Adelaide Literary Award Anthology 2018: SHORT STORIES, Vol. One

Another Story

By Olga Pavlinova Olenich

Jorge Louis Borges has this story. He is in Cambridge and he is
sitting on a park bench. He is an old man in his seventies and he
is joined by a young man who turns out to be himself, forty years
ago. I don’t remember what they talk about but I remember that
the young Borges tells the old Borges that he is reading Dostoevsky.
The conversation is very literary, if you can say something is very
literary. Dostoevsky would never use such an expression, that is, if
anyone can really know anything about what Dostoevsky would or
would not say. And so it goes. In the course of their conversation
the old Borges begins to wonder who is the dreamer and who is the
dreamed. It is a very confusing story but also very powerful. It is, at
the very least, thought-provoking.

On the anniversary of her father’s death, a woman is sitting on
a park bench overlooking a pond in the botanical gardens of an Aus-
tralian city and she is thinking about the story. She wishes she could
remember which Dostoevsky the young Borges was reading. She
thinks it might have been “The Idiot” but she also thinks he might
have been reading Conrad and not Dostoevsky at all. It is possible,
of course, that he was reading both. She wishes she could remember.
She wishes she could remember if this pond covered in islands of big
smooth green lily pads but otherwise grey and scudding-white as it
reflects the changeable autumnal sky is the same pond in which she
nearly drowned as an infant. Or so the story goes.

How would it be, she wonders, if someone came and sat down
beside her and it transpired that the someone was herself, only

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younger? Because she is in her forties and not in her seventies, she
cannot afford the luxury of Borges’ forty year gap. The best she can
do is twenty years. Anything more than that would mean that the
slight figure now crossing the dense spongy lawn like the shadow of
a young tree in the afternoon light will turn out to be a child and
she knows that you can’t say very much to a child.

What, then, can you say to a young woman, particularly if she
is yourself?

Perhaps, the woman speculates, you could ask her what she’s
reading. But you know the answer already. She’s discovered Blooms-
bury and she’s just read “Orlando”. She is not as serious as the young
Borges but she is angrier. You can hardly patronise her, neither can
you accuse. You are not in the position to accuse her of making
mistakes because you are the product of her mistakes but you sense
that she is accusing you of something and of course you know it
is because she is young and angry with herself. It is a very difficult
meeting.

And then the woman turns slightly on the hard bench so that
she is looking at the far island of lily-pads where the light on a mil-
lion droplets of water has made them more silver than green and,
like a Siamese twin joined at the hip, she cannot look into the face
or be looked into by her other self and she begins to speak in a voice
which isn’t quite her own. What she is attempting to do is to explain
her to herself and by doing so she hopes to ease some of her pain and
some of her anger but she knows already that the weight of pain and
anger will only lift in twenty years, and then slowly, like the mists
over inland waters.

Still, she is talking, ponderously, it seems to her. She knows
she is overdoing the metaphors. Who knows what the girl thinks of
her words, after all, she has just read “Orlando”.

“....until you reach my age, or rather, until you become me and
you have begun to grasp what grief is and you have seen suffering in
the faces of friends, you will feel that you have been singled out for
unhappiness. You will thrash about in the volcanic pools of self-pity
and anger, pools formed in your own eruption as a woman. You
will meet men and recognise their power. You will be drawn in and

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out like the tide and part of you will be trapped behind a ridge of
rocks. You will make the wrong choices, or you will believe you have
made the wrong choices, inasmuch you will still believe in choices
until you are me. Then you will see that all choice is compromise
and loss and that every time the ocean crashes onto a shore it leaves
part of itself behind. In the very act of withdrawal, it sinks into cliff
and sand, compromised and absorbed. Now, while I speak, you will
be thinking of your choices and you will stop listening because I
am not you, or perhaps because I am. And if you are me, then it is
imperative that you do not listen to me for, if you listen and com-
prehend in your time what it is you will become in mine, you will
be a different being altogether.”

Then the woman would stop, confused.
And what would the girl say to the woman on this park bench,
overlooking the pond where they nearly drowned in the cold cold
winter of their third year? Would she perhaps remember their mother
who pulled them out of the stagnant water and wrapped them in
her woollen coat and then sat down exhausted and relieved on this
very bench, or one very much like it. Yes, that’s probably what she’d
choose to talk about, the obvious thing. Something that makes the
two more like sisters than the single being, solving the problem of
separation and of what to say to the self who is not the self.
So she would say,
“Do you remember mother hauling us out when we fell into
this pond?”
And then she’d say,
“I suppose that’s a silly question. I don’t remember and, after
all, twenty years is a long time....”
So now the woman knows, that even if the girl has been lis-
tening, she doesn’t trust the woman’s memories. The woman is
aware that she may even have remembered herself wrongly and what
she has told her washes away, or so the woman thinks.
What remains behind is a thin line of questions, like the line
of foam on the sand when the waves pull back. What if she is disap-
pointed in me? What if she feels she should have turned out better?
How do I get out of such a story?

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The safest thing to do, she decides, is to follow Borges’ story
to its conclusion and make sure she never meets herself again. Or
perhaps that too could be dangerous.

202

Brownwood Texas, 1927

By James White

Brownwood Texas, 1927 is a work of fiction. Names, characters,
businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the prod-
ucts of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any
resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events is
purely coincidental.

It was warm inside Ira’s automobile, hot for this time of night,
but Ira didn’t notice the heat. He was enjoying himself watching
the ladies inside Sadie’s Soda Shop. Through brightly lit windows,
women in fancy dresses were laughing and sipping cold drinks.
Music rolled out the open doorway; some tunes he recognized, It
Had To Be You, Bye Bye Blackbird, but most of the melodies were
foreign to him. He looked for Brownie’s familiar profile, but he
didn’t see her.

Ira had always enjoyed watching people from unseen, private
places. He would spend hours looking in certain windows that he
knew, guessing what the people he saw were thinking, watching
what they were doing, dreaming up stories about their intentions.
Since he married Brownie, he didn’t watch anymore, but he remem-
bered the thrill.

A young lady stepped outside, under the awning lights and lit a
cigarette. She reminded him of Brownie when she was in high school
and when he would watch her smoking behind her uncle Stan’s
barn, coughing and inhaling. He’d hold his breath, in the shadows,
quiet as a church mouse. He could smell her perfume under the
tobacco smoke. He’d watched her pick her nose, scratch her butt,

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fiddle with her breasts. He knew all her secret habits and she never
knew he watched her. She never saw him clutch his groin and con-
vulse without a sound.

He had always wanted her. And finally, years later, when he
got up the courage to propose to Brownie he thought he’d be the
happiest man in the world, but it didn’t turn out that way. Be-
fore, when he met her on the street, she’d look at him with just a
hint of fear in her eyes, exciting him. Her fear vanished after they
started living together, replaced with that condescending sneer and
bossiness her family was famous for. He ought to demand the pre-
rogatives of being her husband, but he couldn’t, and she mocked
him for not doing so. He couldn’t do what he should because...
Because she tricked him, that’s why. She tricked him. And that’s
the God’s truth.

Two more women came out of the soda shop, talked to the
smoker, and left. The party was breaking up. Brownie would coming
out soon, looking all high and mighty, expecting him to pick her up
and take her to his home. Ira leaned back in his seat and stretched.
The leather seat creaked under his weight. She’d smiled at him on
their wedding night when he lay next to her, trembling, unable to
fulfill his manhood. She’d lifted her nightgown and he touched her,
but it didn’t help. “What’s wrong, Ira?” she’d said in her sarcastic,
jeering tone of voice. “Is something the matter?”

Nothing was the matter! He’d had plenty of impassioned mo-
ments while in his private places that made his eyes roll up in ecstasy.
She was the matter. Her wickedness doused the flame of his ardor
and she had deceived him under layers of petticoats, bustles, corsets
and camisoles. No wonder she hadn’t married somebody sooner. It
wasn’t his fault. How could any man find pleasure in the company
of a withered old witch like her?

There she is. Standing under the soda shop’s awning lights
where the smoker was. Ira hesitated before starting his automobile.
He thought about leaving her, driving off in the other direction.
That would teach her a lesson. And when she got home, all tired
and madder’n a wet hen, he would slap her before she could get one
word out and tell her to clean the kitchen.

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Brownie strode across the street and grabbed the passenger
door. “Thank you for picking me up, Ira.” She smelled like sugar
and spice. “Sorry it’s so late.”
Ira blinked and shook his head, pretending to wake up. “You
back already?”

James White learned the magic of story-telling at an early age.
Made-up stories told around a camp fire or while enduring long car
trips remain cherished childhood memories which he retold to his
children. The stories and their many variations continue to influence
his writing. Later in life, he inherited his family’s trove of letters,
covering everything from world events to daily life since the 1920’s,
and he has put the letters to work; adding amusing and sometimes
poignant depth to his stories and their characters. After thirty years
writing for the wrong reasons, James said good bye to a technical
writing career in Silicon Valley and started writing for himself. He
discovered he had a lot to write about; a Master’s in American His-
tory, a Viet Nam veteran, a high school teacher, technical writer,
librarian, laborer, sailor, proud father and devoted husband. James
and his poet wife, Becky, make their home in the San Francisco
Bay Area, where they’ve lived, off and on, since the 1970s. He is
currently at work on a prequel to Borders In Paradise. Previous pub-
lications include ‘Unified Field,’ Chronoscope Magazine, ‘Chassy,’
The Wapshott Press in their journal, Storylandia, Vol. 24, February,
2018, and ‘Vistula,’ scheduled for publication in The Wapshott
Press’ Storylandia, Vol. 27, Summer, 2018. James is currently at
work on a prequel to Borders In Paradise.

