see all “We’re not negotiating.”
the wide horizon, under the liquid-blue sky
scattered with drifting white clouds. “We’ll see. I can get to you this week—”

His fear and adrenaline ebbing he pulled Ty picked up a piece of old eavestrough
over. He thought of what Bobby had said, lying by the garage and swung it hard, hit-
and wasn’t sure he understood very much ting the wall next to the man’s head.
about what he’d meant. But had sensed sin-
cerity and that he meant well, that he cared “What the fuck.” The man backed away.
about him for some reason, and that he was
trustworthy. Ty had never trusted a single “Get it to me tonight,” Ty said, spitting
human being before. with anger.

Not all of the reno work went smoothly He threw down the eavestrough and left.
those early days in the city. One so-called
On the way home the pulled over, his
eyes filled with tears of rage, and allowed
his breathing to recover and his heart slow.

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Like his father’s, his temper just spilled over details. “Beth‘s worried about you living
sometimes. As it subsided, a feeling of use- alone. You’re no older than our grandkids.”
lessness and hopelessness, and a deep, dis-
connected kind of pain, flowed in. Made self-conscious by his attention,
he said he was fine, but thanked him, and
The man dropped off the cash. Ty didn’t meant it.
tell Bobby about the incident.
Within the week they accepted Ty’s offer.
Bobby later referred him to a retired,
sober, journeyman carpenter, slow-working “Beth is having a hard time getting rid
but reliable, who did quality work. He came of this stuff,” Simon told Ty in the driveway,
with a dour demeanour, but he was patient holding a folded, worn child’s blanket. He
with Ty, and appreciated his willingness to seemed even older, and melancholy. “I
learn. guess I am too, if I’ll admit it.”

He did not live in that reno in a way to A son and grandson showed up and
enjoy it before Bobby Batra sold it. He pur- helped Simon and Beth set out a garage
chased and lived in another small house on sale. A moving van backed up to their house
a quiet, tree-protected crescent in Chinook a few days later, and they were gone. Ty
Heights. He was slowly improving his skills, missed them right away.
and accumulating tools.
He lived in his own little house while ren-
An elderly neighbor approached him in ovating Simon and Beth’s. He told Bobby he
his yard on a sunny afternoon that summer. liked the natural wood tongue-and-groove
The friendly man told him he and his wife, ceiling, and the tall windows.
both retired teachers, were planning to
downsize into a condo. He could see Ty “Yeah, I can dig that,” Bobby said. “It lets
“had some work ethic”, and asked if he might the outside in.”
be interested in buying their house too.
Ty didn’t mention the many mistakes
Ty toured their home. It smelled of cin- he’d made, and his anger sometimes ex-
namon and baking. After, Beth warmly in- ploding over small frustrations.
vited him to stay for tea and cookies. He
refused; he’d seldom experienced neigh- He attended garage sales and searched
bourly gestures and unconditional kind- antique shops for furniture and accessories.
ness. Beth insisted, and sat him down at He often stood in quiet areas of the house
the kitchen table. The couple regaled him admiring it. The sun shone on the front door
with stories of their past in the city, and after a thunderstorm passed. The trimmed
their children and grandchildren. Ty started green cedars dripped rainwater. The side-
to feel relaxed there. walk quickly began to dry.

He liked the low-slope roof and floor- That sense of fear when alone at night
to-ceiling glass. He agreed to offer on their leftover from childhood, though more sub-
house if the price allowed for extensive ren- dued now, was still with him, always a part
ovation. of him. A windy night he woke up, his heart
pounding, to a noise outside, something
“You doing alright, Tyrone?” Simon asked, dragging along the exterior wall. He listened
when he visited the couple again to discuss intently for someone trying to open a door
or window, his heart rate and breathing

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

blowing up. The sound did not come—it “I can do that. Let’s eat this pizza.”
was quiet, but for the wind in the treetops.
He remembered lying alone in bed at night She was as tall as him, and full-bodied.
in an old house somewhere in Regina, when Used to being alone, the kitchen felt
he was maybe five, listening to a man’s hor- crowded with her there too. He took beers
rible cursing, and slurping from a cup, prob- from the fridge. Lacy didn’t accept one.
ably whiskey, coming from his father’s bed-
room, and he remembered the paralyzing Ty remembered she was a friend of Bob-
fear. One of only a few unclear memories he by’s. “Oh … I’m sorry.”
had of his father, before his father was gone.
His mother kept no photographs of him. Lacy laughed. “I’ll take a glass of that
milk though.”
Lacy, the young woman Bobby intro-
duced him to months earlier, showed up at He poured two glasses and they sat in
Ty’s door out of the blue that late summer. front of the TV with the pizza. She took
She wore floppy, frayed jeans over worn off her jean jacket, revealing a faded blue
cowboy boots, and a faded jean jacket. Her tank top, Cowboy Junkies printed on it, her
thick hair was full and frizzy in the last rem- shoulders brown and freckled.
nants of a perm. She looked several years
older than Ty. She balanced a pizza box in “What do you do Lacy?” Ty asked politely,
one hand. the room grown dark except for the TV light.

“Remember me? Are you going to ask me “Cashier at Safeway. I’m thinking of be-
in so we can eat this thing?” she said on the coming a florist. I love flowers. They thrive
front step. in my hands. Maybe I’ll open a floral shop
someday.” She rested her elbow on the sofa
Inside, Lacy took off her boots and set arm. “I was a city girl who wanted to be a
the pizza on the kitchen counter. Ty took her country girl. Now, I’m willing to compro-
on a tour of the house, hardly knowing what mise.” She sat up. “You have a kind face. A
to say to her. lady might say anything to you.”

“I love the big windows and the light. It’s “Where do you live?” Ty asked, not knowing
a little austere for me though. Bobby told how to respond to her comment.
me you were an innovator,” she said, her
fingers stuffed in her back pockets. “Apartment on sixth. I really want a place
outside the city though. A tiny farm or some-
“I think he meant renovator.” thing.”

Lacy laughed. “He said you were a great “Yeah?”
guy. You’re good looking, you know,” she
commented, casually. “Yeah. You see, I’m married. Took a long
time to admit it was wrong. We weren’t a
Ty visibly blushed, word-stuck as they natural couple. Some things grow obvious,
re-entered the kitchen. eventually. Pain is one of the great guaran-
tees in life. Love? Not so much. Anyway, we
“Did I interrupt something? Maybe I lived on an acreage. He had horses. One
should go?” Lacy said. was mine, sort of—but I didn’t own any-
thing, really; it was all his. I didn’t want to
“No. I was just watching a ball game.” steal nothing from him when we separated.
I’m going to have my own place like that

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someday. With a corral for a horse.” She the window looking out on the dark street.
looked at Ty. “Accidents and coincidences Trying to be quiet, he took his coat from the
happen; miracles, not so much. I’m willing front closet for a cover and lay on the sofa.
to work for it.”
He woke up in the coolness of dawn,
Listening closely to everything she said, having left the window open over the
he remembered Bobby’s words that day kitchen sink. He dozed again—then heard
fishing on the river, about there being no the back door loudly slam.
accidents, and giving over to the real power.
A few days after her visit Ty stopped by
“I bet you will,” Ty said. Bobby’s threadbare realty office. The reno-
vation on Simon and Beth’s house was done
“Will … what?” and it was ready for listing. Ty casually asked
about Lacy.
“Get a shop. A horse. And a place.”
“Lacy? I think she’s in BC visiting family,”
She laughed again. “Appreciate the en- is all he knew.
couragement. Do I make you nervous?”
Bobby sat back then and told him about
“I’m used to living alone.” a “female friend” who’d not had anyone in
her life in some twenty years. “Met her after
“Not everybody’s easy with everybody. an AA meeting. No one sober wanted to be
Not everything comes natural all the time.” with her, and she was smart enough not to
hook up with another alcoholic. Rehabbed,
Ty smiled in agreement, sweating a little, tried the cures, but relapsed probably fifty
though the house was cool. times. So she gave that up and tried to live
with it. She said even on her worst days she
“I met Bobby at a meeting,” she con- always did the dishes—kept her pride, in a
tinued. “That’s confidential,” she false-whis- certain way. Her commitment to hold on to
pered. “I’m not an addict. Just need a little her addiction and still function impressed
positive support now and then to reassure me, man. It finally burned her out though.
me. He always answers his phone. Looking She gave up all control; just let it all go. And
back on things, I didn’t get trapped, thank she got sober. That’s not a common happy
God. I drank too much one night and rolled ending.”
my truck. Survived it. Don’t touch the stuff
anymore,” she said, waving her hand. Light Ty told him he’d had a friend in high
freckles speckled her cheeks. school who drank too much and that it had
worried him, even though he was no better.
Ty nodded. “That’s good.” “I still worry about her. I don’t know what
she’s doing now. How did your friend make
They chatted more as the house grew out?”
darker. Then Lacy went to the bathroom.
“Still sober. Some people can never ac-
When she came out after shutting off cept anything offered up … ever. Some
the light she stood, barely visible, in the just manipulate and use the kindness and
hallway. “I’m going to bed,” she said, casu- charity of others, every day. She’s neither of
ally. She disappeared into his bedroom. those. Found love finally. He drives a potato

Ty sat watching the movie that was al-
ready on, uncertain what to do. He shut
off the TV when it was over. He stood in

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

truck. They live over in Taber. I started course, surrounded by river cottonwoods,
the local Sober Riders after meeting that prairie grass, wetlands and waterfowl, ac-
woman.” Bobby looked at him. “It teaches cepted any kind of player. He’d done poorly
you, doesn’t it Ty. Never give up.” in high school, except in shop, and had
not taken part in team sports. He played
Lacy appeared at Ty’s door again a month the golf course now with old rented clubs,
later, from wherever it was she had gone. alone, learning the game, and patience, on
They sat in the kitchen while Ty made tea. the weedy fairways.

“I’m sorry,” she said, looking into her The elderly male shack attendant at the
bone china teacup, one of his mom’s he’d nine-hole, who was always accepting and
inherited. “For leaving angry that other talkative, looked distracted and upset one
morning.” early morning. “They found a woman in the
river the other day. Probly murdered. The
“I didn’t know what to do,” Ty said, hon- police tape came all the way to the sixth
estly. “I’m not used to having someone hole,” he told Ty. He shook his head slowly.
around.” “Doesn’t feel the same here anymore. They
wreck everything … everything … eventually.”
She laughed. “I can tell we don’t natu-
rally connect. We’d never make a natural Ty stood with Maverick on his dusty
couple.” driveway and paid him cash. He’d repaired
all of Ty’s vehicles over the years, and had
“You can stay longer if you like,” Ty said, early on taken to calling him, “my young
her comment not clicking with him. lion”, as if to give him confidence. An old
man now, bent over and stooped, Maverick
“Well … maybe for a while,” she said, hardly looked human anymore. He’d die
shrugging. “Then I gotta go.” soon, Ty knew.

She dressed quietly early in the morning Maverick turned back to his garage.
and left without talking to him. Watching him, Ty remembered the deep
sense of aloneness, the foreboding and fear
Ty thought about Lacy all the time after in his mind and body, just below the surface,
that, and found himself shopping at Safeway all the time, in those young days. The worst
hoping to see her, but she was never on time then was in the hours and days after
shift, or had quit. Bobby Batra’s suicide in September. He re-
membered the cottonwoods along the river
He scoured the public library for books were in full fall blaze.
on fly-fishing and insect life in streams. He
bought a cheap fly rod. He worked most of Ty was not in good shape emotionally
the time, seldom seeing anyone other than those years, and had come to understand
tradespeople, but more and more drove to that, but not known what to do about it. It
the foothills to fly-fish. The hills and moun- had always been, just how life was. Those
tains, the high blue skies and stony streams, feelings, for the most part, had been gone
the silence and sun and fresh cool air, was for a long time now, and as well, mostly, the
a revelation after his early life never leaving bouts of rage. Numbing fear still came up
the city, and it calmed him. And now and when he was alone, a black and collapsing
then he golfed the old nine-hole course in
the river valley not far from the large aban-
doned rail aqueduct. The poorly maintained

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sky, strange noises in the night, but that too through she told him. They did not talk of
was rare, anymore. Bobby.

