Adelaide Literary Magazine No. 11, January 2018

Revista Adelaide

I don’t disagree with Josh’s comments, but I can’t Shit. The numbers 169 pass my eyes as the train
fathom how he says the words so casually like speeds off to its next desƟnaƟon. I was supposed
they don’t just slice me right open and sink into to get off at Kew Gardens. My mind’s wandering
blood. has gone too far this Ɵme and I start thinking that
maybe the world is right. I need to get my shit
CreaƟvity is a privilege and yet it never really just together. I need to have a plan. I need to think
comes easy does it? I feel it fade out of existence pracƟcally. Right now, though, there is nothing to
in the world each day, slowly and slowly as my do other than to face my new reality. The doors
work weeks accumulate. I start wondering who open and I step out onto the plaƞorm of the
that bright eyed, opƟmist was with her paint- 179th street staƟon.
brushes and persistent dreams years ago. I can’t
find her when I stare at my disheveled appear- I don’t know what urges me to exit the staƟon
ance in the mirror each morning as I get ready for rather than catch another train to get home. It’s
another dull day. already 6 in the aŌernoon and I’m hungry and I
need to run a shitload of errands before I sink
Where did the dreamer go and when exactly was into my bed and fall asleep. I know all of this in-
the moment that she disappeared? I used to be formaƟon and yet it just doesn’t process to my
so sure of myself and just a year ago, I would’ve body. It’s like my legs have minds of their own
shut down Josh’s cynicism with such a passion and they are leading me to another home. A for-
that he would’ve flinched and immediately exited goƩen home that is preƩy much ancient by now.
the train. Today, I am calmer and only listening to
what he has to say, processing the strange words That blue and gold sign stands proudly with the
that make so liƩle sense to me. I don’t know if Fleur-de-lis symbol. My high school is sƟll the
that passivity is called maturity or ignorance. same tall, rich structure that reminds me of a cas-
tle. I pass the black gates and sigh at the chains
“Alright, it was good to see you again. I’ll give you pulled over the side entrance I had always gone
a call and we can hang out for real another Ɵme.” through. I climb the high, never ending hill that
He pats me swiŌly across the shoulder and then used to be such a struggle during gym class. I
skiƩers out through the closing doors. don’t wait for anyone to tell me it’s too late or to
shoo me away. I run toward the coƩage, the one
I can’t believe that’s it? Just like that, he leaves place I always could count on for comfort in my
me to the mess of my boiling thoughts. The storm youth.
he started is brewing and now he’s just going to
get off at his stop and I’ll be the one that’s stuck. The door swings open so easily when I push it. I
wish life could happen as easily too. I flick on the
More people rush in. These strangers fill the emp- lights and have my moment of nostalgia. The
ty space and I’m too dazed to noƟce I’m blocking room is full of pictures hanging on the walls.
their way. Once again, I’m just here in everyone’s There are so many designs celebraƟng fall and
way and the world is moving on. It’s got no place every direcƟon I look has a brilliant splash of col-
for me. or. I even see the Elvis Presley and James Dean
posters that my teacher used to hang up out of
How is it that I can be so mad at him and at the love and inspiraƟon. I wish she were here right
same Ɵme thankful for his pracƟcal view of the now so I could just hear her beauƟful words.
world? My old friend means well, but his cynicism Draw what you see. They were never too compli-
is not of his own making. He has become a prod- cated, but they always did the trick at bringing
uct of the dark world we live in, where creaƟvity out the best art and encouraging us to have fun
barely has room so it dies away slowly. He doesn’t with it no maƩer what.
see colors when he looks at a blank canvas. He
doesn’t try to ask quesƟons or take the Ɵme to I miss the stools with their cold steel against my
ponder a scene as I had this morning. For him and restless legs. It only took a swiŌ turn to catch a bit
all the rest, it’s a great rush that never ends. of the rays peeping in from the windows. The
Work, eat, sleep and do it all over again. This fran- music would rise high because there weren’t any
Ɵc, thoughtless cycle that is done with nothing rules. We were free and happy, away from the
but the drive of making money. What a cruel way
to kill ourselves and submit to conformity.