205



Tracer

By Thomas Larsen

It was cold the first time I saw him. The temperature had dropped
steadily through the day and by the time I walked over to pick up
Gina at the hospital the sidewalks were slick with ice. The dog stood
in front of Silvio’s like he expected someone to come out. He was
big and dopey and when he looked my way the word “hangdog”
came to mind. He was still there when we came back and at Gina’s
insistence we crossed the street to avoid him.

That night it snowed half a foot. I woke to the unmistakable
scrape of Donnegan’s snow shovel under my window. Donnegan’s
an early riser and has been known to clear half the block before
anybody’s up. He’s convinced this vigilance enhances his standing
in the neighborhood, but mostly we feel guilty about it. Apparently
I feel the guiltiest since I’m the only one who lends a hand.

We were just finishing up when I saw the dog turn the corner.
He moved down the odd side of the street sniffing the stoops, some-
times circling back to double check. His fur was matted and he
walked with a limp. Before I could say anything Donnegan gave a
loud shout and the dog slinked off with a whimper.

I told Gina but she shrugged it off. Lost mutts don’t make her
priority list. For the rest of the morning I pictured him roaming
the streets, searching for one familiar thing. I’ve heard stories about
pets that overcome insurmountable odds to find their way home,
but this one didn’t look the type. When I lived in Berkeley the dogs
seemed as independent as the people and it wasn’t unusual to see

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a Lab or a Golden Retriever poised on the corner waiting for the
walking light. Around here dogs that run loose end up on a reward
poster.

I didn’t see him again for two days. By then the outside spigot
had burst and you could ice skate on the puddle in my yard. I was
lugging frozen trash to the car when I spotted him outside the rec-
tory pawing through a plastic garbage bag. I watched him burrow
in until his nose poked a hole in the bottom. A minute later the
housekeeper came out with a broom and gave him a whack. His
hind legs spun over the ice like in a cartoon.

I knew I should say something, but what?
That night I lay in bed listening to the wind rattle the storm
windows. I couldn’t stop thinking about the dog. I see the bums on
the subway grates downtown, but I don’t lose sleep over them. I give
my share to the deadbeats and freeloaders, but I don’t worry about
them when it gets cold. Gina says the dog is probably sick or the
owner kicked him out, but I don’t think so. The thing about a lost
dog is he has this look, part fear but mostly confusion. He just can’t
figure it out. All he can do is keep moving and hope for the best. I
know what this must feel like.
I’ve owned one dog in my life – an Irish setter named Katie.
She was what you call excitable. The guy who sold her to me claimed
she was housebroken and at times she was. Katie’s devotion to me
was slavish to the point of embarrassment. Even after she was grown
she would insist on jumping in my lap when I got home. At night
she slept under the covers and her galloping dreams and sighs of
contentment kept me up half the night. Katie was crazy but everyone
loved her. Once, she disappeared for a week and I fell apart wor-
rying. When the SPCA called to tell me they’d found her I was on
the third day of a binge. The guy at the desk had his reservations, but
the way she slobbered over me convinced him to let her go.
She was one of those dogs who love to ride in the car with
her head out the window. I can still see her grinning into the wind
like some great auburn hood ornament. The wind made her sneeze,
which made riding in the back inadvisable. One summer I drove her
all the way to California, effectively curing her of cars forever. I left

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her in a motel room in Cheyenne Wyoming and when I got back
she was sitting in a glass strewn parking lot howling at the moon.

My last year in California I gave Katie away to a hippie with
a ranch in Sonoma. To this day I can’t believe I did that to her. I
often wonder if she’s still out there and if she’d remember me after
all these years? As long as she could still be alive I guess I’ll wonder.
Some dogs live to be twenty, which gives me four more years to
torture myself.

I decided to call the animal shelter first thing in the morning,
but by the time the guy showed up to jump-start the car I’d for-
gotten all about it. I’ve got a lot on my mind these days. In three
weeks my unemployment claim runs out, and I don’t think the car
will make through the winter. To top things off the credit card bill
came yesterday. The clank of the mail slot is starting to get to me.

I never should have gone to Brennan’s in the evening. Here I
am out of work and I’m buying rounds like some high fucking roller.
Then Pete Myers told me the Allen kid was bitten by a dog over on
Mifflin Street. He said folks were up in arms and the dogcatchers
had been called in. I know that Allen kid. Whatever he was doing
he got what he deserved. Pete said he’d blow the dog’s head off if he
caught him in his trash again. They’re not big on strays around here.

I knew I’d be up all night worrying. I was the dog’s only hope
and that made me responsible. Every way I looked at it came out
the same. Either I’d do nothing or go find him. Take him out to
the country, or worse, bring him home. Do nothing and he’d freeze
to death or the dogcatchers would put him down. Hell, they’d be
doing him a favor. Poor mutt had probably never even been to the
country.

I should have gone straight home, but instead I walked around
in the cold thinking I might see him somewhere. I ended up on
Federal Street where the crazy lady feeds the cats. Must have been a
dozen of them hanging around waiting. Someone always takes care
of the cats I’ve noticed. After a few minutes she showed up with a
ten-pound bag of cat food in a shopping cart. I asked if she’d seen
the dog, but she pretended not to hear me. We watched the cats
jockey for position. Their breath came in little steam clouds but they

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didn’t look cold. Most of them lived in the abandoned buildings
along Second Street, something a dog could never get away with.

More snow. This time I let Donnegan knock himself out. I’d
been taking the battery out of the car at night, which meant I got to
dabble with tools twice a day in the freezing cold. I wasn’t cut out
for winter. Sometimes I spend the whole day watching television,
and when I look out the window I can see Wilson across the street
watching his and old Mrs. Mokowski watching hers. Even with the
thermostat cranked up it’s always cold in the house. Gina walks
around with a half dozen sweaters on and at night she wraps herself
in blankets.

After supper I went down to Ernie’s to play my number. The
wind hit me head-on at the corner, and by the time I got there my
face was on fire. I had a shot of brandy and listened to Ernie rag on the
Republicans. He’s had the place for as long as I can remember. Last
summer he put a For Sale sign above the awning, come spring he’ll be
retiring to Florida. Sold enough rotgut to kill us all and bows out to
a life of leisure. It won’t be the same around here without old Ernie.

The wind was still howling when I started for home and I
pulled the drawstring on my hood as tight as it would go. Past the
pizza place I saw something moving on the sidewalk and as I drew
near I could hear the scrape of claws on the pavement. The dog was
in bad shape. When I knelt to brush the snow from his face he didn’t
even turn his head. I looked for a tag, but there was only a broken
hook hanging from his collar. Down the street I heard Donnegan
and Pete Myers yowling at each other and behind me the 5 bus
rolled by without stopping. I picked up the dog, wrapped him in
my coat, and started walking.

He sleeps next to the heater in the basement. The deal I made
with Gina is this: we will not take the dog to the vet. We will give
him a warm place to sleep and a chance to recover. The rest is up to
him. I am solely responsible for feeding and changing. He’ll have to
be in diapers until he can walk. Gina didn’t enter into the agreement
willingly. I had to beg and plead and in the end, simply refuse to
carry him back upstairs. She threatened to have her brother do it,
but Ricky would never tangle with me.

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The dog sleeps on an old carpet remnant left over from the
bedroom. He’s too weak to stand, but when I put food near his
mouth he eats, and when I give him water he drinks. I haven’t given
him a name yet. Naming him will only diminish his chances. If he
remains anonymous he will survive.
I spend most of my time in the basement these days. Some-
times I read to him from the paper. I know he’s listening by the way
his ears swivel. When Gina comes home I try to talk to her, but she
answers in a way that can only lead to silence. I know this isn’t what
she had in mind when she married me. Throw in the dog and it’s a
wonder she speaks to me at all.
Wednesday I go to Jersey to see about a job. I know it’s
Wednesday because Ernie’s is closed and I have to walk three blocks
for cigarettes. The guy in Jersey takes an instant dislike to me. I’m a
journeyman machinist, but my age and the gaps in my resume are
starting to work against me. Some of my references have been out
of business for years. Work in a few places that go belly up and em-
ployers get gun shy. He especially doesn’t like the money I want and
tells me so, which pretty much kills my enthusiasm. With twenty
years in the trade why should I work for nothing?
On the way home I buy thirty bucks worth of lottery tickets.
I must be losing my mind.
The dog managed to turn over while I was gone. I take this as a
positive sign. Except for an occasional groan he hasn’t made a sound.
At night I think about him safe and warm. Helps me sleep.
Gina wants to know what I’ll do if he recovers, but I can’t think that
far ahead. She complains the house smells like dog, but it doesn’t
really. The house smells of cigarettes, fried onions, and thirty years
of Mrs. Sullivan’s boiled cabbage. The old girl passed away shortly
after she sold us the place, but the smell lives on. Donnegan claims
his mother raised seven kids on boiled cabbage and potatoes. They
leveled the old neighborhood years ago but he swears he can still
smell cabbage in the empty lot.
Some things I’ve noticed about my basement. The way the
clothesline is strung through holes in the beams, the elaborate net-
work of plumbing. When Gina flushes the toilet I can follow the

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water all the way to the street. A date stamped on the side of my
furnace tells me it’s older than I am. Except for not heating the
house, it’s never given me a problem. Every July I fire it up and
let it run for a while. I heard somewhere that this is good for your
furnace. In winter the basement is the warmest room in the house,
and in summer it’s the coolest. When we moved in I threw out most
of Mrs. Sullivan’s stuff, but over the years we’ve managed to fill it
with our own. Crap we’ll never use. Boxes unopened for ten years.