The ash ceremony for Bobby had not Lacy stayed in town, and eventually
been held until December. Ty stood next moved into Ty’s house. They were married
to Lacy. On a prairie hill not far from the six months later. They took a honeymoon in
St. Mary River, with a view of the Rockies, British Columbia, and visited Lacy’s family
under a relentless, massive sky. The real es- there.
tate broker with whom Bobby was a partner
said a few simple words, Bobby’s Harley Later they drove to Regina to see Ty’s
parked nearby, its chrome glinting when- mom’s grave. “I didn’t know her very well,”
ever the sun came out. If his family were he confided with Lacy, after placing flowers.
present Ty did not know who they were in “She died an alcoholic. My dad didn’t treat
the sizable crowd. It hardly seemed enough, her good. He was a violent guy.”
but was what Bobby had stated in his will
he wanted: a simple ash ceremony above She hadn’t lasted long after her cancer
the river. diagnosis; her will to live depleted, for
reasons Ty felt little connection to or un-
Ty had not seen Lacy since she left his derstanding of. She held his hand, but had
house that morning. She’d arrived with one nothing to say to him before she slipped
of the office real estate agents. She smiled away. She’d named an estranged sister her
when she saw him, her grey eyes wet from executor. The aunt helped Ty with arrange-
the winter wind; a Chinook, as if in timing ments, and was sympathetic, but remained
for the ash ceremony was blowing through mostly aloof and left quickly after the burial.
making the hills snowless and bare. She
came to his side, and stayed there. Part way He didn’t know if his mother loved his
through the spoken words she reached for father, or what he was like when they met,
his hand, and he accepted it. Something when something about him must have at-
burst open then, standing in that blustery tracted her, or if she missed him after he
prairie wind. They both cried, and could was gone. He had never asked her. He had
not stop until Bobby’s ashes were spread, a photograph of her as a very young, attrac-
and the other teary-eyed mourners slowly tive woman, that could have been someone
breaking up. else, not the mother he remembered. His
early time in that city already seemed like
After the ceremony Lacy left with Ty another life.
and they drove downtown to a small coffee
shop. Strangely, to him, he felt uplifted after Ty and Lacy have never talked over the
the service and the crying jag, and walking years about what “compatibility” means.
to the truck with Lacy still holding her hand. They live their lives with an ongoing sense
Lacy, always talkative and upbeat, seemed of casual good fortune and thankfulness
extra so. Maybe it was how everyone felt for having found each other. In addition
after such ceremonies. to his real estate speculating Ty eventu-
ally took on maintenance work with the
They talked over coffee; the most Ty local school division. Between them they
had said to anyone, ever. Lacy listened, and saved enough for Lacy’s florist business,
responded in turn. Her divorce had come that she named, Back to the Garden, with
two small antique tables for customers to

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sit and sip tea, a tiny feng shui fountain children. In a way, they live separate lives.
bubbling nearby. The shop has done well; Ty has his interests—fly-fishing, occasional
Lacy a happy, hard worker, with a sly sense loner golf, and his work—Lacy has hers, and
of humour, her personality well suited to she still goes to AA monthly. But they come
interact with others daily. Over time they together, daily at home, as they age, where
bought a house out of town, and a couple the house often smells of flowers and
acres of fenced pasture. Ty built Lacy a small saddle leather. From their veranda they see
barn, with a water hydrant in the corral. the approaching summer storms, rumbling
She purchased and trained a young gelding slowly closer, closer, and they smell the rain
she named Bobby. They chose not to have long before it falls.

About the Author

Michael Hetherton’s short story collection, Grasslands,
was an Independent Publisher Book Awards finalist, Danuta
Gleed Award nominee, and winner of a Saskatchewan Book
Award. His most recent stories appeared in Confluence
Magazine, and the Honest Ulsterman, UK, both in Oct.
2019. He lives in Canada.

60

INSIDE OUTSIDE

by Geoffrey Heptonstall

She had not expected it to happen. manner. Their first reaction would be to
close the window because of the draught of
It was no use calling out to ask who was air blowing through the office. ‘Has anyone
there, although it was obvious that someone seen Genevieve?’ they might ask.
was inside. An intruder was not going to an-
swer. An intruder was going to be still and A moment in time became timeless’
silent, waiting for her to open the door.
She found the key to the door that was
Genevieve decided to keep silent herself. always locked. Someone had left it on the
She was going to wait at the door in the kitchen table. That was curious because at all
cold and the dark for as long as it took the times Mrs. Angell kept the key on her key ring
intruder’s curiosity to open the door. The with others, most of which were of unknown
tactic was dangerous. Voices within her told use. The key ring was secured in her pocket,
her to go. They told her to run. But she re- and taken out perfunctorily before being re-
mained, quietly planning what to do when turned immediately to that deep, dark pocket.
the door opened. If there was a spare key to that door Gene-
vieve had never seen it. Yet there was a key on
Genevieve felt betrayed. the table, as if it were waiting for her to use.

Genevieve wondered if she should It was shinier than it had seemed when
speak to someone about her disturbed brought out to open the door. Perhaps Mrs.
nights. She was not sleeping well. She was Angell had been polishing the keys one by
waking exhausted, and going through her one, forgetting to replace this one, the key
days without the satisfaction of doing well to the door that was exactly like the other
or feeling well. She was quieter than usual, doors in the house except that it was smaller.
as everyone noticed. For a few days nobody It was the door to the kitchen cupboard be-
paid much attention, presuming her with- neath the back stairs. An adult had to stoop
drawn manner was part of the cycle of ex- to go into the cupboard. Genevieve as a
perience it was natural to undergo. child could have walked in, but was never
allowed to do so. She never even dared ask
But as time passed and the listlessness because she knew Mrs. Angell would refuse.
did not give way some who saw her became
worried. Most did not notice or did not care. There was no reason for refusing an in-
She might throw herself out of the window nocent request. Mrs. Angell’s habit of mind
before they recognized any change in her was to refuse many innocent requests

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

because she did not like inquisitive children. time passed and her fear rose she began to
She did not like intelligent children because run in the hope of escaping although there
she did not like intelligent people. ‘Ask no seemed to be no escape. She was hurrying
questions; hear no lies,’ she would say. Why for her life, understanding very well that if
would she feel the need to lie in response she did not find a way out an unimaginable
to a question? Genevieve wondered later fate was going to be inevitable.
when she looked back.
There was a very long and narrow street
Her dream was looking back. In her of Victorians. At the end was an iron rail
dream was the key, shining, on the wooden dimly seen in the gloom. It was not a gate
table of the kitchen where she was entirely but a fence with iron spikes. Time was
alone, something that never happened in passing and she had no idea how to reach
her childhood. If Mrs. Angell wasn’t there safety. She ran back the way she had come
Bethany was. Even as a child Genevieve down the street. At the end she turned left
could see that her visits to the kitchen were into another deserted street of Victorians
supervised as her life in the house was su- to make her way out of this somehow.
pervised. There was always someone close
by. There was always someone watching. One house was familiar. Its door was
Or so it seemed. So often a shadow fell. So open, with a voice inviting her inside. It was
often the eyes of Mrs. Angell were upon no use calling out to ask who was there, al-
her as if the child were an enemy. She was though it was obvious that someone was
certainly seen as an intruder trespassing inside. An intruder was not going to answer.
on the lives within the house. Mrs. Angell An intruder was going to be still and silent,
acted like one who was concealing a terrible waiting for her to open the door.
secret. Within that house was something
Genevieve was not supposed to see, not She looked through the window to see
supposed to know about. Of course an old a room. It was a room she had never seen
house has many secrets. before. The house contained many rooms,
some of which she was never to see. This
The dream changed. She was utterly room she had never seen before. It was fur-
lost, hurrying down unfamiliar streets in the nished like a Victorian nursery. There were
hope of finding her way back to somewhere children dressed in period style. They were
she could recognize. playing a game until a large, portly bearded
man entered. He looked fierce. In his hand
She had been thinking of the bridge that was a cane, not a walking cane but a pun-
spanned the ravine. It was a sturdy piece ishment cane. When he stood in the room
of Victorian engineering whose arches there was stillness and silence.
were decorated with wrought iron curli-
cues painted green to resemble woodland The stern man spoke indistinctly behind
growth. It was typical Victorian thinking the thick glass. They were angry words to
to combine the utility of engineering with judge by their tone and by the manner of
romantic flourishes that were purely deco- their delivery. The children had a look of fear,
rative. It made an impressive sight, if not a a fear that a child should not know. One of
beautiful one. them was going to be punished. Or perhaps
all of them were to be punished. The coun-
Everywhere she went she eventually tenance of that man, their father, spoke of
met a high wall and had to turn back. As

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Revista Literária Adelaide

punishment as the natural response of a Genevieve began to run, hearing the
parent to a child. He may not have enjoyed woman’s rage in the distance. ’
the task, but he thought it his duty to per-
form dire acts of correction so that children From the finger of cape she watched the
may learn what is right and what is just. yacht sail into the harbor. The sandbank at
the harbor’s mouth formed a natural bar-
Suddenly, however, the angry father be- rier. The lone yachtsman knew the water
came distracted. He looked at the window well enough to navigate the deep channel
as one might look at a mirror. He was looking between the treacherous sands. She was
at a reflection of the room, yet discerning standing beneath one of the trees that lined
beyond the glass something that was not the visible sandbank. She waved as the
a reflection of the room. He became aware yacht passed by. To her dismay she saw that
that he was being observed. He could sense the yacht was empty. The sailor had fallen
the presence of another. The thought con- into the sea. She might have saved him had
fused and disturbed him the more clearly she not slipped so easily into the water, like
he saw beyond the glass and into her face. the mermaid she knew herself to be.

At this point she became alarmed. It was On the pebbled shore close by the
necessary to go back as quickly as possible harbor a lifeless body came in with the high
before something terrible happened. She tide later that evening when the daylight
might be caught in the past. The key might was fading, and the shore deserted but for
be taken from her hand so that there was Genevieve, naked, walking away from ev-
never going to be the possibility of escape. erything to follow the arc of the bay. Her
She ran down the long, long corridor back nakedness was unnatural and when seen by
to the kitchen door. others went unremarked. All attention was
fixed on the body washed-up on the shore.
What had been there was in suddenly
no more. That instant was final. Time had ‘I knew him,’ she whispered.
been frozen for the life remembered. For
those remaining it moved with dignity and ‘You knew him by another name,’ came
precision as if it were time itself moving. A the reply.
clock from somewhere resonantly struck
the hour. This had not been planned, but She had not forgotten the kisses and ca-
could not have been more appropriately resses. It was so tender and innocent. She
arranged. As the polished black cars edged had known more assured lovers. She had
toward the church the bell tolled not for the known more passionate times. But she had
dead but for everyone. never known such sweet intimacy as she
known with him. The three or four since
A woman said, ‘Where you going?’ She were a different love, a mature and fulfilling
repeated her question. ‘I said where you love. But none was comparable with the boy
going? When I ask a civil question I expect she met in the school library one evening.
to be answered in like manner, as is polite.’
She began to hurry away, with the woman No, she had not forgotten him. In their
following. ‘You heard me. Good manners different ways they had both experienced
cost nothing. I’d teach you some polite a sense of death inside. Keeping a secret,
manners. Are you listening? I said where are even a harmless secret, was not how trust
you going? WHERE ARE YOU GOING?’ grows between lovers. She had thought

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

it better to say nothing. Now that felt de- all serenely gliding down. Their reasons for
ceitful, almost sham falling remained unexplained. Whether they
were pushed or whether they had thrown
The sun was sinking lower. Another hour themselves those desperate acts had failed
and it would be dark. The sunsets had been if the intention was for the women to drown.
especially radiant in recent days as if to wel- Some, perhaps, having seen one woman fall
come her back to the territory she knew best. were playing daredevil out of curiosity and
boredom. She could not say for certain. This
The sun’s reflection on the water made dream was of a century long past, an age
sea and sky difficult to distinguish. The she could barely imagine in her waking life.
horizon disappeared into the backdrop of
cerise and mauve streaks and while that Her dreams allowed her to run again
was the last of sunlight through the wisps without fear of being mistaken for a fool.
of cloud on a clear evening. As a child she was no fool. She knew herself
to be wiser than her years. She knew that
Now they had reached a distant shore wisdom was not going to go. That - her own
somewhere in uncharted waters. They felt certainty - was worth remembering every
that they were the first to feel as they felt. day forward.
It was as if no-one was alive but them. Was
this paradise? And if it were would they be Her dreams allowed her to run again
found unworthy of its perfection? This they without fear of being mistaken for a fool.
could not think about now. All that mat- As a child she was no fool. She knew herself
tered now was what was happening now. to be wiser than her years. She knew that
And it was good. wisdom was not going to go. That - her own
certainty - was worth remembering every
The ocean tide came in every day, and day forward.
ebbed again, leaving the pebbled beach
washed clean to dry in the sun. Beneath From the headland she watched the
the headland the gulls flew interminably in yacht sail into the harbor. The sandbank at
their perpetual curiosity, or so it seemed. the harbor’s mouth formed a natural bar-
The need to survive was strong. The need rier. The lone yachtsman knew the water
to stretch their wings and glide in the air well enough to navigate the deep channel
was there also. They were not looking for between the treacherous sands. She was
food all the time, although food was always standing beneath one of the trees that lined
welcome. They were flying because they the visible sandbank. She waved as the
had the enviable ability to fly. It was easy yacht passed by. To her dismay she saw that
to see how ancient minds could believe so the yacht was empty. The sailor had fallen
strongly and literally in angels. The angels of into the sea. She might have saved him had
the rational world were not winged as these she not slipped so easily into the water, like
creatures were. Reason had lost something the mermaid she knew herself to be.
these birds knew by instinct.
She had not heard from him in a very
‘What is like to fly? She asked. She was long time. She was utterly lost, hurrying
floating down from the bridge in volumi- down unfamiliar streets in the hope of
nous skirts that acted as a parachute, en- finding her way back to somewhere she
suring her a soft landing on the ice of the could recognize
frozen river. There were others following her,
‘I knew him,’ she whispered.