“They dug this basement in 1917.” I tell the dog. “Mick Irish.
Working stiffs. Dry as a bone down here. Not like the basement
where I grew up. You wouldn’t like it there, kiddo.”

The fuse box and meters are in the far corner. Every month a
skinny black girl takes the readings, slips in and out without a word.
What does she see in all these basements?

Donnegan has identified the green stuff on my pipes as as-
bestos. He says Mrs. Sullivan’s son-in-law tried to take it off but
botched the job. Donnegan is adept at spotting shoddy workman-
ship. He urged me to have the asbestos removed as soon as possible.
Last summer when he asked about it I told him I had the pipes
replaced. Now I can never let him back in my basement.

There’s a light switch between the ceiling beams, but when I
flick it nothing happens. The basement has a single window set at
street level. When the neighbors are outside I can see their legs and
shoes. The kids scurry by on Big Wheels, never thinking to look
over. For the past month the window’s been covered with snow.
When I open it the square of white is as smooth as glass, so I draw
a happy face with my finger.

“1917! The year the Bolsheviks killed the czar. Woodrow
Wilson was president and Bullet Joe Bush was pitching for the A’s.”

The dog considers this.
“There were men around who fought in the Civil War. Wyatt
Earp and Sitting Bull were still alive. Lindbergh hadn’t crossed the
Atlantic.”
I’ve been spiking his water with vodka. It’s an extravagance,
sure, but something like that can keep you going. He seems to like
it. He’s able to prop himself on his elbows now so I slide the bowl

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under his chin. I clean up his messes right away so Gina can’t com-
plain. She makes a big deal out of doing the laundry, muttering
curses as she clomps down the stairs. I don’t think this is good for the
dog, but I keep my mouth shut. It’s another argument I’d never win.

The furnace kicks on with a low whoosh. There’s a chrome
handle on top with an arrow pointing down. When I turn it the front
opens. Inside the door is a list of maintenance tips demonstrated by
a generic white man with thinning hair. Here he is kneeling with an
old-fashioned oil can. Here he is removing some sort of filter. The
tips mention nothing about running the furnace in the summer.

I can hear Gina moving around in the kitchen. We spend her
days off ignoring each other. When we first met I was working in
the Navy yard. I had a motorcycle and a goatee. Gina was recently
divorced and just entering nursing school. From the beginning we
were determined to do it right, to learn from past mistakes. We
didn’t count on different mistakes.

I should never have shaved the goatee. It gave me the sort of
menacing look that can anchor a personality. Without it I’m just
another guy turning into his father. The goatee might have gotten
me hired the other day. Who knows how the goateed guy will handle
rejection.

Gina leaves without saying goodbye. I sit in the basement doing
crossword puzzles. Last night the dog took a turn for the worst. His
breathing is shallow and there’s yellow scum in the corners of his
eyes. It looks bad, but what do I know? A shot of antibiotics and he
might be as good as new.

In the afternoon I bring the TV down and turn the dog so he
can see. We watch old movies until Oprah comes on. It occurs to me
that if the dog dies I’ll have no excuse to come down here.

“Here’s one. Dr. Adams – trauma – emergency care.”
The dog whistles his indifference. I fold the Yellow Pages in
my lap and punch in the number. The receptionist answers with a
mouthful of food.
“Yeah, hi. Listen, my dog is breathing funny.”
“Mmmmph, - sounds serious. Better bring him in right away.”
“He’s got yellow gunk in his eyes.”

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“Not good.”
“Are these symptoms of anything in particular?”
“You’d have to ask the doctor. Shall I schedule an appoint-
ment?”
“But you said it’s not good. So you’ve seen this before?”
“I have an opening for tomorrow morning.”
“Let me get back to you.”
The receptionists at Doctors Burger and Cappelini shed no
further light, so I pick the closest. Capellini can see us today.
A pair of dachshunds charge when I open the waiting room
door. Forty little claws skittering over faded linoleum. The dogs huff
and growl then beat a hasty retreat when I step inside. Their owner, a
beefy blonde, doesn’t even look up from her magazine. As I cross the
room the dachshunds scatter in opposite directions then converge in
a teeth-rattling collision. Stupid animals, dachshunds.
I sit in a corner with the dog draped over my knees.
Cappelini must be in his seventies. As he lowers an ear to the
dog’s chest, I can hear them wheezing in tandem. He tells me it’s
an upper respiratory infection then staggers off in a coughing jag.
“What are his chances, doc?”
“You should have brought him in sooner,” Cappellini growls.
“I’m a doctor not a magician.”
“Yeah, but what do you think?”
“Let me examine him. You wait outside.”
The beefy blonde and I sit smoking in the waiting room. No
one enters and no one leaves. The dachshunds never take their eyes
off me. I flip through a magazine registering nothing.
“Sir?” the receptionist calls from the sliding glass window.
“Can we have your dog’s name for our records?”
“He hasn’t got a name. I just found him in the street. I figure
I’ll wait to see if he makes it.”
She gives me a sympathetic smile.
“You know what’s a good name? . . . Tracer. You know, like
those bullets that glow in the dark? I don’t know why, but I always
liked that name.” She taps a nail against her tooth to encourage me.
“I don’t know. It sounds like a young dog’s name.”

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“He was young once, you know. I got an Uncle Skip who’s
almost eighty.”
“OK then, Tracer it is.”
She types in the name then leans back to have a look.
It snowed again last night. When I got up Tracer was spread
eagle on the couch snoring like an old man. He’s had the run of the
place since Gina moved back to her mother’s. For the past two weeks
I’ve been driving a cab for some outfit out by the airport. It’s not so
bad. When the weather breaks I’ll probably take the dog along, but
for now I leave him at home with the TV on. The thing about dogs
is they don’t expect much and they don’t hold things against you.
They’re just glad to see you is all.

215



The Rug

By Patty Somlo

The rug lay in a dark corner of the hotel’s garage facing in the general
direction of Mecca. Saeed had bought the rug during a twenty-five
percent off sale at Cost Plus World Market. Made of red, green,
blue, yellow, black and tan cotton rags stitched together roughly,
the twenty by thirty-inch rug sported a narrow nylon label with the
name Bolo Chindi on it and the simple fact that the rug had been
made in India.

On an April afternoon three months after he began working
as an attendant in the parking lot, Saeed unrolled the rug and laid
it atop the concrete. No one would notice, he figured. The rug was
small, the corner dark. Few cars parked close to that corner because
it was the furthest distance from the elevator and the walkway to
the outside.

The idea for the rug had come to Saeed several days before,
when he was meeting with the refugee program counselor. Her name
was Anne and Saeed considered her to be kind, though he didn’t
believe his meetings with her once a week made the slightest differ-
ence in his life.

That morning the rain was coming down hard, as it did nearly
every day. Saeed, who refused to think of this place as home, had
left his soaked black umbrella in a tin bucket next to the front door.

“So how are things going, Saeed?” Anne asked, after Saeed sat
down at the table across from her. The lights were way too bright.
They hurt Saeed’s eyes.

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“Fine,” he said, as he always did, because explaining how he
really felt would have taken way too much time.
“Everything okay at the job?”
“Yes.”
“The apartment working out all right?”
“Yes.”
“Is there anything you need?”
“No.”
Then she moved on to the question that each week gave Saeed
the hardest time.
“How have you been feeling this week?”
Unlike the previous questions, Saeed didn’t answer this one
right off. First of all, the question could not be dismissed with a
simple yes or no. Second, and more important, Saeed didn’t feel
much of anything anymore, not this week or last week or the week
before that. In fact, Saeed couldn’t foresee a time when he would
ever feel anything again.
“I don’t know,” Saeed finally said. He mumbled the words,
mostly because he knew they weren’t sufficient.
Those words couldn’t begin to explain how bad it felt to be
where the sky was always gray and Saeed worried that his feet would
never dry. Those words couldn’t touch the deadness in his head, the
lack of sleep, or how heavy his body felt getting up out of bed or
when he walked.
“Can you find any feeling in your body?” Anne asked him.
And then, before Saeed had a chance to respond, she said, “Let’s try
doing a little breathing.”
Saeed would never have admitted to anyone that he liked this
part.
“Close your eyes and try relaxing your fingers,” Anne said.
Saeed did as he was told. Already, he started feeling better.
“Now let’s make sure we’re grounded. Check and see that your
feet are flat on the floor. Back straight. Shoulders down. And then
take in a deep breath. Watch the breath as it flows into the nostrils,
down the throat, into the lungs, then the belly, thighs, calves, ankles,
feet, and all the way out to the big and little toes.”

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As he did every week, Saeed lost himself in the breathing. This,
of course, was the point after all. To take his mind off the swirling
thoughts that made him unable to live in the present moment, as
Anne liked to say he should. Instead, Saeed stayed stuck in the
past, back home. Yet even there, he couldn’t let his mind remember
because there was only the killing and suffering and all the reasons
he’d had to leave and come here. And none of that he wanted to
remember.
Anne seemed to think he should grieve, that he needed to re-
member, before he’d be able to move on and live in this moment.
Saeed couldn’t tell her that he hadn’t found a reason to live in this
or any moment. The best he’d been able to do was put one foot in
front of the other, get up each morning and pray. Go to work. Go
home. Turn on the television. Sleep. Get up again.
This day, when they were talking after the breathing and before
Anne softly said, “We’re going to have to stop now,” Saeed felt a
sensation close to sadness. Anne suggested that he find a little some-
thing, a photograph, anything, he could take to work, something to
remind him who he was. The following day, he went to the Cost Plus
World Market because the only cup he had for coffee had broken
and he needed to buy another one.
On the way over to where they kept the cups, he passed the
rugs. TWENTY-FIVE PERCENT OFF SALE, the sign said. He
stared at the rugs and heard Anne’s voice quietly telling him to find
something to take to work, a reminder of who he was.
“Can I help you?”
Saeed didn’t know if the voice was talking to him but he
looked up. A young woman with smooth straight blond hair and
white teeth was smiling at him.
“Can I answer any questions about the rugs?”
“Oh, no, no,” Saeed said, ashamed that his longing had been
so obvious.
“Each of the styles comes in three different sizes,” the woman
said, even though Saeed had told her he didn’t want any help. “The
sizes and prices are listed here.”
She pointed to a square white sign.

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“Today only, everything’s twenty-five percent off the listed
price,” she added and smiled.
Saeed didn’t know why but he now found himself calculating
what twenty-five percent off the price of the smallest rug would
come to.
After he paid for the rug and saw that the white paper receipt
showed the twenty-five percent discount he’d gotten, the pretty
woman who’d helped him rolled the rug into a narrow tube and tied
a bright red ribbon around it. The following day, Saeed arrived at
work early, pinning the rolled-up rug with his elbow tight against his
right side. Before entering the ticket booth, where he would spend
the next two hours until his fifteen-minute break and then return for
another two hours until his half-hour lunch, Saeed skirted the edges
of the parking lot where the light barely reached.
The concrete floor appeared permanently scarred, with gas-
oline and oil, of course, and substances Saeed didn’t want to con-
sider. Along the walls, though, the floor looked cleaner. He tried
to imagine the direction of Mecca, because he’d found a place in
one corner that looked the cleanest and where no one was likely to
notice the rug.
He undid the bow that nice young woman had tied and
thought about how kind she had been to him and her pretty smile.
Then he unrolled the rug, placed it on the concrete and smoothed
it down.
A maid named Lydia Sanchez spied Saeed the next evening as
she walked to her car. She was in a hurry to get home, as her mother
had been watching the kids and would be tired by now. But there,
in the corner of the parking lot, Lydia spied a tall skinny very black
man, bent over on what looked like a beach towel or maybe a small
rug.
“Enfermo,” Lydia whispered. He must be sick.
Yes, Lydia needed to hurry but she also had compassion for
children and the elderly, animals and the sick. She dreamed of one
day becoming a nurse, if she could ever get a green card. The man
looked like one of the parking attendants. They were all black, with
the blackest skin Lydia had ever seen, and she’d heard they came

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from the same country in Africa. One of those places where people
were fighting all the time, so the parking attendants were forced to
flee and become refugees.

The short, slightly pudgy maid walked to the corner of the
parking lot, instead of climbing into her car as she’d intended. As she
made her way there, she tried to find the English words she needed,
but at the moment, the Spanish words kept pushing them away.

Just before she reached the corner, the word came to her.
“Sick?” she asked the man.
He didn’t answer right off and Lydia started thinking, Who
should I call? Who should I call? She was in this country without
papers, having gotten the hotel job with the use of a phony Social
Security card. She could dial 9-1-1 and then hop into her car and
drive off, before anyone arrived. That’s what she could do. But first
she bent over and asked the man one more time.
“You sick?”
This time, the man who Lydia could see now was long, long,
long and thin, like spaghetti stretched out, and his chest rose up.
He looked at her while he still had his legs folded underneath him
on the rug.
“No, no, no,” the man whispered to her, as if his condition was
some sort of secret. “No not sick.”
Lydia wanted to ask what he was doing there, practically laying
down in a corner of the parking lot. He wasn’t homeless, like all the
people that sat on the sidewalks for blocks around the hotel. Lydia
recognized him from the ticket booth, saying Hello and Thank you
to her when she handed him her pass, driving out after work. Yes,
she had always thought he appeared to be a nice man and wondered
sometimes what he thought about living here in this country. How
different it must have been from where he’d lived in Africa.
“I thought you being sick,” Lydia said now.
“No, no, no,” he said again and then surprised Lydia by adding,
“Just praying.”
“Praying?”
Lydia let the word hang in the air as she thought about it.
Lydia prayed at church every Sunday morning and at night, before

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climbing into bed. When one of her kids was sick, she silently asked
God for help. “Por favór Dios,” she would mumble to herself. She
prayed, yes, but never in a million years would she have gotten down
on her knees in a parking lot, closed her eyes, folded her hands and
whispered the words Por favor Dios, Please God. It made her heart
ache thinking about this man and what terrible sickness or hurt,
tragedy or pain had brought him to this place.

The man was waiting for her to say or do something. Lydia
could see that. What could she possibly say in the face of such suf-
fering?

“I hope God answers your prayers,” she said.
Most of the time, the rug lay in the corner of the parking lot,
as if it had been abandoned, like the cigarette butts and used tis-
sues and crushed cans scattered here and there on the stained con-
crete floor. Other than the maid, no one noticed the five foot ten
and three-quarters slender man, with high prominent cheekbones
and close-cropped wooly hair, who knelt on the rug and prayed in
the general direction of Mecca. The man, Saeed, understood that
this simple act might be seen as threatening to some, and for this
reason he put the rug in the darkest, most remote corner of the
lot. It was worth the risk, he soon discovered, because in moments
of prayer, for the first time since leaving his country, he started to
feel whole.
Nevertheless, the maid felt burdened by the knowledge of
the African’s suffering. She couldn’t keep what she’d seen to her-
self. And so the next morning when she arrived bright and early
to work, she whispered the news to another maid, Esperanza. Of
course, Lydia changed the story a little. She said that the African
man was praying because his wife was sick. He was asking God to
make her better.
The story then went from Esperanza’s lips to the ears of another
maid, Carmen. From Carmen, the tale wound its way from room
to room and lower floor to upper floor of the hotel. Eventually, as
such stories do, the tale made it all the way to the hotel’s kitchen. A
dishwasher named Eduardo heard it first. By this time, the African
man’s wife had died.

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Being a man, Eduardo had trouble hearing of the African’s
suffering and not doing something about it. When he told the story
to Efrén, another dishwasher, he added, “Maybe we should take up
a collection for the African.”
Having little extra money and not yet moved to part with some
for an African man he had only exchanged a handful of words with,
including, How you doing man, Efrén said, “What is money going
to do now that his wife is dead?”
Eduardo, who everyone in the kitchen knew would have given
his last dollar away if he thought someone needed the money more
than he did, said, “He can use it to help pay the bills.”
The story spiraled around the kitchen and then bumped out to
the dining room on the lips of the busboys. In a sense, it was as if the
tale was making its way around the entire world. Having begun in
the parking lot where all the employees had originated in Africa, the
story shimmied into the hotel rooms, settling down for a few min-
utes with the maids, who hailed from Mexico and Guatemala. The
tale was passed on in Spanish to the dishwashers and prep cooks and
afterwards to the busboys. And then the busboys, in broken, heavily
accented English, told the waiters and waitresses, from France, Italy,
Great Britain, Ireland and Canada. By this point, the African’s wife
was long dead, and his three young children had no one to take care
of them during the day, while their grieving father took people’s
money for leaving their cars in the dismal lot.
Saeed, of course, knew nothing about any of this. The return
to prayer, along with his weekly counseling sessions, watching the
breath traveling through his body, until it connected with that well
of sorrow and loneliness, fear and rage, lodged in his belly, had
begun to lift Saeed’s spirits up. At the same time that his mood
began to lighten, the world around him seemed to respond. Other
employees who had previously tossed him a quick Hi or How’s it
going, when handing him their yellow staff passes through the half-
opened windows of their cars, suddenly began addressing him by
name and taking an interest. “How are you doing today, Saeed?”
“How is everything at home, Saeed?” “Is there anything I can do to
help you, Saeed?”

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The unexpected interest and hearing these strangers address
him by name caused Saeed’s heart to open a tiny bit more each day.
At first, Saeed simply responded, “I am fine, thank you.” But after
his heart began to crack open a bit more, he turned the spotlight
of his interest on others. “And how are you doing today?” “What is
your name?” “What country do you come from?”
The rain continued to pound the pavement, the hotel roof
and the roof of the building where Saeed rented a one-room studio
apartment and heard music and a couple making love and another
couple arguing and a baby crying through the thin walls and si-
rens wailing all night, up and down the wide, yellow-lit boulevard.
Rain kept making brown muddy puddles in the potholed roads and
cracked sidewalks, forcing Saeed to leap across, in order to keep
himself from sinking. He stopped carrying an umbrella and simply
yanked the hood of his waterproof nylon jacket up, as he’d seen all
the local people doing. The rain didn’t make his forehead feel stuffed
with cotton, as it had before. And he began to think, I don’t mind
the rain so much anymore, and even found the sound of it tapping
the windowpane at night rather soothing.
A building supplies saleswoman attending a construction con-
ference in the expansive Douglas Fir Room on the hotel’s main
floor and staying in a teensy room overlooking the alley, miles
from her Asheville, North Carolina four-bedroom, three-bath
home, noticed Saeed praying in the general direction of Mecca.
It was a Tuesday afternoon, and at that very moment without a
bit of warning, the sun had shot out from behind the clouds. The
woman whose name was Shirley Clooney had just stepped out of
her rented Ford Taurus, the same make and model of the car she
drove at home, when she spotted a dark-skinned man lurking in
the corner of the garage.
On seeing him, she clasped her oversized black patent leather
handbag tight to her chest, while her eyes darted around the parking
lot, in search of the elevator. Her brash red hair shone under the
garage’s fluorescent lights and her swollen feet ached in a pair of
new black leather pumps. Her heart rattled high in her chest, as she

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fiddled with her phone, ready at any moment to punch in the pre-set
number for 9-1-1.