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About the Author
Geoffrey Heptonstall’s publications include a novel, Heaven’s Invention [Black Wolf 2017]. A
story, Miss Cramickle, appeared in Adelaide in September 2018. Recent fiction has appeared
in Scarlet Leaf Review and Synchronized Chaos.

65

MADE TO DECAY

by Tom O’Brien

Hugh sat on a bench in Cavendish Square The flower bloomed in spring, which
Park, hearing a police siren wail along he told himself was what he wanted, what
nearby Oxford St. The crumbling statue of he’d worked for; but the stronger and more
the Duke of Cumberland that shaded him beautiful it grew, with its blush of red petals,
looked old, but it was a soapstone replica of so like her hair, the harder it was to sit near
the long gone original; designed and built it, ignored.
to last a year, an artwork of an artwork.
That was three years ago. So he sat near the broken statue more
often, looking up at the man they had called
Hugh chose this bench not to be closer The Butcher. A statue made to fall apart fas-
to the Duke but to be further from the cinated Hugh. The Duke was missing an arm,
flower he’d grown here illicitly. One autumn a leg, a hand. His horse had a wide crack
morning almost a year ago, he’d dug with running along its body but it was whole.
his bare hands, scraping them on the hard
ground, sweating with confusion, exertion Why did some things last when others
and the fear of being caught, then planted couldn’t? All he knew was the time they’d
the bulb in a spot he could see from his desk dreamed would last forever was over.
in the office tower high above.
With a cry he didn’t care who heard, he
The flower, whose strain he couldn’t strode from the cruel Duke’s feet. He kicked
identify even online, grew from her last gift the flower, his treasured flower, splashing
to him; a bulb she squeezed into his hands, tormenting red petals into the air, then fled
her lungs too far gone for speaking but her the park before his misery could land.
wet eyes willing him to understand.
***
Each day, before and after work, on his
breaks and on weekends, he tended the soil, Hugh came back the next day; as he’d known
fussed over stray leaves, shooed curious pi- he would. Suffering knew where he lived
geons. and had been waiting for him, to keep him
company through the sleepless night.
Hugh believed these efforts allowed the
plant to survive, to thrive. He needed the ‘Locked,’ said an irritated man in a suit as
living thing to need him. It lived but didn’’t Hugh approached the gate. The park was a cut
need him. The plant stayed strong in winter, through for many people who never glanced
even through snow. It closed in those at the statues, trees or flowers. ‘You’ll need
months but the stem stood, self-contained. to go round,’ he continued, exasperated.

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Revista Literária Adelaide

Hugh was surprised the park was locked With a shout of sudden understanding
this late in the morning, but then he Hugh jumped the unopened gate. He knelt
reached the low wall. From there he saw and cupped a blossom in his hand, kissing it.
blooms that covered every inch where life They would be together again, in time.
could grow.
Through his elation, he heard something
His tears turned the hundreds of blos- behind him. A crack, then a soft thud. The
soms into thousands. A blur of red and joy. tip of the Duke’s sword had fallen, slapping
She hadn’t forgotten him. She just couldn’t against the pillar before landing with a sigh
be with him right now. amongst the waiting flowers.

About the Author

Tom O’Brien is an Irishman living in London. He’s been
published in numerous places across the web and has short
stories printed in Blood & Bourbon, Blink-Ink and DEFY!
Anthologies. His novella Straw Gods will be published by
Reflex Press in 2020. He’s on twitter @tomwrote and his
website is www.tomobrien.co.uk.

67

TREASURE MAP
TO SUCCESS

by John Califano

MY FATHER WAS meticulous about his ap- he managed to take some night courses
pearance and always left for work wearing in Engineering at Cooper Union. One of
a pressed suit and a starched white shirt, my mother’s cousins taught him mechan-
his tie knotted perfectly. He carried a leath- ical drawing and helped him get work as a
er briefcase filled with technical books, me- draftsman, mainly for aircraft companies.
chanical pencils, a slide rule, and differently Most of his jobs were out-of-town: he’d
shaped drawing angles. He told me he was sign on for six to eight weeks assignments in
a scientist and often brought home glossy places like Binghamton and Poughkeepsie.
photographs of rockets and jet fighters.
“See those babies?” he’d say. “Your father When he left for work on Sunday eve-
designed that whole wing system.” nings, I was mostly happy to see him leave,
taking with him all the tension that filled
In his twenties, my father had worked the house when he was home. But when
with his older brother Joseph (“Big Joe”) he returned on Friday evenings, all would
as a machinist in a tool-and-die shop. After be forgotten and I’d be happy to see him,
a few years of working a drill press, he de- mostly because he’d greet me with open
cided to go into business for himself. With arms and a big smile, as if we hadn’t seen
meager savings and money borrowed from each other in months. Even if I wasn’t happy
his brothers, he bought a warehouse ship- to see him, I would pretend I was, because
ment of bumper jacks that he planned to I knew that was what he expected of me.
sell to local gas stations and body shops.
He convinced everyone that the jacks were Sometimes his homecomings weren’t
a sure thing and that he and his brothers so jubilant. On a number of weekends he
would make a killing once the business got walked through the door exhausted and
rolling. It all sounded great, except for one pissed, ranting to my mother about what a
unanticipated glitch: the jacks—as it turned jackass his boss was or how he knew what he
out—were defective, and my father lost was talking about but other people weren’t
everything and wound up selling pots and listening to him. “I know, Daddy, I know,” my
pans door to door. While working odd jobs, mother would say, trying to calm him.

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Revista Literária Adelaide

When he was in one of these moods, We started at the bottom of the map,
he’d wash his hands and head straight for where two swords with thick, shiny blades
the liquor cabinet. He’d put away three or crisscrossed under the words “Start Here.”
four scotch highballs and start knocking Near that, a pirate ship with three wind-
things around. (“Look at this house, it’s a filled sails followed a dotted line to the first
mess!”) island, marked “Elementary School.” There
was a small red schoolhouse on the island,
One Friday night, my father came home with a bunch of musical notes drifting out
in an unusually good mood. “Where’s my of the window along with some numbers
little Janoots?” he said. “I got something and letters.
special for him.”
“Ya see? This is where you learn your
His eyes were glassy and his breath ABCs. Do you know your ABCs yet?”
reeked of alcohol. I cautiously followed him
into his bedroom, where he handed me a “A B C G D B E…”
cardboard tube, the kind that held his blue-
prints. “Boy, are you smart. Lemme see now…
How old are you?”
“What is it?” I said.
“I’m almost six.”
“Well, let’s take a look.” He slipped a roll
of paper from the tube. “Six? Wow. How’d you get to be so smart?”

“Wow!” “I don’t know.”

It was a treasure map, hand-drawn and “You must take after your old man.” He
filled with sketches and illustrations in var- patted the top of my head. His touch felt
ious colors, all surrounded by a detailed heavy, and I leaned away to avoid getting
border with fancy swoops and curlicues like thumped again with the back of his ring.
a carved picture frame.
“Okay, matey!” he bellowed, turning back
“See what that says?” He pointed to Old to the map. “Let’s see what’s on yonder
English lettering across the top of the map. horizon.” He pointed to another pirate ship
“It says, ‘Treasure Map to Success.’” that looked just like the first. It followed an-
other dotted line across the sea to the next
Below that was a group of kidney-shaped island, marked “Junior High School.” This
islands connected by dotted lines, sur- island was bigger than the last and held a
rounded by a blue ocean that he’d labeled picture of a boy writing at a desk.
the Sea of Success. In the upper right-hand
corner, he’d drawn an elaborate black and “What’s he writing?” I asked.
red compass with arrows pointing in the
cardinal directions. At the bottom he’d “He’s studying his English. Very, very im-
sketched a spooky-looking skull and cross- portant.” He tapped the side of his head
bones, with dark holes for eyes. with his finger. “English and Math, those
are your two most important subjects.” He
“Wanna go on a treasure hunt?” he said, paused for a moment, nodding and blinking
rubbing the back of his hand across his as if reminding himself. “I betcha didn’t
mouth. know, but when Daddy came to this country,
he didn’t speak English.”
“Yeah!”
“Whadja speak?”

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

“We spoke Italian. I wanted to go to to America as he had. For me this was
school to learn English and Math so I could both confusing and unsettling. In my eyes,
get ahead, but most of the time I hada work Big Joe and Sally Boy were hard working,
in my father’s store, slicing cheese and down-to-earth guys who had always been
mopping floors. But I knew…knew I was nice to me. Hearing my father talk about his
too smart for that. When I was in school, I brothers like they were inferior made me
kept my mouth shut and my ears open and think I shouldn’t like them.
listened to my teachers. Don’t ever forget.”
He shook a finger. “Eng…English and Math. “Okay, Skipper,” my father called out, cup-
When you got those under your belt, you ping a hand around the side of his mouth.
can go anywhere.” “Batten down the hatches—I sees me some
rough weather ahead!”
“What’s next?” I turned back to the map.
He moved his finger along the dotted
My father continued tracing the dotted line, following the course of a fourth ship
line to the next, even larger island, named through the rough-looking waves that he’d
“High School.” In the middle of the island, sketched in the Sea of Success. As he did this,
he’d drawn an imposing brick building he made a noise that sounded like howling
with half a dozen rectangular windows. A wind. “Thar she blows!” he hollered, edging
winding path led to two oversized front his finger up to the next island. On it was a
doors. An American flag hung on a pole picture of a graduation cap and a diploma,
above the building, waving proudly in the neatly rolled up and tied with a ribbon. Just
wind. above that, the word “College” was printed
in big letters.
“Okay,” my father said, and belched.
“Now we made it to high school.” He placed “College,” my father said. “Bingo. We
a finger on the pathway leading to the front made it.”
doors. “This is where you need to study
hard so you can go to college. A lot of wise “We made it!” I blurted. I was swept up
guys think they can get to the buried trea- in my father’s excitement, but had no idea
sure without finishing high school. Then what college was outside of a destination
they end up breaking their backs instead of on the map.
using their brains, like your Uncle Joe and
Uncle Sally Boy.” “College is the place you go after you
finish high school,” my father said, pointing
“Did Uncle Joe and Uncle Sally Boy finish to the diploma. “If you don’t go to college,
high school?” you can’t get to the buried treasure.”

“Forget them.” He waved his hand with a “Did you go to college?”
sour smirk. “You don’t wanna be like them.
You listen to me.” “Yeah, but I had to go at night. During
the day I worked two or three jobs to help
My father often had negative things to support the family.” He chucked a thumb
say about his brothers. Rather than close over his shoulder. “I had to study long, long
relatives, I got the feeling that he thought hours in the library just so I could keep
of them as outsiders. He sometimes re- up. Reading, reading, always reading.” He
ferred to them as carfones: uncultured, old snapped his fingers. “I read anything I
country peasants who hadn’t quite adopted could get my hands on. Sometimes I’d be

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reading and studying so hard, I’d…I’d fall “Holy cow!” My eyes widened. “The
asleep right there in the library. A coupla buried treasure!” I plucked the bill from the
times the guard had to wake me up. ‘Excuse pocket and waved it in the air.
me, Mister Caruso,’” he said, lowering his
voice to a respectful tone, “‘but the library “You found it,” my father said, pinching
is closing now.’” my cheek.

An image popped into my head: I imag- Five dollars—it was all the money in the
ined my father sitting at a big desk stacked world. I could go out and buy gum, candy, a
with books, grabbing them one by one and million baseball cards.
reading them as fast as he could. Then
I pictured myself doing the same thing, “Lemme see whatcha got there.” My
only I was devouring the books, reading father held out his hand and flapped his
them twice as fast, flinging them over my fingers, motioning for me to give him the
shoulder after I finished each volume. money.

I looked up and caught my father smiling “Can’t I keep it?”
at me. “Am I gonna go to college?” I asked.
“Yeah, but…not now.” He pulled the bill
“Don’t you want to get the buried trea- from my hand and stuffed it in his shirt
sure?” pocket. “Da…Daddy’s gonna save it for you
for when you get older.”
“Yeah, but how do you get it?” I fidgeted
with the bottom of my T-shirt. “But why can’t I keep it? I found it. I found
the buried treasure.”
“Well, you gotta get a career.” My father
put his finger back on the dotted line and My father didn’t answer, he just stood
followed the fifth ship to “Career Island,” staring at me with a strange, sad look on his
the last island on the map. “Ya see?” face. I felt cheated. In an instant, the bond
of trust that I had for him had suddenly
On this island a man peered into a mi- been swallowed up and washed away as if
croscope, his head surrounded by a halo hit by a raging tidal wave. I turned back to
of red stars and green dollar signs. In the the map, all the lines and pictures were a
middle of the island a small door, made of blur. I imagined I was on the ship, fighting
graph paper and bearing a thick black X, the waves to find the buried treasure. I
was taped to the drawing. reached out and gently passed my finger-
tips over the picture of the treasure chest.
“What’s a career?”
My father wrapped his arms around me
“A career is what you do after college. from behind. He squeezed my body tight
You become a doctor, lawyer, scientist…any- and kissed my face. His breath was warm
thing you want. That’s when you find the and heavy, and my nostrils filled with the
buried treasure.” He pointed to the X. smell of tobacco and alcohol.

I reached over and pulled back the little “Do you love me?” His voice cracked with
paper door exposing a small magazine sadness, as if he were asking for forgiveness.
photo of a treasure chest overflowing with
diamonds, pearls, and gold coins. Just above I hesitated, then nodded.
that a small pocket contained a five-dollar
bill, folded up and neatly tucked inside. “Huh?” He sniffled, squeezing me tighter.
The stubble on his chin pressed hard into my

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cheek. “Do you love Daddy?” Tears dripped answer. “I love you, Daddy,” I said, mechan-
from his face onto the back of my neck. ically.

I nodded again. “Oh God…” he moaned, kissing me again
and again.
“Say it for me. Tell Daddy you love him.”
I swallowed and stood still, letting my
His breathing became heavier. I tried body relax in his grip. Part of my face was
to move away, but he pinned my arms to squished against his chest, but out of the
my sides. His body vibrated as another tear corner of one eye I could see the map and
hit my neck and panic swelled inside me. the Sea of Success. My eye followed the
Seeing and hearing my father cry scared me. dotted line from island to island, all the way
I wasn’t sure what he really wanted from to the buried treasure.
and was terrified of giving him the wrong

About the Author

John Califano grew up in Brooklyn, New York, and lives
in Manhattan where he works helping at-risk parolees
transition back into the workforce. He’s worked as a writer,
actor, visual artist, and musician, and has performed
in clubs, art galleries, feature films and Off-Broadway
productions. His work is featured in The Broadkill Review,
The Willesden Herald’s New Short Stories Series (UK) and
The Writing Disorder, as well as in Embark, an international
literary journal for novelists.

72

EULOGY

by Spencer Storey Johnson

Pine leans on his gravestone, dressed as I will tell, “the one in the basement of that
he always was when we were young: art- creepy house by the park.”
fully torn denim jacket, dark curls swept
back teasing the glint of a gold earring. His Pine nods, closing his eyes, as if picturing
feet don’t disturb the crust of snow on the the low-ceilinged studio in the flickering
grass and dirt that cover his body. The early light of the bare bulb that swung from the
morning sun filters through trees beyond naked beams. The basement was partially
the cemetery, playing over and through the finished, with cement floors that sloped
sharp lines of his face. towards a drain in the center. There was a
kitchenette tucked in one corner opposite
“Hey, Old Boy,” he says. He looks me over, a tiny bathroom, and the furnace looming
standing before him, melting snow already from the shadows in another. I can still pic-
soaking through my shoes and thick wool ture his elderly landlady who sang opera to
socks. A shiver rolls through me that has her cats and demanded rent each month in
nothing to do with the cold and everything cash. Lying in the musty darkness, his bed
to do with hearing the nickname he gave just a mattress on the cold floor, Pine and I
me when I wore tweed and argyle sweater would listen to her cracking soprano break
vests and paisley ties in my twenties. A nick- over arias like the sea slamming into a rocky
name that makes even more sense now that shore.
I truly am an “old boy.”
“You were writing something when I
“Hello, Pine,” I say, although I’m not sure if came in, hunched over your desk with no
I say it aloud. What do you say to the dead? shirt on. It was October and already getting
cold outside, but that basement was hot
“Why don’t you tell me a story,” he says in all year because of the furnace. You were
the quiet voice he reserved for the post-sex writing by candlelight for some reason, so I
moments when he would lay back and flicked the switch by the door. You jumped
smoke and listen to me talk. I would tell him like you’d been burned and told me to leave
things about my life, about my classes and without even turning around.
my friends and my childhood. Or I would
make something up, speculating on our fu- “ ‘You invited me over,’ I said.
ture or imagining the lives of other people.
The place smelled like a dive bar—body
“We were in your apartment,” I begin, odor, liquor, and maybe a little bile. You
not sure yet where I am going or what story were drunk. You didn’t say anything until

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

I came and put my hand on your back. It pair of graves are fresh enough to tell me
was slick with sweat. When you turned and she still comes by.
looked up at me your eyes were bloodshot
and wet, but you weren’t crying. “Don’t worry about her,” Pine says, “she
wouldn’t recognize you now anyway.”
“ ‘Are you okay?’ I tried to touch your
cheek, but you flinched away from me. “Still.” I glance around, but don’t take my
eyes off Pine for long. “She scares the hell
“ ‘I need you to leave,’ you said again. out of me.”

“ ‘Let me help,’ I said. “You only met her once,” Pine says. He
laughs, a flat, hollow thing with as much
“ ‘You can’t.’ You began to shake, but still humor as a wake. “She scared me too.”
did not cry. ‘You really can’t.’ I tried to com-
fort you, but when I touched you again, you I look down at my feet, unsure of what
began to yell. You didn’t stop, even when I to say. The weekend before our fight in the
left the apartment in tears. I could still hear basement, Pine had taken me to meet his
you from the end of the block. It broke my parents. I’d been introduced as a “friend
heart. Two years with my first love and he from class.” I’m not sure they bought it.
had never hurt me. Now I had no idea what His parents couldn’t have been much older
to do.” than mine, but with their starchy clothes
and the fear of God dripping from every
I’ve just been staring out towards the mannerism, they seemed ancient to me.
sunrise while I speak and when I look back They were friendly enough at first, or as
Pine is watching me. If he remembers that friendly as their faith allowed them to be
night, he doesn’t show it. I study his face with outsiders, but at dinner, I slipped.
looking for… what? An apology? Guilt? For-
giveness? He remains placid, as if I had only “Would you pass the potatoes, Love?” I
reminded him of yesterday’s weather. said, not realizing what I’d done until I saw
Pine’s face go white.
“I do remember that,” he says, still ex-
pressionless. His parents stiffened and I felt like the air
in the room went cold. His mother excused
“We never fought like that before,” I say, herself and with a flick of her finger, Pine
“or at least I don’t remember any fights like followed her into the kitchen. He shuffled
that from before. And we didn’t fight like after her, head low, his usual confidence
that again. We worked things out. We didn’t cowed in the presence of this woman.
talk for a while, but you weren’t mad at me,
really. I guess you were mad at your folks.” “You should leave,” Pine’s father said, ex-
pressionless apart from his knuckles drum-
The thought of Pine’s parents sends a ming on the table.
slow tremor of fear through my chest and
down into my stomach, even after all these As I collected my coat, I heard the smack
years. His dad is dead. The grave next to of a bony hand on flesh, followed by an-
Pine’s is marked “Harold Pines – Husband other and another. The name of God was
and Father – ‘I rejoice in thy salvation’ 1 invoked, echoing through the house. I hur-
Samuel 2: 1.” I’m more concerned about ried out the door as voices rose behind me.
his mother. She never liked me, or maybe I was sure Pine would never forgive me. I
just what I stood for, and the flowers on the certainly never did.

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I am suddenly aware that I am standing “ ‘Je t’aime,” you told me at a sidewalk
on Pine’s chest. There is six feet of frozen café overlooking the Seine.
earth between my feet and his body, but
it still feels disrespectful in some way. He “ ‘Ich liebe dich,’ you told me, and I
doesn’t seem to mind. I take a few steps laughed as you tried to wrap your tongue
back, trying to position myself over his legs around the unfamiliar syllables in a Vien-
instead, only to step too far and almost trip nese coffee house. But I believed you all the
backwards over another grave. The snow more because you tried.
crunches under my feet and I dust loose
flakes of my legs. “When our money was almost gone, we
came home. I applied for graduate schools
Pine watches the awkward negotiation and in 1985 we moved to Los Angeles.
of my body in relation to his with mild
amusement. It is the same patient and be- “The apartment we found was tiny, but
mused look he gave early in our relationship it fit us perfectly. It had obnoxious yellow
when guiding me in exploring his body and walls, shag carpet everywhere except the
mine. He was my first in many things and I kitchen and bathroom where it gave way
flush now at the thought that he would still to tessellated linoleum, and a cramped bal-
see me as so inexperienced and ungainly. cony where you set up a card table to write.”

“What happened next?” Pine prods Pine listens with a slight frown, no more
gently for me to continue my story. than a crinkle between his eyebrows, but
he says nothing. I press on, knowing that I
I stand still. Quiet. Reluctant to wade cannot stop now.
again into the murky waters of memory, I
take a different, easier path. “I loved to watch you work. Sitting at the
table in our cluttered kitchen, I would stare
“You dropped out of school,” a look of at you, avoiding my homework or whatever
mild surprise flits across Pine’s aquiline book I was reading. I was fascinated by your
face, but I continue, “I had always expected hours of staring into nothing, looking for the
you would. It never made you happy to next thing to say, and the furious periods
work to the expectations of others. And of scribbling or typing where the words
you seemed like a new man when you left. seemed to fly from your hands and onto the
More free. You wanted to move, to add dis- growing pile of pages, weighed down often
tance to your escape, but you stayed until I by a small potted plant. Hunched over your
graduated. notebook or typewriter, squinting from the
glare off the white pages on sunny days, your
“That summer we traveled. We didn’t hair would fall in your face, and you pushed
have much money, but that didn’t matter to it behind your ear only to have it fall again.
us. We went to Europe, lived in hostels and And when you occasionally looked up and
wandered in bliss. You made it your goal to caught me watching, you broke into a smile.”
learn the words ‘I love you’ in the language
of every country we visited. I smile now remembering the joy I had
felt in those moments, a joy to last me an
“ ‘Se agapó,’ you told me on the crystal- eternity.
line white beaches of Mykonos.
I have again been speaking to Pine’s
“ ‘Ti amo,’ you told me as we walked hand boots. It hurts to look at him. He looks so
in hand across the Ponte Vecchio.

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young, yet his demeanor is closer to that of scripts we traded in the cozy apartment for
an aging stoic than a twenty-four-year-old a condo closer to the school. We weren’t
artist. I force myself to meet his eyes. I wish particularly social, but in our new place we
that he would laugh or cry or yell, anything hosted dinner parties with a small group of
besides this otherworldly serenity. The artists we had met. There was a painter and
figure before me looks like Pine, sounds like a photographer, a pair of filmmakers, and
Pine, but at once feels alien and unreadable. a couple of other writers. The parties were
I sense a lacuna in his existence here, a tear less about food and more about drinking
in the fabric of Pine’s nature. I remember and drugs, and conversations that would
the intensity of his love, the periods of ab- carry us into the early morning.
ject despair, the fits of anger, the inexorable
force of his happiness. He did nothing pas- “On my days off, we would wander. Short
sively. Who was he without that? trips into the hills to secluded hideouts where
we could have sex under the trees and the sky.
“Do you want me to be angry?” Pine’s I reveled in the exposure, and half expected,
voice is tinged with an uncharacteristic con- half hoped, that other hikers would stumble
fusion. “Should I blame you?” upon us and, in doing so, bear witness to our
love. No one ever did. Afterwards we would
“I don’t know,” I say. “You just seem so… lounge in the shade and the pleasure of each
thin. I guess. Less vivid.” other. You would write and I would read, or
we would talk about the future. You never
Pine glances down at his own body, then liked to waste time on the past, but you saw
back to me. “Time dilutes things.” He shrugs. what lay ahead with such imagination, filled
with potential. We built our life; from trips
For a moment, Pine appears to solidify, we would take across the globe to successes
closing his eyes and drawing himself to- in our careers to retiring in a bungalow some-
gether, congealing in the air. But, when he where with mountains and water. Once, you
opens his eyes, he fades again. The patina of even brought up adopting children. I went
moss and lichen on his headstone is visible along with it, but the thought of kids terrified
through his semi-solid legs. I step forward, me. Maybe you could tell. You never brought
wanting to touch him. But I stop myself, it up again. But—”
fearing my hands will pass right through
him. The thought nauseates me. I pause. Why am I doing this? What does
saying any of this accomplish? I look out
“Our life seemed quite perfect,” he says. past Pine at the hundreds of graves spread
around his. Hundreds of dead strangers. I
I sigh, my breath clouding in the frozen feel them, as if they are an invisible audi-
air between us. “It does. It did. But I guess ence leaning in with bated breath.
it wasn’t.”
“But?” Pine says, the voice of the silent
I wait to see if Pine will interject, per- crowd.
haps encourage or coax me in some way.
But he just runs his fingers through his hair There is no leaving this story unfinished.
and says nothing. I don’t know how much time I might have.