Shirley could see now that the elevator was closer to the dark
lurking figure than she would have liked. Her feet sounded like bul-
lets tapping across the concrete floor, walking as fast as she could,
wondering why such a fine hotel didn’t have security guards, at least
one, in the garage.

As she got closer to that dark corner, she saw that the man was
not, in fact, lurking in wait to rob her. No. He was, what, laying
down on a little beach towel or rug? Shirley looked more closely.
Then she mouthed the words. Oh, my God.

It was just like on TV. When they showed the mosques, filled
with men, all men, Shirley thought. Up and down. Praying to Allah.

Like a bomb, the information exploded across Shirley’s mind.
A man in the hotel garage praying to Allah means only one thing.
Don’t they always pray before blowing themselves up?

Shirley picked up the pace, her heels rat-a-tat-tatting faster
across the stained concrete floor. Breathless, her heart pounding,
she hit the elevator button almost hard enough to break it. The door
instantly opened. As soon as the door closed, Shirley punched in the
pre-programmed number for 9-1-1.

By the time the police cars arrived outside the garage in a
wailing symphony of sirens, along with the bomb squad in a huge
white truck, Saeed was back in his booth collecting tickets, running
them through the machine, giving back change and saying, “Have
a nice day.” Police officers in black helmets sprinted past the booth,
not bothering to even look Saeed’s way. Saeed couldn’t have said
how many ran past in their dark blue uniforms. But relating the
story later to anyone who asked, Saeed said, “Maybe fifty.”

The next thing that happened was that officers stationed them-
selves on both sides of the ticket booth, talking with the drivers and
looking into cars going in and out. None of the officers said a word
to Saeed, who continued taking tickets and money, and occasionally
Visas and Mastercards, and sometimes giving back change. Under
the circumstances, Saeed thought it best not to tell anyone to have
a nice day.

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Patty Somlo is the author of The First to Disappear, a Finalist in the
International Book Awards, Best Book Awards, and National Indie
Excellence Awards; Even When Trapped Behind Clouds: A Memoir
of Quiet Grace, which received Honorable Mention in the Reader
Views Literary Awards; and Hairway to Heaven Stories, a Finalist in
the American Fiction Awards. Born in Cleveland, Ohio, she grew
up in a military family that moved often. She currently lives with
her husband in Santa Rosa, California.

226

The Affair

By Rita Baker

It was Friday. The bar was crowded with the after work set in no
hurry to go home to a waiting little woman. Some were busy drinking
themselves into oblivion, while others were simply being sociable.

That is when he noticed her, standing out in that motley crowd
like an exotic orchid Amid a bouquet of common garden flowers.
He moved his seat to one closer to feast his eyes on this unbelievable
woman sitting on a bar stool, her long shapely legs crossed, her tight
skirt pulled well up showing a large portion of seductive thigh.

His eyes wandered to her breasts. No Bra…she didn’t need
one, they were full and firm with nipples that strained against the
low-cut bodice of an expensive gown.

His pulse raced even before his gaze took in the rest of her.
Large, dark, tempting eyes dominated an extraordinary face. Her full
red lips were slightly parted as though waiting to be kissed. A mass
of long raven hair tumbled down her back like a river of black ink.

He caught his breath. ‘Wow…’ His thoughts were racing.
‘What he could do with a woman like that, If he could just get his
hands in those thighs, those breasts…Boy! Could he teach her a thing or
two. He licked his lips and his heart hammered as though they were
already on the floor, making it.

The woman eyes were scanning the room and came to rest on
him. ‘Nice’, she thought, noticing his broad frame and large seduc-
tive hooded eyes. Immediately, her thoughts went to the bedroom
and what it would be like with such a sensual man, and her heart
stirred wildly in anticipation.

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No-one had come anywhere close to satisfying her need—not
any of her lovers, not her husband. What always started out with
promise soon gave way to disappointment, leaving her unfulfilled.
She might as well have been made love to by a machine for all the
gratification it gave her.
But there was something different about the man staring at her
from across the room that convinced her this would be different. That
he would know how to drive a woman out of her mind with pleasure.
She began to fantasize what it would be like in his arms, ex-
periencing the excitement of his hands on her breast, her thighs.
Their naked bodies touching, their lips exploring one another, their
breasts their stomachs, their…!!! She knew his voice would be low
and sexy as he whispered in her ear, ‘how good it was, how he couldn’t
get enough of her, how he wanted to…!’ She could barely breath at the
thought when suddenly those thoughts were interrupted …
“I hope I haven’t kept you waiting too long?”
Her eyes jerked to attention—It was her husband.
‘Not long enough’, she thought with a sigh as she uncrossed
her legs, slid off the stool and placed her feet, in their stiletto heeled
shoes, firmly on the thick carpet.
Passing the man on their way out of the bar, she turned her head
in his direction. Their eyes met and lingered but for a few seconds.
With a sigh of satisfaction, she smiled to herself and followed
her husband out onto the side walk.

THE SPICE OF LIFE

With small awkward steps associated with the elderly, Len and Mo
shuffled along the side-walk on their way to their favourite café. The
temperature was in the mid eighties on that August afternoon, yet they
wore their heavy cotton jackets done up to the neck. Len, thin and
frail, felt the cold no matter what the weather. For Mo it was habit.

Habit was an essential part of their daily routine. It was reassuring
to awaken in the morning and know what to expect. Neither liked
surprises. As Len often remarked ‘Surprises can give you a heart attack.’

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It was four o’clock, the time between lunch and dinner when
the café was deserted. It suited them. They knew their favorite table
in their favorite corner of the patio, from where they could watch the
goings on in the street, would be available. The same waiter, that had
attended to their needs for the past year, would be there to take their
regular order. He would be wearing a white overall tied around the
waist of his black pants. His white shirt would be open at the neck
showing the upper part of a hairy chest. And his black moustache
would be drooping at the corners like one of those singing waiters
from the ‘good old days’ as Len an Mo referred to them. The propri-
etor would be standing in the doorway of the café, his shirt sleeves
rolled up, a cigar drooping at the corner of his mouth. Nothing ever
changed and it was comforting.
“Hi Len, Mo.”
It was the proprietor. They nodded acknowledgement and took
their usual seats.
The waiter, lazily, sauntered over. Len glanced up at him,
frowned and asked, “Where’s Bob?”
His red hair standing up in spikes, “Gone…!” he replied.
Len shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Gone…! Gone where?”
“Gone like in left. Got another job” he said with a smirk.
With a huff, Len turned to his friend. “What do you think of
that…! Didn’t even say a word to us about it”. Somewhat agitated,
he turned to the waiter, “Bring us two coffees. Make sure they are
fresh brewed and piping hot. Mo, here will have a vermouth, and I
will have a cognac.”
“With the coffee?”
“Of course with the coffee.’’ He frowned. Bob would never have
asked such a stupid question. ‘’And make sure that it’s piping hot.”
“The coffee…?”
“If we wanted the drinks hot I would have said,” he shrugged,
annoyed.
Mo shook his head when the waiter had gone. “Why must the
coffee always be piping hot? You know you never drink it until it’s
cold”.
“You should know by now, I like to sit and wait for it to get cold.”

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Len made an inpatient gesture with his hand. “Crazy!” he mur-
mured.
“And you are not! You hate vermouth, so why do you always
order it?”
“There is a logical reason for that. If I ordered something I liked,
I would finish it off too quickly, then, what would I have to sit over?”
“Some logic…!”
The waiter returned and with cold detachment placed the
coffee and liqueurs on the table and left.
Len’s eyes followed him for a few seconds before returning to
Mo. “Don’t like him as much as Bob,” he said
“You never liked Bob.”
“I like him less,” he said, feeling his cup.
“Hot enough?” asked Mo.
Len shrugged.
They sat quietly staring into the street, when suddenly Mo
became excited. “Oh boy!” he cried. “Did you get a load of her…!
If only I were five years younger!”
“Five years! Look whose kidding themselves.”
“Like you are any better…!”
“Better than you.”
“I happen to know it has been over for you for the past twenty
years. You’re a has been!”
“And you’re a never was!”
The waiter, listening, turned to his boss. “They’ll frighten the
customers away if they don’t stop.”
“Look around,” replied the proprietor, “Do you see any cus-
tomers?”
“Waiter! Waiter!” called Len
“What now,” muttered the waiter and sauntered over. “Yeah?”
“The coffee is cold already. Bring another, and make sure it’s
hot this time, and fresh brewed.”
Swearing under his breath, the waiter snatched up the cup,
slopping some of its contents into the saucer, and headed for the
kitchen.
“What is it?” asked the proprietor.