“By the time I graduated, you had sold “But,” I continue, after taking a moment
a couple of scripts and gotten an agent. I to collect my thoughts again, “work stopped
began working in the Social Sciences depart-
ment at UCLA. When you sold a few more

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coming in for you. Or you stopped working. “Don’t lie to me,” you spat in my face.
Maybe both. Or maybe your dad’s death
affected you more than even you under- “ ‘I love you,’ I said again and again. You
stood. You never mentioned it, but I found tried to hit me then, but you were drunk and
the letter from your uncle a few days after it slow and off balance. I wrestled you to the
happened. I suppose it could have been any ground and pinned you there amid the dep-
combination of things. You never came to redation of our life. You kicked and strug-
me for help. Or anyone for that matter. I no- gled, sending books flying and breaking the
ticed at first when you started each morning leg of the coffee table. You started to cry. I
with a blank page and a bottle. By the time cried too, my tears dripping onto your chest.
I came home from work, both would be When you stopped fighting, I held you until
empty. Then you discarded the pages all we both fell asleep on the floor.”
together, and it was just empty glass at the
end of the day. Our life came to a stop. No My eyes sting and I blink in the cold air,
hikes, no dinner parties, no more talking the sun reflecting off the icy crust of the
about the future. You withdrew from ev- snow. I think I see Pine’s eyes shimmering
erything. From me. as well, the ghosts of tears.

“At first I tried to break through. It got to “I should have done more,” I say, “I
the point that I could no longer remember chose to ignore what was happening. Our
the last time I saw you sober. Our interactions conversations became invective, repeti-
grew terse and more strained as you pushed tive shouting matches. But you didn’t try
away, and I tried to pull you back. One night, to hurt me again, so I believed that meant
I came home and you had torn apart the things were getting better. You began disap-
apartment. ‘Where is it?’ you demanded, yet pearing in the evenings, and I chose to revel
you refused to tell me what ‘it’ was. in those peaceful hours alone. You said you
were taking walks to clear your head, and I
“ ‘What are you looking for?” wanted to believe you. It wasn’t until you
were returned to me one morning with a
“A book? A photograph? A draft of an old DUI and your arm in a sling that I under-
script or story? stood you’d been going out driving, drunk
of course and probably on something else
“You only repeated yourself—’where is besides. That night you’d crashed through a
it?’ ‘Where is it?’—until you got so agitated fence somewhere in the valley. The owner
that you rushed across the living room and of the house found you passed out in his
grabbed me by the arms. You shook me, yard and called the police. I couldn’t afford
part anger, part pleading ‘Did you hide it? the repairs for his fence and our car, so I
What have you done with it? Why did you sold it and started taking the bus to work.
hide it?” I told myself that this would help solve the
problem. And you appeared to resign your-
“You dropped your arms to your sides self to being trapped in the apartment, only
and stared at me, eyes wide and unfocused, leaving to walk to the corner store.
as if I had betrayed you. “Why do you hate
me?” your was voice soft and greased with “I wanted to help you, but I loved you, so
malice. I foolishly let myself believe that because
you weren’t asking for my help, you didn’t
“I don’t hate you!” I tried to kiss you.

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need it. Perhaps I also chose to leave you to That night we had sex for the first time in
your devices as punishment for the wounds over a year. It was slow and somehow dif-
you inflicted on me, intentional or other- ferent from before, like exercising a muscle
wise. And maybe I was afraid that if I offered that hasn’t been used for a long time. You
to help, you would reject me, push me fur- had put on a little weight and cut your hair.
ther away than you already had. I was weak, ‘There’s nothing to pull on,’ I complained,
pretending I was respecting your space, but and your laughter meant more to me than
just trying to save myself. the sex.

“One morning, a month after our 8th “A call to an old friend got you a job
anniversary, I came into the kitchen and teaching theater and writing workshops
found you slumped against the counter, part time. Our life became quieter than it
eyes rolled back in your head, vomit sliding ever had been, and I think we were both
down your chin, dripping onto your bare relieved. You didn’t start writing again, and
chest, and a line of blood along your jaw, wouldn’t for some time.
oozing from underneath your hair. I called
an ambulance. “A few years later we moved out of the
city. We had saved enough to buy a sin-
“The nurses pumped your stomach and gle-level, two-bedroom house with a yard
began putting you through detox. I was not and patio out back and a small garden in
allowed to see you because I wasn’t family. the front. I converted the second bedroom
‘I’m all he’s got!’ I protested and yelled and into an office and transitioned to working
cursed until I was escorted out. I spent the remotely, commuting only twice a week.
next two nights sleeping on a bench across You got a full-time positing teaching classes
the parking lot, until exhaustion forced me at a community college nearby.”
home. I returned every morning to wait.
When you were released eight days later, The sun is above the trees now and the
you looked so weak, like an abused animal. whole cemetery glitters. In the harsh light
I cried in the cab home. You said nothing. In Pine looks even more immaterial. He seems
bed that night, the first time we had shared unconcerned, but his fading form ties a
one in so long, you didn’t touch me, but you hard knot of panic in my chest. I wish more
whispered in the darkness, ‘Please. Help me.” than ever I could take him in my arms, fetter
him in this place, with me. Pine reaches out
“I paid for your hospital bills out of pocket with a perfect hand and without thinking I
and dipped into our dwindling savings to extend mine to him, a heavy glove hiding
send you to rehab. You had no insurance. wrinkles and other blemishes of time. He
The next four months were hard and lone- does not grasp my hand, but where our fin-
some. We talked on the phone often and I gers meet, mine tingle, as if my hand has
visited you when I could. I stopped drinking, fallen asleep. He draws me closer until we
too. I threw out every bottle and can we are standing side by side, looking out over
had in the house and drew some small sat- the gravestones, spires of rock in a sea of
isfaction from smashing our wine and cock- snow.
tail glasses.
“How does the story end?” Pine’s voice
“The first thing you said to me when you has faded as well, a whisper, as much inside
came home was ‘I missed you, Old Boy.” my head as out.

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I sigh. “We grew old, I suppose. We got ethereal hand on my shoulder like a wisp
married at a courthouse in May of 2010. You of breath disturbing the air beside my neck,
started to write again not long after. Seeing and I begin to cry.
you go back to work—focused, if perhaps
more subdued than before—made me so Silent tears roll down my nose and drip,
happy. You refused to tell me much about leaving pockmarks in the snow that covers
what you were working on, but I would Pine’s body.
watch you on the patio with your laptop
from my office window. ‘It is a play. And it’s “You told it beautifully,” he says, “But that
a surprise.’ You said any time I pried. is not what happened.”

“On my 57th birthday you took me to the Our story ended that night in the base-
theater at the college to see the play, put on ment of the old house by the park.
by some of your students.
The landlady found Pine the next
“Your play, titled Eulogy to a Life Unlived morning along with a note that I never got
told the story of three old friends who meet to read. I was not invited to the funeral.
again at the funeral of another, reliving their
younger days and hashing out old differ- The truth is much the same as the fic-
ences. You illuminated the complexities of tion. I traveled after I graduated, but I did
despair, the challenges of the past, and the so alone with my grief. After many listless
hesitance and joy that can be found in an months in my childhood home, I did apply
unforeseeable future. In awe and so proud to graduate school at my parent’s prodding.
of you, I came to every performance of the I went to Massachusetts, not California.
three-week run.
I met my husband there, in a sociology
“Eulogy was picked up by a professional class. It took him months to coax me into
theater company and word of it began to going out with him, but I loved him from
spread. A few years later we flew to New the beginning.
York on our anniversary to watch it debut
Off-Off-Broadway. It was I who—following the early loss of
my parents in the years after we finished
“While we were there you complained school—spiraled out of control landing
of minor abdominal pain, growing steadily myself in the hospital, and it was him who
worse over the next couple of weeks. We fought to be by my side and got me the help
went to the doctor, and I held your hand I hadn’t known I had needed. He was strong
as we received the news: ‘Cancer,’ the tests and patient as I grew evermore maudlin,
revealed, ‘but not untreatable.’ The weeks and he helped me even when I didn’t want
and months that followed were filled with it. With Pine I could only imagine the im-
consultations, tests, appointments, opera- possible; my husband did it. He taught me
tions, and check-ups. I was with you at every to love myself. He quelled my fears about
moment, and in the end, you returned to having children and is the reason I have
the world as healthy as—” grandchildren now.

“No.” Pine is no more than a smudge When he got sick, our family was there
in the air now, and his voice echoes in my with us. And when he didn’t recover, they
head. “That is not our story.” He floats his took care of me. My son and his wife have
been staying with me since he died. They’re
presence in the house again is comforting,

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but I have still not been able to grieve. Now My throat is sore from speaking in the
that he is gone and my future with him, I am icy air for so long. I had hoped addressing
terrified. The fear competes with a sadness the wounds of the past would help me un-
that I have struggled to hold back. derstand how to address the wounds of
the present. But I am still unable to find the
The funeral is tomorrow. I have been words.
asked to speak but cannot find the words.
Or maybe I have been avoiding searching for What can I say to the man who saved
them. It is that effort that drove me here my life?
instead, to relive a love I lost decades ago.
Pine whispers, “Tell him: ‘Thank you’.”

About the Author

Spencer Storey Johnson is a previously unpublished writer from Seattle, WA living and
working in Boston, MA. He is studying for his MFA in Fiction at Emerson College, where he
also teaches freshmen writing.

80

THE LIFE COACH

by Patrick Douglas Legay

People were facing out from their front He hung up and put the phone in his
porches, talking low and drinking from tall pocket.
cans or plastic wine stems. The lawnmow-
ers and leaf blowers had been quiet for Someone was following him. Steps from
hours, though the air still held the smell of behind matched his pace. It was a man with
cut grass. On its way down, the sun threw long grey locks and a beer can in his hand.
a bright golden streak across the houses on He shouted like it was a joke, “Hey buddy,
the east side of the street. Vehicles rarely you do know threatening damage to prop-
passed. erty s’a crime, right?”

But a man’s voice, loud with anger, was The younger man stopped and turned
hurrying down the sidewalk. A man in his around. “Da fuck you say to me?”
early thirties, speaking into his smartphone.
He was lashing out, then pleading, and then “She’s got you,” the grey locks said.
lashing out. He listened, his voice changed
and he said, “Babe, babe, slow down... “Fuck you.” He turned and walked again.
slowdown slow down slow down.” Then
she must have slowed down because he The older man followed, lagging a little
said, “You’ve won.” He trotted ahead, and behind, sighed, and said, “Boy, are you
said, “Why? You’ve won, babe, you’ve won.” going to regret this, going back there now.”

He stopped and was listening again. He The younger man stopped and turned
pulled the phone right down to his lips back again.
and snapped, “Jeanie, you put what on my
phone?” He looked at the device in his palm Grey locks added, “That’s all I’m saying...
for a moment. I’ve been there.” He was taller than the
younger man and was now offering a little
He pressed the phone back to his ear, white business card.
listened, shook his head, took a few brisk
steps, gulped his Adam’s apple and said, The younger man reached out, took
“Fine. Then I’m gonna go home and break it, flipped it over, and read. “Life coach...
everything. I’m gonna wreck the apart- you’re a life coach?”
ment... Good. Call the police then. Call the
police.” “It ain’t my first canoe trip, pal.”

They were sitting on the porch, drinking.
The younger man was talking. The life coach
was sitting beside him on the other plastic
chair, listening, nodding, smoking.

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“So now she thinks I’m the asshole… and “I can talk you through it, if that’s what
yeah I admit I allowed things with this other you want.”
person to get inappropriate, but she was
being so cold to me... like a dead fish...” The “I don’t need to be talked through it.” He
younger man, the asshole, smiled, but then finished his beer.
got serious again. “She should have known
I was unhappy… I can’t close myself off to “I didn’t think so.” The life coach handed
the world. And she’s got no fucking right to him a fresh one from the ice bucket.
put that spyware shit on my phone. That’s
like a huge trust violation, right?” He opened it and chugged it all the way
down without stopping. He burped, crushed
“I see,” said the life coach, blowing smoke. the can between his palms, wiped his mouth
It was almost dark, and the wind had picked and said, “I guess I still need another.”
up. Big, billowy clouds were passing over
the street, glowing in the remaining light. The life coach tossed him one.