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“He wants another, fresh and hot, he said. Like the other one
wasn’t.”
“Put it in the microwave. He’ll never know the difference,”
Blue steam rising, the waiter placed the coffee in front of Len.
If his intention had been to drink it right away, he would have re-
ceived third degree burns.
Mo stared at the steam, then at Len. “You know, if I were that
waiter I would have spit in your cup,” he said.
“Well now you know why I never have coffee at your place…!”
“They glared at one another for a moment before turning their
attention to the street again, amusing themselves by making fun of
people as they passed.
Suddenly Mo laughed, “Hey, take a look at that one, sneakers
with a suit. No dress sense. not like in our days, eh Len!”
“I don’t recall you having much dress sense. Your ties never
matched your shirts, and your shirts never matched your suits.”
“You can talk! I remember you turning up to my sister’s wed-
ding looking like you were going to a funeral with that black tie.”
“The invitation said black tie and it was the only black tie I had.
At least I gave a wedding present. It was more than you did when
you came to my sister’s wedding.”
“It was her third marriage. How many presents am I supposed
to give!”
“Huh!” Snapped Len and looked away in disgust.
Suddenly “Hey look. Look what that one is wearing,” laughed
Mo.
“What? Where?”
“You missed it. You’re too slow to catch a cold.”
“I had two colds last winter, and you gave me both.”
“Complaining again—always complaining.”
They continued staring and passing remarks about everyone
passing on their way to wherever until the cheque arrived.
With a glance, Len pushed it over to Mo. “Your turn.”
Mo pushed it back. “I paid last time.”
“You think I can’t remember from yesterday to today, you
skin flint.”

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“Me, a skin flint. I pay three times to your once.”
“Liar!”
“Don’t call me a liar, you liar.”
Watching, the waiter caught his breath “They will soon come
to blows,” he cried.
The proprietor smiled. “Not to worry, just wait and watch,”
Suddenly, Len snatched up the cheque. “Alright,” he grum-
bled, “I’ll pay this time. But don’t think I’ll forget.”
Relieved, the waiter took the money and returned with the
change only to witness Mo digging into his pocket to give Len his
share of the cheque.
Then, as though no words had passed between them, they
helped one another to their feet; Mo showing concern for Lens ar-
thritis. Len reminding Mo to put on his cap to protect his balding
head from the sun.
“I can’t believe it,” exclaimed the waiter, “and after all that
bickering.”
“That’s right!” said the proprietor, “and it happens that way
every time.”
“Then what was the point of the argument?”
“The point, my young friend, is that when you reach their stage
of life, the only spice left is argument.”

Rita Baker is a Canadian writer with a british background who
enjoys usung her past as inspiration for her novels. After the death
of her mother Baker lived a harrowing childhood full of turmoil and
disarray that has since helped her to create compelling, realistic char-
acters in her novels. Baker’s marriage to a british lawyer has helped
her develop a superior insight into the workings of the legal mind.
Baker currently resides in Toronto, Canada.

232

Yes, I can!

By Janine Desvaux

“Coach B. asked me again about try-outs, Mama.” I hold my breath
and cross my fingers behind my back, waiting for a reply. The kind
of waiting that’s calm on the surface, but churns underneath.

Steam slithers from under the trembling lid of the pot on the
stove, the pungent aroma of cardamom and hot pepper fills the small
space. Tagalegan comfort food.

Except it’s not.
Next to me, Mama washes rice at the sink. Deep furrows
squeeze her plucked eyebrows. “Tell him you don’t want to try out.”
Exasperation tugs on her vocal chords.
“But I do, Mama.”
A key turns in the lock. Our eyes meet. “Sh.” She purses her
lips and places her index finger on mine.
Wish I were 6 years-old. A tantrum would be acceptable.
The hinges creak as the door closes. Her finger lifts. She glides
to the front entrance to meet my father. “How was your day?” She
asks, taking his brief case.
“Busy,” he mumbles.
Following in his wake, Mama carries his satchel to his office.
Their voices float to me in wisps from the far end of the corridor.
After a little while, Mama returns to her pot on the stove. She
stirs the contents and replaces the lid.
Papa’s shoes always seem to be half a size too big. The heels
flap on the naked wooden floor of the hallway as he approaches the
front of the house. From my vantage point in the kitchen, I follow

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his every move. In the living room, he adjusts the angle on the hor-
izontal slats of the window blinds, so they deflect the light and give
him the privacy he craves. A faint light emanates from the upright
lamp in the corner opposite the window, enhancing the atmosphere
of dread and gloom. Papa seats himself in his recliner across from the
large screen on the wall. He reaches for the remote on the side table
by his chair and clicks on a button. Instantly, the television comes
to life with the news in Tagalegan.

The evening ritual has begun.
Tagalega, our homeland, an island in the northern part of the
Indian Ocean, is alive here, our adopted country. Papa insists on it.
Although he has lived in America for over a decade, he still clings
to the customs of his faraway land, unwilling to let go, anxious to
retain his identity.
I wish he and Mama would let me have my own uniqueness. I
am an American, growing up in northern Virginia, that’s what I am,
not a Tagalegan.
“Anifa,” he calls. “Tea’s ready?”
At his words, my heart somersaults in my chest. It never fails.
You know it’s coming. Do what you’re supposed to do. The little
voice inside my head scolds.
Rushing, I fill the kettle and turn on the burner. “Coming, Papa.”
Water’s boiling. Tray’s ready with Papa’s glass in its silver
holder next to the porcelain teapot.
Double check everything.
The minty fragrance tickles my nostrils as I carry the steeping
tea and lay the platter on the table next to his chair. “Here you are.”
“Thank you. You didn’t put too much sugar, did you?” He
glances at the teapot. When his eyes reach me, I make a face.
“No, Papa.”
I scurry out of the room, but falter in the doorway as his severe
tone hits me. “Not so fast!”
His stare burns a hole in my neck.
“Didn’t you forget something?” he asks.
Body rigid as if hewn out of oak, hands glued to the sides, I
don’t turn around. A moment passes before I lower my head, and
pivot towards him. “Yes?” Anxiety taints my voice.

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“Here.” Mama stands next to me in the entryway, holding a
glass flask. Its opaque deep blue color masks the orange blossom oil
inside.
Without a word, I grab the bottle and look up for a fleeting
moment. An image flashes: shards of glass flying everywhere as a blue
shape hits the tile floor. I cover a swift gush of fear which sweeps
through me. The vision pales into nothingness. I wish.
Anger rises to the tip of my ears where its heat settles. Helpless,
I step across to the living room and my father’s chair. Kneeling on
the throw rug, I rest my bottom on my heels. My breath on hold,
I remove his shoes and socks and wait for the warm leathery smell
to rise past my nose before massaging his sweaty feet with the oil. I
settle them in the tub of warm water Mama sets down. After a few
minutes, I pull the towel she throws on my shoulder, dry his feet
and slide them in his slippers.
In the bathroom I scrub the oil off my hands and from under
my nails, but a hint of the sickening sweet fragrance lingers.
Stupid custom!
Will Papa ever accept he belongs here? Here, in this culture, where
daughters don’t have to rub their dads’ feet to show their respect. Coach
B’s daughter doesn’t have to knead her father’s feet. Neither does my best
friend, Libby. Why do I have to?



After dinner, Papa leaves for his shisha sharing evening at one of his
friends’ houses. The men take turns getting together at each other’s
place to smoke mostly fruit-based tobacco in a Hookah, a waterpipe.
Although Papa regularly smokes in his office, Mama has managed to
keep the noisy gathering away from our house. She pretends being
allergic to tobacco smoke.

Ah. She got around Papa’s tradition. How come I can’t?
Sometimes, when Papa’s away, attending to his habit, Mama
and I spend the time chatting in my bedroom. Tonight, we sit cross-
legged on the carpeted floor.
“Mama, why did Papa come here?”

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Hands on her folded knees, Mama rocks on her bottom to
some imaginary cadence. “He applied for the Green Card Lottery
for fun, he wasn’t serious about leaving home. But when he was
accepted, you were already 2 years old, so he thought it would be
better for you.”
Okay, I get that. So why doesn’t better mean letting me grow up
like girls do here?
“Mama, but why does Papa hang on to the old ways?”
She stops moving and drops her head in her open palms.
“Tchah!” She mutters. “Anifa.” She lifts her head and contemplates
me. “Papa was raised in the traditional way in his village. Upholding
these beliefs here gives him stability.” Her eyes are soft, but her voice
says, why can’t you understand?
“Playing soccer is traditional.” I insist. My fisted hands press
into my knees. “Papa plays on the Tagalegan soccer team. Why can’t
I play on my school team?”
Mama’s brow is pinched. Her jaw line delineates her clenched
teeth. “Boys, Anifa, only boys play soccer.”
“No, Mama.” I shake my head and rub my clammy hands on
my jeans. “It’s not fair.” I blink fast to keep the tears from spilling
over. “Papa doesn’t live in the village anymore, so why should the
ways of a faraway land, I don’t even know, affect our life here? This
is America. Girls play soccer here. My high school has an all-girl
team. Why can’t I participate like my friend Libby and all ninth
graders who qualify?”
I let frustration burst forth, aware I’m treading on dangerous
grounds. One misstep and Mama may refuse to intercede whenever
I need permission to spend the night at Libby’s or to attend evening
school activities.
But no sooner are my words out, that a silent, somber cloak
envelops us. Thoughts collide in my brain, feelings in my heart, but
I’m unable to articulate either.
All at once, the front door slams. We jump. Mama’s smile is
watery, grateful for the intrusion, I think.
“Oh! Papa’s back.” She springs to her feet. “Goodnight.” She
drops a hasty kiss on my head as she rushes out the door.

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I listen to her hurried footsteps, and my thoughts find expres-
sion. Papa wishes I were a boy, so he could play soccer with me. It’s
not my fault if I’m a girl. Girls can play soccer too.
Yes, I can! I’ll show him.



The next day I stop by the athletic office after classes.
“Hey.” Coach B. greets me from behind his desk. “Decided

to try out?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Great.” He pulls a form from a folder marked “Registration”.

“Have your parent sign this and return it tomorrow. Okay?” His
smiling eyes scan mine.

My heart sinks. The icy fingers of panic claw at my chest. “A
parent must sign? Why?” I ask.

“Just a formality,” he says.
Watery-limbed, I scrutinize the sheet of paper. “Okay,” I
whisper.
A formality. More like a calamity. I scoot out the door to catch
my bus.
For sure my parents aren’t going to sign this. No way!
Libby’s already on the bus. I plop in the aisle seat next to her.
“How come you didn’t tell me I needed my parents’ signa-
ture?” It feels like a volcano is getting ready to erupt in my belly.
Her blue eyes open wide. She stares and shakes her head. I
think I see an inner struggle play across her face. “But—. You know
we need permission for everything.”
We fall silent. The clouds seem to close in. The sun fails. The
distant thunder echoes the rumble in my gut.
Libby drapes her arm around my shoulder. “What are you
going to do?”
I shrug and bite through my lip. My fingers wrap themselves
around each other in my lap for comfort. “I’ll think of something.”
Should have thought about the permission slip before making plans
with Libby. The little voice nags.

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Libby retrieves her arm. She flicks shaggy strands of blond hair
from her forehead, peering at me. “What?”

“I don’t know yet.” I punctuate every word with a shake of my
head, sending my ponytail to swing in sync with each movement.

Catching it in mid motion, I bring it to my lips. “Wait a
minute. Maybe.”

“Maybe what?” Libby’s voice quivers.
I don’t respond.
She blows her bangs away from her eyes. “What?” she asks,
punching my left shoulder.
My eyes drift towards her knitted eyebrows. “You can’t get in
trouble for something you don’t know, right?”
She shrugs. “Just don’t do anything dumb.” She turns her head
to the bus window.
“Hey.” I nudge her. “But if I do, you’ll still be there for me,
right? We’ll do like we planned?”
She glares at me. “Like you planned, you mean.”
“Whatever.”
A memory emerges out of the clutter of my mind. Papa uses a
rubber stamp. He ordered it through the internet and showed it to
Mama and me. If I can find that stamp, signing the sheet will be a cinch.
My stop is next. I pat Libby on the leg. “See ya.”
I edge towards the front of the bus, balancing my book bag
on my back.
The rearview mirror reflects the bus driver shaking her finger
at me. “Sit.” She mouths.
I ignore her.
The bus stops. Squeezing through the gap between the opening
doors, I jump on the sidewalk, turn, and give the driver a thumbs-up
sign as the doors fold shut. She shakes a finger at me with a smile
and pulls away.
The rain has come and gone. The sun peeks behind fraying
clouds. Wish my life would reflect that cycle.



My galloping heart slows to a trot.
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Silence shrouds the house. “Mama,” I call. The hum of the fridge’s
motor fills the void.
Nobody’s home. No time to waste.
Inside my father’s office I catch a waft of stale tobacco. Scan-
ning the space reveals the stamp atop the closed inkpad, lodged in
the far corner of his desk.
In plain view. Had my father known….
Shame. Deceit. The little voice’s at it again. I shake it off. No guilt.
Memorizing its location, I pick up the stamp, lift the lid,
careful not to get any ink on my fingers. With the arrow on the
back of the mold pointing in the right direction, I press the stamp on
the ink and transfer the imprint to the appropriate line on the form.
Banging car doors jar me. I will my heart to slow down. My
things gathered and bunched against my chest, I dash into my room
and flop on my bed. Relief pulls my shoulders down. Disgrace gnaws
at my insides. I quell the little voice.
It’ll pass. A small bad for a big good. Tomorrow I’ll turn in the
sheet and be ready for tryouts.



Two days later Coach B’s voice booms over the loudspeaker. “Would
the following students please come by my office this morning?”

I bolt down the hallway to the athletic office against the flow
of students jostling to classes.

Coach B. grabs my eyes with his. “Congratulations, Anifa!” He
shakes my hand and acknowledges each new team member gathered
around him. “Practice starts tomorrow after school. Be on time.” He
turns to the smiling faces around him. “Now, get to class.”

“We made it.” Libby trots to class alongside me. “I’m soooo
excited.” She throws her fists in the air. “Yeah!”

“Yep. So am I.”
“You sure don’t sound like it.” She frowns.
“I am.” My stomach does flip-flops. “What if my mom finds
out?” I twirl a loose strand of hair between the thumb and index
finger of my right hand.

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Libby stops. She doesn’t look at me. “I knew it.” She lowers
her voice. “You faked their signature.”
“You don’t know that. Remember?” Students pass around us
in the hallway. “Let’s go, we’ll be late.” I pull on her hand.
We take a few steps. Libby stops again, hands on hips, eye-
brows raised. “Come on, Anifa. Too late to worry now, isn’t it?
What about your plan?”
“Let’s go. We’re going to get in trouble.” I pull on the strap
of her book bag.
She jerks my hand away and refuses to budge. “Didn’t you tell
your mom Honor Society students have to tutor, that’s why you’re
staying after school every day?”
I nod.
“What’s the problem then? My mom will take us home; I’m
washing your uniform when I do my laundry.”
My stomach roils. “Won’t your mom wonder why you’re
doing my laundry?
The corners of her mouth crease, presaging the hint of a smile.
“I’m not doing your laundry, just washing your uniform so you
won’t stink. Besides, I do my own laundry.”
A grin stretches my lips against my will. “What have you told
your mom about my problem?” I chew on my nail.
She does a grinding motion with her right foot on the tile floor.
“Only that your parents don’t like the idea of your playing soccer,
you might get hurt. Your mother doesn’t drive. Your father works
late.” She looks up and nods. “Okay?”
“Mm-hmm. If my parents were like yours I wouldn’t have to
lie, would I?” Frustration leaks into my voice.
Libby lowers her head. “Nope.”



Thanks to Libby’s help and her mom’s, my cover holds throughout
the season. I change out of my uniform back into my school clothes
before going home every day after practice and after every game. On
the field I do my best. I follow Coach’s instructions and try to keep

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SHORT STORIES
up with the more experienced players, the ones who had played in
middle school last year.

At home Mama doesn’t seem to be concerned. “I know you’re
safe coming home with Libby’s mom,” she says without asking any
questions.

The little voice gets louder. Is Mama suspicious? Is that why she
doesn’t ask any questions? Is she embarrassed? Your shame is also hers.

The season nears the end.
“That’s it huh. Last game.” Libby sighs, staring out the bus
window on the way back to our school. I reach for her hand. She turns
toward me, her eyes moist. “You did it.” Her smile erases the sadness.
“Not yet.”
“You didn’t get caught.”
“Sure. Thanks to you and your mom. But I have things to clear
up with my parents.”
Libby squeezes my hand. “Are you telling them about the ban-
quet next week?”
“No way! I’ll stay after school as usual, and go home with you.
Can I?”
“Yep.”



After the awards ceremony, Libby and her mom drop me off. We
hug. There’s a lump in my throat. Words can’t get pass. Thank you,
friend.

My hand rests on the knob just long enough to take a deep,
steadying breath before opening the front door.

On the other side Mama’s footsteps resonate. “You’re late to-
night,” she says, her voice trembling as when she’s anxious. In the
dim hallway light, I can’t read the emotion etched in her face.

“There was a special celebration.” I peck her cheek.
She caresses my face and leads the way into the living room
where Papa is glued to his beloved Tagalegan channel, his glasses
perched on top of his bald head, his feet planted in his gray house
slippers.

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It takes a moment for my brain to compute the message my
eyes just sent. He’s wearing his house slippers. But I can’t dwell on it
right now. A more pressing task is at hand.
Mama stays by my side. We remain standing in front of his
chair.
He looks up.
The tremor in my legs intensifies. “I have something for you,
Papa,” I say in an even tone, head lowered.
He clicks off the television, plunging the room in semi obscu-
rity. “What is it?” The whites of his eyes seem brighter and more
menacing.
Magician like, my right hand pulls away from behind my
back and reaches out to him. “Here, it’s the Most Improved Player
trophy. I earned it in soccer.” My voice wavers. Something catches
in my throat. “I. Uh… I did it for you, Papa.”
Mama fidgets.
I catch a complicit exchange between her and Papa. I hear the
clock ticking in the kitchen. Seconds ticktock.
“Anifa,” he says with authority. “Sit here.” He taps a spot on
the couch close to his chair.
He waits for me to walk around Mama and sit. “In our
country,” he says in a voice deeper than usual, prideful. “Girls don’t
play soccer.” He strokes the statuette in his lap. “You don’t know
that, you were so little when we left.” He closes his eyes and pinches
the bridge of his nose. “Today, my daughter plays soccer.” He seems
to droop and suddenly looks tired.
My heart tells me to put my arms around him, but his culture
discourages such a gesture. “Papa,” I whisper. “I didn’t mean to be
disrespectful. Soccer is your all-time favorite sport. I wanted you to
be proud of me.”
Mama clears her throat. “Papa is proud of you, Anifa.” She tilts
her head back pointing her chin in his direction. “Tell her, Papa.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “Yes.” He holds my trophy
straight in front of him and stares at it. “It’s good. You win.” His
words are flat. He sets the symbol of my accomplishment on the
floor next to his chair.