The asshole took a drink, looked out onto “Thanks.” He opened it, took a gulp, set
the street and said, “I told her my needs the can on the porch railing in front of him
weren’t being met. I was open about that.” and said, “She lives just up the street, you
know.”
“What did she say?”
“Jeanie?”
“She just interrogated the shit out of me
about it. Like made it a big negative thing “No. LJ.”
I wish I had never brought up… And I was
just telling the truth… That her controlling “The other one?”
behavior was driving us apart... That like
she’s just not an effusive person, you know, “Yeah.”
doesn’t bring a flow of energy to a room.”
“How far up the street?”
“Oh?”
“Well, like a few blocks or more.”
“And she’ll say she’s depressed all the
time just as an excuse to get out of doing “So, how’d that come about?”
things.”
“It came about the way it comes about…
“That sounds rough.” Jeanie was the hottest girl I could get, until
I met LJ.”
“Yeah...” The asshole took a long drink.
“It’s a lie anyhow... That you can get what “Oh yeah?”
you need from just one person for your
whole life.” “Yup. For sure. She’s a 10, LJ is, for sure
man. Jeanie’s like a low 8, but LJ, man, whoa,
“That’s one way to see it,” the life coach god, fuck, whoa, you wouldn’t believe.” He
said. drew an hour-glass shape in front of him
with both palms.
“Women don’t seem to see it like that.”
“I’d believe it.”
“You gotta meet more women.”
“I bet.”
“Yeah and maybe you can hook me up
with some, eh? That’s the idea?” “Ok, so what do you want from Jeanie?”

“I dunno. For her to have more en-
ergy, more passion about life, be more of a

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changemaker, like take a little pride in her- “Ok, then what?”
self... And be more open, want to do things...
Like an open relationship.” “Then you leave it. Occupy yourself with
something that doesn’t involve them. Best
“Is she into that?” case scenario she responds before long, you
start a back-and-forth, and go from there.
“No.” Worst case is no response, then you hit her
with a sudden voice call. She answers, you
“You talked about it?” take it from there – we’ll work out the an-
gles beforehand – if she won’t answer, we’ll
“Yeah.” try something else.”

“What about LJ?” “Ok. I’ll think about it.”

“Well, I dunno… She sorta seems stuck on “You’re also liable for more trouble with
the idea that Jeanie and my relationship is LJ.”
like… you know, like basically a little open.”
“LJ? How?”
“A little open?”
“Yup. With your relationship with Jeanie
“Yes.” up in the air, you might get hooked into
something formal with LJ – just to keep
The life coach opened a new tall can and seeing her, like her saying now’s the time to
chugged it all the way down. He belched hor- decide whether it’s her or me sort of thing.”
rendously, crushed the empty into his chest,
opened a new one, took a gulp and said, “Yeah, but I could make that work if I
“You’ve put yourself in a pinch. But there’s needed.”
some things you can do to give it a go.”
“Then why not just do that?”
“Yeah?”
“Huh? I don’t want to break up with
“First thing is text Jeanie. Tell her you’re Jeanie.”
not coming home, tell her you’re sorry for
getting upset over the phone, but you just “You don’t?”
have so many feelings about her and all that
– we’ll work out the wording – and say you “No!”
think it’s best if she spent some time on her
own, you know, give you some space, but “Why not?”
you’ll contact her when you feel it’s right.”
“I told you, man. She’s fucking great. I
“Why?” love her. She’s great with my parents. She’s
great for me.”
“Damage control, bud. Like I said, she may
have already called someone about your “Ok, but it seems like you’re saying Plan
threat, so a record of you saying the opposite B isn’t all that bad either.”
could help, and also you’re the one saying
there should be space, but you’re not saying “Right.”
it’s anything more permanent than that.”
“So it seems like your main pickle is fig-
“Ok, that’s good. But where will I stay?” uring out what you want.”

“I don’t know. Anywhere but with either “Yeah, how do you just ‘figure out what
of them. We’ll figure that out later.” you want?’”

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“Don’t get stuck on what you think you “Reconnecting with nature… like hippie
should want.” shit?”

“What I should want?” “No, sir. The opposite.” He pulled out a
set of keys from the cushions and unlocked
“Yah.” the cabinet on the wall. It was a rack of
hunting rifles. He pulled one out and of-
“Jeanie’s what I should want?” fered it muzzle up.

“Uh… that’s what you gotta answer, bud.” “I mean killing prey.”

“Humm.” They got up early, drove for five hours
and a bit, parked in a shallow ditch, and
“Look. I got another idea. For you, for your after some target practice at the end of an
own well-being, you need to take your mind old logging road, were now walking in the
elsewhere, experience something outside... wilderness with their backpacks full of beer.
Here let me show you something.” The life
coach stood up and motioned to follow him The asshole was hungover as fuck, and
into the house. his back was twinging from the life coach’s
uncomfortable as fuck pull-out bed. He
The younger man was shaky and stum- tried to sleep on the way in the truck, but
bled when he got up.“You want me to drop the suspension was shot and the life coach
acid with you or some shiiiit?” drove too fast.

They went down a hallway of creaking He was walking slow and groaning. The
hardwood. The life coach turned his head life coach was a little ahead through the
and spoke as they went. “Nope. Haha. Not trees. “We got a proper oasis up ahead,
that. What I’m talking about is reconnecting don’t you worry, son.”
with nature. With your natural being as a
man.” “What if I gotta take a shit?”

They entered a living room decorated “Then you find yourself a spot that looks
with African stuff, but not real African stuff. good for shitting and you take a shit. Here’s
It was Pottery Barn African stuff. Sculptures the spade and toilet paper.”
of lions, antelope, and cartoonish people
with spears on the coffee table, the end The asshole went off behind some trees.
table, and the bookcase. There were masks When he got back, the life coach was sitting
with grotesque faces dotting every wall. The on a mound of moss, smoking a cigarette.
bookcase had books on hunting, animals,
and guns, and also a lot of self-help type Now the life coach fell behind, but would
stuff, with titles like How to Make Friends call up in a stage whisper to “go a little left,”
and Influence People, Getting to Yes, and or “keep going,” and so on.
Conversational Jiu-Jitsu (which, unlike the
others, was bound with cerlox and labelled Then the asshole was coming down the
by a label maker). slope through the trees. He saw something
at the bottom, something chewing and
“Whoa,” said the asshole. looking up at him with big, sweet brown
eyes and a black button nose.
The life coach was digging for something
between the couch cushions. It was a doe. She was still chewing, smelling
the men, who seemed like something she

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should keep away from, but her stomach felt coffee table, ashtray, binoculars, a cooler in
hollow, this good berry tree hadn’t yet been one corner, and a metal box in another.
picked over, and the smelly men were stop-
ping at a distance. She stretched her neck The life coach propped open the shutters
down for some low ones. on their hinges, so they could see out on
the sides, and sat in a chair. He aimed his
The asshole rushed to get his gun off his rifle out one side, made shooting noises like
shoulder, and shot. a little boy playing army and said, “This way
you can shoot at what comes drinking at the
The bullet sliced across the back of her bog down there.” Then he swiveled his chair
neck, ripping it open in one lash, and the around to the opposite side, aimed, made
sound popped an instant later. She didn’t some more shooting noises and said, “And
cry out. The pain quieted her. She just took here you can shoot at what comes along
off, dumb with fright, and ran as best she the track there… but keep that muzzle up
could, exploding with adrenaline, her sight when you turn in, careful we don’t shoot
was blurred, her muscles heavy, and her each other swiveling.”
breath gargled with blood. She was running
to the water. “This is fucking awesome.”

The men followed the line of bloody “Had it for years,” the life coach said,
leaves until it ran out, but found no body. emptying the backpacks into the cooler.
They looked for a while longer, then the life “Me and a former client built it, then pulled
coach told him again that everyone misses it out here on his ATV. You can shoot lots of
their first chance and the asshole swore. things here. Deer, ducks, loons.”

“You always got more time to line up than “Anything else?”
you think.”
“What more ya need?”
They were amongst some tall, ancient
spruces, and they were coming up to a drop “A fucking lion.”
off down into a gully, but the life coach said
to keep going. After a few steps, he said “Heh, I hear ya. Might be a bobcat come
“Stop,” and told him to “look up, we’re here.” through, but we’d never see it long enough.”

“I don’t see anything but pine trees…” “Nice. A fucking bobcat.” The asshole
aimed out the window, shaking the barrel,
“Look harder – see that flat green part?” “Pow. Kapow. Pow.”

The life coach reached over and found a When he put two beers on the coffee
wire nailed to a trunk. He pulled, a trap door table, the asshole pushed his away and said,
opened in the flat green part, and a ladder “I’m good for now.”
slid down. “Look out,” he said.
Before the life coach sat back down, he
“Whoa. You got a secret treehouse?” handed him the metal box.

“Yup. A deer blind.” “A lunch box?”

“Cool.” “Nope.”

They went up the ladder. There were The asshole opened it and didn’t find
two worn-out faux leather swivel chairs, a any lunch. Vintage porn mags. Mostly 80s
Penthouse. All creased and wavy.

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“Sweet.” He flipped through the pages, “Well, anything really, useful advice, as-
clicking his teeth and saying, “Daamn,” sistance, depends on what’s needed and
then showed one to the life coach and said, what you want to do… But, as an example,
“Man, I’d love to get her.” I need some lumber to re-build my back
deck at the house – I’m worried my poor 87
“Yup.” year old momma is gonna fall through those
rotten planks when she visits, she loves
“Man, look at those nipples. So hot.” sitting out there – or some new insulated
windows so my heat bills ain’t so bad, or a
“Yup, I know. Got ‘em memorized. Seen truck, the old Chev’s on its last legs, costs
‘em a thousand times. ” too much to keep running, really.”

“That’s just it, right?” “Are you fucking serious?”

“What?” The life coach stared at him with a hard
look and said nothing.It was quiet. He didn’t
“The-only-seeing-one-chick-for-life thing. move, didn’t even take a drink. Just sat
They get memorized and that’s it.” there staring.

“Well, if you think of her the same as a “Alright,” said the asshole. “We’ll talk
still shot in a porn mag, then maybe you about it. But I still have to be won over more
don’t really like her all that much.” by your ‘help everybody’ philosophy. And
how bout this to start – we bag this deer,
The asshole shook his head, and reached I’ll buy dinner.”
into his empty pants pocket. “Fuck,” he said.
They sat quietly for awhile, then the
“What?” asshole picked up his beer, opened it, and
chugged. He choked, some came back up,
“I fucking forgot my phone at your place he tried to swallow it back and keep chug-
when you rushed me outta there.” ging, but vomited all over the cooler.

“Jesus, boy. Maybe just let yourself be “Jesus,” said the life coach.
free of entanglements for a little while.”
“Fuck. Sorry… Oh, it stinks too.” He rinsed
The life coach finished his beer, took the puke off the cooler with the rest of his
another from the cooler, opened it and beer. “Sorry,” he said again.
chugged it down. He belched, wiped his
mouth, and took another can. The life coach took the porn mags from
the asshole’s lap and put them back in their
“I don’t charge for my services, but some box.
tell me I should,” said the life coach.
“We bring anything other than beer?”
“Oh yeah?”
“No,” the life coach said, sipping.
“Yup. But, I’m here to help. I think people
should help one another.” A bird landed on the tree below them,
and the life coach lined it up with the sights
“Sure.” of his gun. It took off again, and he relaxed.

“And my thinking is that if anyone don’t “Where do you think that stupid deer got
feel my help is valuable, then maybe they to?”
shouldn’t get it in the first place.”

“Ok… What do you mean help?”

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“Dying a painful death.” It got dark, and even though it was bumpy,
he eventually dozed, and woke to the life
“Nah, it’s still out there, running.” coach putting it in park in the driveway. The
front door to the house was open.
“Keep quiet,” said the life coach, swiv-
eling around on his chair and looking down The place had been trashed. The masks
the sights of his gun out onto the trees. and pictures, everything from the walls,
were in pieces on the floor all the way down
The asshole swiveled too and looked out. the hall and everywhere in the living room.
After a while, the life coach turned back to The bookshelf was knocked over, the books
look at the bog, but the asshole didn’t. He spread over the floor and stuff from the
stayed scanning the trees with his rifle. He fridge had been thrown against the walls.
heard a rustle, saw something move, followed A lot of eggs had been smashed against the
with his gun and said, “It’s that frikkin deer.” gun cabinet, but it was left closed. The word
“Asshole” was smeared in dried mustard in
“Where?” the life coach swiveled back. big block letters on one wall. Directly below
it sat a stool with candles, burnt out, and
The asshole concentrated through one the asshole’s smartphone standing up in
eye down the sights, leaned back in his the middle like it was some kind of a shrine.
chair, relaxed his shoulders, and shot. The
bullet travelled far enough to hit a tree in The life coach was transfixed, mouthing
the same moment the life coach screamed the word from the wall, then said, “Get the
horribly shrill and fell off his chair, holding fuck out.”
his ear.
“Me? Why?”
“You blew my fucking drum, asshole!”
“Out!”
“What?”
“This has nothing… Fine. No wonder
“The barrel was at my ear!” you live alone in this big house, old man.
You’re so fucking full of yourself.” The as-
“Holy shit.” He looked down at his rifle. “I shole moved to retrieve the smartphone,
didn’t know that was a thing.” but before he could the life coach grabbed
it, cocked back his arm, and smashed it as
“Just shut the fuck up.” The life coach hard as he could against the hardwood.
stood over him for a second, then stumbled
across to the ladder, rifle in hand. “What the fuck?”

He sat and listened for a second to The life coach shoved him and said, “Go,”
the sound of the life coach swearing and then shoved him again and said, “Now!” The
stomping through the brush, then he took asshole took an awkward swing, and grazed
his rifle and went down the ladder. him with a clumsy punch. The life coach
growled and hit back hard. He instantly
The life coach chain-smoked the whole crumpled, and the life coach was over him,
drive back. One hand on the wheel and the kicking him, stomping him, punching down
other for the cigarette, or to wipe blood lefts and rights and calling him a “fucking
from his ear with the rag he got from the idiot.” The asshole, lying on the ground, put
glove compartment. The asshole asked him his arms up, and whined, “Stoopp.”
if he was alright, but he never answered,
just kept driving with one hand and that
crazed look on his face.

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The life coach stopped, picked him up mouth bleeding and face looking pathetic,
under the shoulders, dragged him down Jeanie and all of her stuff were gone.
the hall, flung him out onto the porch, and
slammed the door. His clothes had been dumped on the
floor of the bedroom. There was no dresser.
He lied there a few moments, then got In the living room, the rug was gone, the
up on his arms, crawled to the steps and walls were bare, the broom and dustpan
pulled himself up to sit. He sat clutching his were in the middle of the floor, and the
ribs and rubbing his eye socket. A man in his couch was tipped over.
underwear, smoking on the porch next door,
could see him through the shrubs. The man He held a bag of frozen peas to his eye
got up and went inside. The asshole got to and rummaged through the fridge for some
his feet and went to the sidewalk. of that leftover pasta Jeanie had made
with black olives and smoked salmon. He
There was no one out and LJ wasn’t an- heated it up in a microwaveable bowl, then
swering no matter how hard he knocked on stood there chewing, nodding, and saying,
her door or rapped on her windows. So he “Mmmm,” as he surveyed the fridge mag-
walked, and eventually hailed a cab. When nets holding up the pictures she left.
he got home to the apartment, eye swollen,

About the Author

Patrick Douglas Legay’s writing has appeared in The Writing
Disorder, Apeiron Review, and Dance Macabre. During
weekdays, and some evenings and weekends, he works as a
union staffer, dreaming of workplace democracy for all (like
it’s his job).

88

RUNAWAY

by Maria Espinosa

Hannah lay on the roof. The rough pebbles Her sister Esther would go limp like a
and tar scratched her body. She watched rag doll, willing herself to show no emotion,
the people below: her mother and three while Hannah would scream back. “Hannah,
policemen. A branch from the maple tree you’re the one with guts,” her father, Saul,
waved in the wind and blew close to her would say.
face. Through the green budding leaves she
watched them, feeling as distant as if she One of the policemen was filling out a
were light years away, as if she were watch- report. What does she look like? Medium
ing them through a kaleidoscope, blobs of height—about five feet three—thirteen
shifting color and form. years old—nearly fourteen. Long wavy black
hair. Birthmarks? Other marks of identifica-
For hours she had lain on the roof, and tion just in case she turned up in a hospital
the sun was beginning to sink beneath the or worse? Finally they left. She watched
horizon. She heard voices and peered fur- them get into the car, and she crawled over
ther over the edge. Her mother and two to the other side of the roof so she could
policemen emerged from the house. They watch them drive off. Then she crawled
were right beneath her. She could throw a back to watch her mother pace back and
pebble down and hit them. forth along the deck. Saw her mother go
inside the house. Now Gerda would be
“I don’t know where she is,” Gerda said in on the phone, calling her friends, and ev-
her sharp, cutting voice. “This morning we eryone would be frantic. Good! Dad would
had a tiff—nothing much—I just want her be upset, too. Good! Let him suffer!
to be okay.” She broke into a sob. “It’s hard,”
she cried. “It’s so hard.” Why did you leave us?

Hannah wanted to howl with glee. She Much later, after a thin sliver of moon
gloated, but the sadness was inside her. She had risen in the night sky, she realized she
wanted to cry. Gotcha, Mom. Gotcha for all was hungry. She was beyond hungry. She
those times you hit out. Told us we were bad felt light, spacey as she climbed down from
Screamed it was all our fault Dad left. the roof. When she got to the ground, she
tightened the laces of her sneakers and
“We are so alike,” sobbed Gerda below. walked along the dark street past the neat
Her voice grew softer. “She is the one closest suburban houses with their shrubbery and
to me.” trees, walked towards the center of town

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and then into a coffee shop. She watched hand on her shoulder gave her a sense of
the people. There was gangly red-haired An- unease.
drew from her class with his Dad. It hurt her
to watch them together along with his yucky “Where’s Jeanie?”
mother, who was smiling at the two of them.
“She’s upstairs.”
“Can I have a glass of water?” she asked
the pimply-faced clerk behind the counter. “I’ll go up and see her.”

“Sure, sweetheart. Anything else?” “Hey, just a minute…” His voice, drunken
and slurred, gave her the shivers. Where
“No thanks.” the hell was Jeanie’s mother? She was usu-
ally around, a pale, frightened creature.
As he handed her the water, their fingers Hannah heard more men’s voices from the
touched briefly. “What are you doing out all living room. The sound of a game on televi-
alone? sion. She ran quickly up the wooden stairs
and along the narrow hallway to Jeanie’s
Andrew and his parents glanced over at room, pounded on the door, and walked in
her from their table. without waiting for anyone to open it.

She shrugged and walked out. Slowly Jeanie and her sister Maureen were
she sipped the water in its cardboard cup. lounging on the twin beds.
Where could she get something to eat?
She walked and walked until the street she “Trouble with your Mom?” asked Jeanie.
was on gave way to a dirt road. Walked up
a hill. And there just on the other side was “Yeah.”
her friend Jeanie’s house. Several cars were
parked outside, along with rusted wrecks Maureen was painting her toenails
of cars, a car engine, a cast-off refrigerator. bright magenta. Music was playing on the
A dog chained to a post barked as she ap- stereo. Books were spread open on Jeanie’s
proached. “Hey, cool it, Smokey,” she said bed. “I’m doing my math,” she said. “You
in a calm voice. can help me.”

She had learned to act calm, to speak “Okay,” said Hannah, glad of a task to do.
calmly when inside it was a tornado, a flood, “But first I need to eat something. I’m starving.”
an earthquake all combined. The dog rec-
ognized her. Slowly she came up to him and Jeanie handed her a half-empty bag of
patted his neck. He began wagging his tail potato chips. “Help yourself.”
furiously, licking her fingers. “Nice Smokey,”
she crooned. “You’re a decent dog.” “Is that all you’ve got?”

A fat, dark-haired man in stained work “Yeah….We can go down to the kitchen…
clothes appeared on the porch. “Who’s but later.”
there?”
“Okay,” said Hannah, understanding all
“Hannah.” too well that neither of them wanted to
tangle with her Dad or his friends.
“Come on in, honey,”
“I hope they don’t stay too long. Where’s
He had been drinking, she could tell your Mom?”
from the way his breath smelled, and his
“Sleeping.”

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“With that racket downstairs?” through the house. Jeanie lay next to her,
breathing softly in her sleep, her warm skin
“Yeah. She’s tired.” touching Hannah. Soft warm body next to
her, cuddle against Jeanie. She turned and
For awhile they worked on algebra lay on her side, put her arms around Jeanie
problems, lounging on Jeanie’s bed with for comfort. Jeanie barely stirred.
its white chenille spread. Hannah lay on
her stomach and burrowed against the Steps in the hallway. Door opening.
mattress, right against Jeanie’s shoulder If Jeanie’s Dad came inside, she would
and arm. Jeanie smelled slightly of vanilla scream. Scream and scream. Slowly the
soap. She scratched numbers on a pad of door closed. The steps receded along the
paper with a ball point pen that spurted hallway. Hannah heard him piss in the bath-
uneven squiggles of ink. A bit smudged on room, heard the toilet flush, heard some-
the spread. thing drop, and heard him curse. Her body
tensed. Jeanie’s breathing grew more trou-
“Oh, I’m sorry,” said Hannah. She went bled. She rolled away from Hannah.
into the adjoining bathroom for a sponge
to wash off the stain. The bathroom was lit- Hannah held her breath. Slowly the
tered with damp towels. A roll of wet toilet noises quieted down. Jeanie’s breathing re-
paper sat on top of the tank. There was sumed its natural rhythm. Hannah pressed
none in the holder. In contrast to Jeanie’s against Jeanie’s body for warm comfort, and
clean scent, the room stank of mold and finally she slept a little.
wet towels. Lipstick and cosmetics littered
the counter. She found a rag beneath the “Are you coming to school?” Jeanie asked
sink, wet it, and tried to clean off the ink in the morning.
stain on the bedspread, but it remained.
“No.”
“Oh, never mind,” said Jeanie. She stood
up and stretched. Jeanie was shorter than “What will you do?”
Hannah, and very skinny, with freckles and
auburn hair that cascaded over her shoul- “I don’t know.”
ders. Very fair skin and green eyes. She
was popular in school. Inside the clique, The girls dressed. Jeanie put her books
to which she granted Hannah entrée, the into her backpack, and they went down into
clique which Hannah frequented on the the kitchen which was littered with empty
outer edges. She was wearing a white T-shirt beer bottles, cigarette butts, dirty dishes,
and panties printed with small red hearts. and the lingering trace of marijuana. In the
refrigerator there was white bread, peanut
“I’m tired. I’m going to sleep,” she said. butter, and a half empty jar of grape jelly.
She went into the bathroom to brush her They made sandwiches and heated up in-
teeth and wash up, while Hannah put away stant coffee. Jeanie cut an orange, hard with
the books on the bed, took off her jeans, age, into slices. Everyone else in the house
and stretched out under the covers. was still asleep. But just as they were leaving
the house Jeanie’s mother appeared, a frail,
The floor creaked. Wind rose, and it slightly hunched figure in a faded blue bath-
blew branches against the window. The robe, hastily tied, her hair mouse-colored
voices downstairs died down. It was dark all and straggly. Her face looked pasty. Her eyes,
however, were dark, intense, and alive.

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“Have a good day, girls,” she said. She
looked in dismay at the dishes and began
to putter around the kitchen.

Hannah parted from Jeanie where the
dirt road gave way to concrete paving.
While Jeanie walked towards school,
Hannah turned onto the path that led to a
bike trail. The sun gleamed on grass still wet
with dew. The sky was so pale. A large black
bird circled above her, then soared higher
and disappeared beyond the hills.

About the Author

Maria Espinosa is a novelist, poet, and translator. Among
her novels, Longing received an American Award and Dying
Unfinished a Pen Oakland Award. She received critical
acclaim for her translation of George Sand’s nineteenth
century novel, Lélia. Espinosa has taught at New College
of California, City College of San Francisco, and led a
master class in Creative Writing at the University of
Adelaide. Her work has appeared in numerous anthologies
and periodicals. Her latest novel, Suburban Souls, is
forthcoming with Tailwinds Press.

92

THE FLAT ABOVE

by Sue Brennan

Belinda had always wanted to live above a Her mum would turn and tell her to
shop and there was no real explaining why. come on.
Maybe it was the idea of people moving
around underneath, the idea of two differ- She was close to her father, having
ent kinds of lives going on simultaneously— grown closer as she passed puberty and be-
bustling retail on the bottom, domesticity came more distant from her mother. There
above. was probably some mathematical equation
to explain that, or evolutionary principal.
As a child she went into town on Sat- Her father was warm, gentle and enigmatic.
urday mornings, a forty minute drive, with Her mother, on the other hand, was bossy
her mother to do the shopping. There and pragmatic—when Belinda had her first
were no malls back then; they went from heartbreak at the age of fifteen, her mother
one shop to another. She trailed after her had patted her on the shoulder and said,
mother, looking across the street at the good to get that first one out of the way.
flats above the shops. She assumed that Her father had gestured to her to follow him
the people who owned the shops also lived out onto the back porch where he sliced a
above them. She also assumed that they watermelon into slabs. He smiled as she
were poor, or poorer than her own family. buried her mouth into the pink sweetness,
At least they had a farm. and told her about the first time he saw her
mother at a country dance.
She was transfixed by a partly opened
curtain revealing the top of a kitchen cup- She tried to be the good daughter—she
board, or a ceramic cat, or an empty vase was a good daughter, damn it—and when
trapped between a window and a closed she got the job with Australia Post and
venetian blind. Between some of the shops moved down to Sydney, she called every
were narrow alleys. If a door was opened, Sunday evening and came back to visit on
she stood square in front of it looking for long weekends. Six hour train trips. During
clues: metal letter boxes with keyholes; a those weekly phone calls, she and her
paper bag full of copies of the Jo Ho’s Light- mother spoke briefly, ascertaining that the
house magazine; a handwritten sign on a other was safe and well and nothing terrible
page torn from an exercise book similar to had happened in the last seven days. The
the ones she used at school—Saxophone phone was passed over to her father and
lessons, professional, $15 an hour. Paul #202. they chuckled awkwardly.