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Shame steals the words from my tongue. It spreads over me like
an itchy blanket. My head hangs over my belly.
After a little while courage seeps in. “I faked your signature on
the permission slip. I’m sorry.” Tears pool in my lap.
Mama moves in next to me on the couch and pats my leg. I
feel Papa eyeing me. “Anifa,” he says. “You were foolish. Maybe I,
too, was foolish.”
I turn to face him. He looks away. I cut my eyes to Mama, but
she swerves her head in the other direction. Questions bump into
each other on my tongue, but none come forth. Foolish! How was
I foolish?
He twists his fingers in his lap. “You insult Mama and me. First
day, we know you use stamp.” The way he threads his words tells
me he’s uncomfortable.
I gape at him, unbelieving. They knew? As understanding sinks
into my consciousness, my shoulders sag under the weight of humil-
iation and embarrassment.
“Anifa.” Mama says. “As soon as Papa walked in his office he
knew something was not right on his desk. You know how he likes
everything in its place, don’t you?”
Words refuse to let themselves be heard. I nod.
“You hadn’t closed the inkpad. You had left it on the edge of
the desk with the stamp on the bare ink.” She says.
Foolish! But why did they keep quiet?
“I was stubborn.” Papa regains his composure. “I didn’t want
to learn new ways, to get use to another lifestyle. You helped me see
I can have both.” His words are soft around the edges.
Mama clasps my hands in hers. “I talked to Coach,” she says,
looking away from me. “He suggested giving you the chance to
prove yourself; he arranged everything with Libby’s mother, so Papa
and I wouldn’t worry.”
I gesture, not trusting my voice.
My parents understand.
A warm feeling flows through me. “I’m sorry for everything.”
I hug Mama.

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Papa cracks his fingers. He’s not ready for a daughterly embrace. I
shake his hand. With a grin, he picks up the trophy, caresses it, and
places it on the table next to him.
His slippers catch my eye as I pick up my book bag. Maybe
Papa can now dispense with the evening ritual. Yes, he can!

Janine MJ Desvaux.  An uprooted islander from Mauritius in the
Indian Ocean, and a former High School Language Teacher, Ja-
nine MJ Desvaux devotes her time to tutoring students in need of
academic support, and pursuing her own writing goals. Alongside
her career as an educator, her passion for visual art blossomed. Her
watercolors having won recognition in competitions in the United
States and abroad. A few years ago, she set aside her paints and
brushes and transitioned to her keyboard and screen. At the onset,
she sought help from The Institute of Children’s Literature in Con-
necticut, where she was awarded two Diplomas. She’s currently a
member of the international online critique group, Critique Circle.
Her creative fiction piece entitled The Making of Sugar: A Memory
placed First in the 2014 Writers-Editors Network International
Writing Competition. Her debut Young Adult short story, A World
Apart: a story of innocent love was published in 2011. Moving for-
ward, Janine continues her work with students while improving her
writing skills. In the same way her island flora fed her imagination
as a watercolorist, her multicultural, multilingual and multiethnic
culture fuels her imagination as a writer. A native French speaker, Ja-
nine has lived in and traveled to several countries around the world.
She has two daughters, three grandsons and one granddaughter. She
resides with her companion in Virginia.

244

The Halogen Burn

By Mark Albro

They stood on a Mulholland Drive viewing point, back lit against
downtown Los Angeles, panoramic vistas of streets and trees, build-
ings, distant hills, the Pacific Ocean lapping against coastal com-
munities, Catalina Island lurking on the horizon. Of course, only a
monthful of days in any year allowed Angelenos to see that, which
somehow made it appropriately L.A. In such a perplexing metrop-
olis, what was truth anyway?

“Have I ever been here before?” George asked.
Across the concrete conurbation, they gazed at anarchic archi-
tecture.
“Not with me. And I didn’t realize it would be so hot,” Jeremy
said. “I’m sorry. I forget about how hot it is downtown.”
They were on their way to a concert at Disney Hall.
“You work downtown,” George said.
“But I forget about the heat. I go up and down in the elevator,
eat in the conference room, rush around in the underground mall.
I never notice. It’s as if the Westside were in another state.” Jeremy
flapped his shirt and George caught a whiff of his masculine scent.
“Thank God we don’t live on this side of town. One might as well
move to Barstow and be done with it.”
George stepped to the edge. The sun glowed on glassy surfaces.
He felt green-eyed, elegant, Amherst and Harvard educated Jeremy’s
hand in the middle of his back, a big hand with sensitive fingers, a
hand that played the piano with finesse and tossed a football with
graceful ease. They stood quietly.

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“Do you remember why Tolstoy is my favorite author?”
George asked.
“Something about chest hair,” Jeremy said. “Wait, wait, don’t
tell me … it was Anna Karenina, when Vronsky takes his shirt off
and Tolstoy makes a point of stressing his virility, so he goes on
about Vronsky’s hairy chest. You loved it. That’s why he’s your fa-
vorite.”
George watched the view in silence, then he said, “I was dif-
ferent when you met me.”
“You weren’t.”
“I was. I was witty and vibrant.”
George felt Jeremy staring at him. Even without turning,
George caught the halogen burn of Jeremy’s eyes, narrowed in the
sunlight. “I thought of you then as I think if you now.”
“And so says Trisha Yearwood.”
“What?”
“It sounded country western. You didn’t think I was witty?”
George had no investment in vibrant. Vibrant sounded manic-de-
pressive, but witty seemed to signify.
“Clever and cute. Sincerely cute. A great butt on an adorable
townie. Incredible combination. I loved it when you came to watch
me play Lacrosse. I’d see you standing there and, honestly, I’d chase
the field thinking of you.”
“Was sincerely cute better than witty and vibrant?”
“Better in bed.”
George grimaced, swiftly, unexpectedly; he wasn’t sure why.
“Look,” Jeremy said, “they’re just words. Let’s say you were
witty and vibrant, then.”
“But you’ve already made clear that I wasn’t.”
Jeremy sighed.
“Is that Dodger Stadium? George asked.
“I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re looking at, but you
can’t see Dodger Stadium from here.”
“Oh.”
A group of tourists rollicked down the hillside, peering with
satisfaction at the clustered high-rise buildings of downtown.

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George stepped a bit closer to the edge. “It’s getting prettier.”
The setting sun glowed mauve now on shiny surfaces.
Jeremy came up next to him and nuzzled his shoulder. “God,
you look great tonight.”
George wanted to say something like, ‘You too,” or, ‘You look
like a Brooks Brother’s model in that suit,’ anything fondly attentive.
But he found it impossible. He refused to look at the blinding light
of flawless Jeremy and remained riveted on the buildings, glowing
red in their flawed imperfection.
“What’s the matter?” Jeremy asked.
“Nothing,” George said, looking at the several miles of tum-
bled hillside below them.
Jeremy put his arm around George’s shoulder and kissed his
neck. George again sniffed the clean, strong aroma of his cologne.
“You haven’t been shaving,” George said. “You’re scratchy.”
“You want me to have the semi-bearded scruffy look.”
George shrugged.
“Well, I’ve been operating off the premise that you liked it.”
“Who operates his life off premises?” George said, shifting out
from under Jeremy’s arm and finally looking at him. He saw Jere-
my’s eyes dim with injury.
“I’m sure people do. They just express it differently.”
George looked at his handsome husband. Again, he shrugged.
“It’s a silly thing to talk about.”
“I’m concerned about you,” Jeremy said,
“I’m sorry. Now I’ve made you get a tone. I don’t want to be
irritating.”
“I’m serious. I’m concerned about you.”
“I know that,” George whispered, closing his eyes against a sudden
upwelling of tears. “Sometimes I think that I’m living in the stage set
of my dreams, which isn’t the same thing as living out my dreams.”
Jeremy seemed mystified. “I don’t understand.”
“It’s not an understanding thing. It’s a feeling thing. Feelings
are voiceless.” He paused. “I chose this life.”
Jeremy again put his arm around George’s shoulder. It had
a hot electric charge. Jeremy felt so alive, brimming with vitality,

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power and control. He even smelled assertive. George felt a sense of
safety and danger in equal proportion; Jeremy’s embrace was succor
and whip, comforting and smothering.

“Is this how you seduced your sailing instructor when you were
sixteen?”

“Seventeen. And he asked me to screw him to his bunk like a
piece of plywood. He seduced me. You know the story.”

George closed his eyes, feeling Jeremy’s arm like a noose.
Jeremy leaned away to look at him. “Are you crying?”
“No.” George’s emotions quivered. A creeping paralysis
gripped him. He voiced no thoughts. Wishing himself far away was
an impossibility. He was here; he was utterly here.
Jeremy’s arm squeezed tighter. “Better get going. It’s so hard to
park. There’s no purpose in the design of those garages. I’d happily
strangle whoever designed them.”
“And you could,” George said. He grasped one of Jeremy’s
strong hands. “I’m certain of it.”
Mark Albro.  I am from Québec, where I currently live. I have a BA
in English from McGill University and a MPhil in littérature com-
parée from Université Paris-Sorbonne (Paris IV). I have published
in Revue de littérature comparée and other scholarly journals. My
first novel, Keeping Gloria Swanson, will be published by Adelaide
Press in Fall, 2019.

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