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

- You alright? because they had heaps and it didn’t matter
if he didn’t bring any himself; no one would
- Yeah, pet. How’s city life? know if he nicked one from the bathtub full
of ice. She was dribbling on, she knew it, but
- Good, pretty good… he looked at her, amused. He said he didn’t
trust her judgement in the matter if these
*** were her novels—looking scathingly down
at the bookshelf—and that she should ac-
On a Monday night after work and a cheap company him to the bathroom.
meal at a Chinese restaurant that Theodore
paid for, she followed him— his real name The bathtub was filled with ice and
was Anthony, but he said he felt Theodore various cans and bottles, Tooheys mostly,
suited him better and hated it when, later, but some Victoria Bitter as well. With the
she shortened it to Thee—around the back clumps of ice melting at varying rates, it was
of some shops and up a rickety staircase. like a weird kind of polar exhibition. He sat
She was filled with anticipation: a child- on the edge of the bathtub and crossed his
hood fantasy, or part of it, was about to legs. She leaned against the sink, acutely
come true. She kept herself in check, want- aware of all the female toiletries displayed
ing to appear cool. He unlocked the door across the bench behind her. He questioned
and switched on a light that illuminated the her about her job, where she went to school,
long, narrow corridor and stepped aside to what books, movies and TV shows she liked,
let her through. She saw that at the end never giving any indication as to whether he
he had rigged up an open black umbrella shared a similar interest. Next to his exotic
to act as a lampshade over the bare bulb. appearance—surely he kept himself awake
It hung from the ceiling like debris from a at night in order to cultivate that pasty com-
cyclone. plexion and the dark circles under his eyes—
she felt plain and immature.
She’d met Theodore at the house-
warming party thrown in the flat she shared Midway through the second can of beer
with Theresa, with whom she’d done her (but actually her fourth drink, because she
postal service officer training. He’d arrived, and Theresa had had a couple of Southern
with Robert Smith hair and a long black Comfort and Cokes before everyone ar-
coat, with one of their colleagues from the rived), she gathered up a bit of courage and,
post office. He stood apart from the loud feeling flirty, said, “Hey, now it’s your turn
and drunken gaggle of posties who’d ar- to be interrogated.”
rived with six-packs of beer. He skirted the
edges of the large living room, studying He raised an eyebrow and gestured to
the posters blue-tacked to the walls, and her to go ahead. She knew that he was
the books, mostly hers, on the one narrow expecting her to replicate his line of ques-
bookshelf. Much later, when she thought tioning. He sat there smirking.
back to her first impression of him, it was
as a large Kafka-esque cockroach. Two of the guys she worked with, postmen,
burst into the bathroom. One of them mur-
She was playing the good hostess—or mured something about interrupting some-
the nearest that she could get to it at the thing. They excavated some beers from the
age of twenty, fresh from rural New South tub and closed the door laughing.
Wales—and asked him if he wanted a beer

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Revista Literária Adelaide

Theodore looked at her expectantly. floor; a chest of drawers with a TV on top;
clothing hanging from a portable hanger
“How many people have you hurt?” she with wheels, the likes of which she’d only
asked. seen in dry-cleaning stores.

His smile faded; clearly he’d been ex- They passed under the umbrella and en-
pecting something inane, such as his fa- tered a room that functioned as a kitchen
vourite colour, or national holiday. His and dining room. He gestured to a chair, but
gaze drifted from her face to her chest, to she went over to the window and looked
the door with the still-damp green towel down onto the highway instead. Being a
hanging from a hook, down to his drink and weekday evening around 9pm, it wasn’t
then back up at her, with an adjusted smile. particularly busy. If she followed it all the
She lifted her chin slightly and held the soft way to its end for about 600km, she’d be
flesh inside her left cheek between her teeth. almost home.

Out in the flat, Theresa’s regime had I’m standing in a flat above a shop, she
obviously been usurped as the music went thought with delight and saw his reflection
from Cyndi Lauper to Cold Chisel with a vic- in the window as he came up behind her.
torious round of yeah’s!
***
***
- How’d your party go?
His flat was above the bookshop where he
worked, a small independent bookshop. He - Good. I met a guy.
made certain she understood the signifi-
cance of this—an independent bookshop, - Oh yeah?
not one of the big chain ones. She said she
was pretty sure she understood. As she - Yeah.
followed him down the long corridor, she
looked to her left in each of the rooms, the - Would I like him?
first one being tiny and full of boxes and
cardboard expandable files. - You like everyone, Dad.

“Stuff from the bookstore,” he explained. - Would your mum like him?

The next one along seemed quite large - She doesn’t like anyone from the city.
and was currently, he said, being used as
his studio, though from what she glimpsed— - Got a job, has he?
an easel with no canvas, two electric gui-
tars propped against the wall, a mandolin - Works in a bookstore. Lives above it, too.
sawn in half and fixed to the wall, a hunk of
wood on a torn, floral bed sheet with a tiny - That so?
hacksaw lying nearby—his creative focus
was unclear. The room after that was a - Going to meet him on Monday after work.
bathroom tiled in lurid-green which looked
disturbingly like something from a turn- - Take care, hear?
of-the-century lunatic asylum. After that
was the bedroom: an air mattress on the - ‘Course.

***

She ended up spending most of her time at
his place, meeting his friends, reading the
books that he told her to read (he started

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

her off with Tales of Ordinary Madness, by so it seemed, and she imagined herself and
Charles Bukowski, incredulous that she’d Thee as similarly cool and witty. When, years
never heard of it. “But you work in a fuck- later, the series ended with them divorcing,
ing post office!”), and listening to the music she was quietly devastated. But when she
that he liked (horrible, tuneless stuff that told him about it, she spoke as if she, too,
she never listened to without him around). found it absolute drivel.

The flat she shared with Theresa was Together they watched and discussed
pretty much empty, as Therese had reunited at length The X-Files and Twin Peaks. These
with her ex-boyfriend. When the lease was two programmes formed a huge part of the
up at six months, they agreed to let it go conversation, not only of her friends and co-
and she hauled her bags up the dangerous workers at the pub after work, but also of
stairs behind the shops and dumped them the small circle of his friends that she was
in the room that had once been his studio. gradually being absorbed into. They went
In the past few months of getting to know weekly to the house of a couple he knew—
him, though he talked constantly of art and Scotty, who asked people to call him that
music and films and books, she never once and not Scott—and Elroy, who’s name was
saw him produce anything. actually Laura Roy. It took a while for her to
figure it out. Neither of them had job titles
For a while, in the evenings after dinner, that could be encapsulated in a single noun
he sat at the table editing a friend’s poetry and they kissed everyone on the cheek
and it seemed to cause him a great deal when they said hello. Where she came
of frustration. She cleaned the dishes and from, you really only did that with people
wiped down the benches as he dug his you knew, and only on special occasions.
hands into his hair and hunched over the pa-
pers. He would suddenly get up and lunge at ***
the wall of books, searching for something,
scanning one after the other rapidly before -You going to bring him up at Christmas?
dropping them in a pile on the floor.
-I don’t know. He doesn’t like to travel.
“So fucking derivative,” he said, sitting
back at the table and writing something -That so?
across the paper in black biro.
-Yeah, anyway, I’ll be up on the 23rd.
After doing the dishes she lay on the air
mattress watching TV, coming out periodi- -Will be good to see you, love.
cally to sit at the table and have a cigarette.
He sometimes looked up from his work then, -You too.
and smoked with her and asked her to tell
him about whatever ridiculous programme -Your mum misses you.
she was watching so that he could ‘mentally
disengage’ for a while. At that time, she was -Uh-huh. I have to be back on the 30th
following and enjoying Mad About You, an you know.
American sitcom following the lives of a
young, white, professional, childless, mar- -Do you now? Busy girl.
ried couple. They had a solid relationship,
***

She walked into the flat the day before
New Year’s Eve and dropped her bag at the
door, flicking on the light.

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Revista Literária Adelaide

The umbrella was gone. “Where’s all your stuff?” she asked as
he put the box back up into the cupboard.
“Thee?” she yelled down to the far end. “The pictures, the umbrella…” she walked
over to the doorway and looked up at the
She’d called beforehand from the petrol bulb, “…your guitar? Where’s it all gone?”
station where she’d filled up, telling him her
estimated time of arrival back in Sydney. “I’d just had enough of the lot of it. It’s
She ran back down to the car and pulled the just stuff. We need to get down to the es-
box of plums from the back seat and hauled sentials, you know?”
them up the stairs. They were from her par-
ents’ orchard and there was no way that the “Do we? Why?”
two of them were ever going to be able to
finish them alone. She’d be handing them “What if there’s a fire, hm? Ever thought
out to everyone at work, that was for sure. of that?”

As she passed the studio, she saw that— She had actually—the first night she’d
apart from her clothing hanging on the por- spent here with him, she’d lain on that air
table hanger—the room was empty. She mattress while he slept and pictured them
passed under the umbrella-less bulb into crawling out the front windows onto the
the kitchen and deposited the heavy box landing, shimmying down the telegraph
onto the table…which was now dark grey. poles onto the street
As were the cupboards above the bench.
And the bookshelves. And window-sills. “We need to be able to get out of here
Not only had the room been transformed quickly,” he explained, walking past her
into this mono-tone blandness, all pictures down the hall into what was once his studio.
and knick-knacks had disappeared. It was
striking in its utility. She followed him.

Actually, it was gun-metal blue she found “Do you really need all this stuff?” he
out later when he came up from the book- asked, gesturing to what was really just her
store. He’d been flat out tidying up after the clothing, a few novels and two pot plants.
Boxing Day sales, he said, and what did she
think of what he’d done? She studied him and realised that his
hair was shorter. She hadn’t noticed it at
“Why’d you do it?” she asked, looking first. He noticed her inspecting him and
around, but he didn’t answer. stomped up the corridor saying, “I just can’t
stand the excess anymore.”
Instead, he urged her over to the cup-
boards and opened the doors. Inside were “That doesn’t explain the paint,” she
four metal boxes, the kind that tradesmen called after him.
might use to carry their tools about. He
took out the top one and lifted the lid. ***

“Condiments,” he said, and indeed, inside - Good drive back, love?
were all the condiments. The other box con-
tained all the dried goods like flour, rice and - Not bad.
pasta, with each packet opened and folded
down, kept in place with a bulldog clip. - Good. Thee liked the fruit, did he?

- Yeah well, he’s an apple and oranges
kind of guy actually.

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

- That so? “God, you’re so provincial sometimes,”
he said, opening the screen door and taking
- Yeah. Hey, you should see what he did a step inside.
to the flat.
“We’re here!” she called loudly from the
- What’s that love? porch.

- Chucked everything out almost. And Whereas he usually meandered his way
painted everything grey. leisurely through the house, crouching
to inspect the lower shelves of books, or
- What’d he do that for? flipping through a stack of albums in the
hallway, today he went directly left and into
- Dunno. the kitchen. She scuttled in after him as a
loud yell came from the bedroom that was
- He’s a funny one, isn’t he? either, Come in or Coming, she couldn’t tell.
Thee turned the kettle on and they sat at
*** the long table with its gigantic candelabra
and waited. By the time the kettle had
By comparison with Theodore’s state-of- boiled and she stood to make them both a
alarm interior aesthetic, Scotty and Elroy’s cup of tea, Elroy wandered in pulling a pale
three bedroom house seemed decadent blue kimono across her naked body.
and over-furnished beyond decency. In fact,
her first time there she’d thought, what’s “Can you pour me one, sweetie?” she
with all the books and stuff? But she’d got- asked and sat herself down next to Thee
ten used to it. As they’d drawn her into their who was thumbing through the pile of Na-
way of thinking, doing, behaving, she’d tional Geographic magazines on the table.
seen this way of living as something to as-
pire to and had tried to emulate it by the “Why do you have all these? You don’t
procurement of CDs and videos and knick subscribe, do you?” he asked.
knack’s with a hint of retro.
“My dear departed and slightly dotty
Now, the Sunday after New Year’s Day, uncle bequeathed them to me. I haven’t the
she and Thee walked round the overgrown heart to throw them out.”
path to the back entrance—the front door
being blocked by an emerald velvet chaise They heard music coming from some-
longue, a cast iron claw foot standing ash- where in the house, something classical,
tray, a record player and accompanying and then Scotty entered the room.
stack of 45s, all of which Elroy referred to
as her corner of self-indulgence—and stood “One for me too, thanks,” he said, aiming
in the open doorway listening to the sounds to kiss her on the cheek, but she was turning
of some vigorous love-making reaching its to say hello and ended up receiving it on the
conclusion. mouth. He chuckled and raised an eyebrow .

“Should we knock?” she asked, because “Mm, Belle. That works, too.”
they usually just called out we’re here as
they came in. They had immediately shortened her
name when they met her and told her it
Thee scowled at her and peered through was spelt B-E-L-L-E; she liked it, though
the screen. Thee continued to call her Belinda.

“Let’s just go back to the car,” she sug-
gested.

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