149

Adelaide Magazine

world’s sharp cynicism. You didn’t have to like some way, shape or form. Yet, I feel it now
everyone to get along. You didn’t have to hate stronger then I felt it before.
them to pick a fight. Our emoƟons drove forward,
untamed and curved like my hair when I didn’t So, I turn off my rambling mind and grab a piece
care to brush it. I was happy for just those 45 of plain white canson paper. It’s the rough kind
minutes each day of the week in art class. with a bit of texture. I always did like that type of
paper beƩer than the smooth and glossy. There
This coƩage was another home. It was my hum- are so many supplies lining up the shelves, but I
ble bit of solitude away from home and from go straight for the blue pack of pastels. I open it
school. It was my sacred whisper of inspiraƟon in and feel a wave of euphoria move through me as I
the Ɵmes when life simply did not make any stare at all the different colors. I don’t even both-
sense. I didn’t understand who I was as I sat in er sketching too much of an outline. I draw the
class and failed at just about everything. I didn’t simple curve of a vase I see on the table. Then, I
know who I was at home when even the ones I gently take one of the golden yellow chalks and
loved failed to understand what I felt. Maybe the run it near my line. As my fingers touch that
fault was mine for not being able to convey well smooth, powdery chalk, I feel I’m where I
enough as well. should’ve been all along. I press down on the pa-
per and smile as the first streak is made. I add
Though, with just a couple of Prisma colored pen- other colors and make sure each one blends, but
cils and some Canson paper, I could express what not too much. Everyone used to take their hands
words failed to tell. I’d sketch and erase a million and rub the pastels together way too much in art
Ɵmes over, but it didn’t maƩer. I kept creaƟng class. I always preferred to leave the image a liƩle
without feeling any pressure to be talented or to more rough so you could see the highlights and
actually do something with my pieces. It was nev- the contrast. Life is like that too. It’s never just
er about that. one thing or another. It’s full of contrasts and ups
and downs and all of it should be honored as be-
It was all just raw emoƟon flowing out of me so ing real and authenƟc.
naturally, so intricately. I loved every second I
would spend staring at a picture of a face or a As I sit here, I am in awe. At how everything I
landscape and then trying to capture all those need to say just comes out. It’s like my insides are
details onto a sheet of paper. spilling out onto the canvas. It doesn’t struggle. It
just flows right out of me onto this canvas and
The cool thing that everyone else seemed to for- somehow becomes art. I don’t call it art though
get, was that drawing out an image was not really and I don’t get how the rest of the world does
about exact precision. It wasn’t about copying it. either. To me, it’s emoƟon. Simply put, it’s emo-
If that was the case, why not trace it and be Ɵon that has been physicalized and set free into
done? Save yourself from the shreds of dirty pink the world. It’s rough, raw moving emoƟon that I
eraser flaking on the page and the thought of have liƩle control over but that exists nonethe-
minutes wasted on something that sƟll wasn’t less.
good enough.
Every emoƟon, good and bad and in between, are
No, the point of drawing was to express how you right here in the streaks and hues. This small ama-
saw the world. Everyone sees things differently teur piece of artwork tells the story of all the liƩle
and in it’s most profound and simplisƟc sense, parts of me I don’t know how to categorize and
drawing was for me about expressing to the simplify for the world.
world who I was as an individual. Not as a high
school student. Not as a girl. Not as a person with Oh why are we all so fucking scared of a liƩle
brown skin. Not as anything other than what I felt emoƟon? Why must it drive us mad to the point
and most of the Ɵme in my youth, I felt lost. That where we need to suppress it, push it down and
is a feeling people are always telling me to hide in pretend it does not drive us so much in this
world. EmoƟon is not specific to one gender. It’s
specific to humanity and it strikes me biƩer that
the world sƟll has not learned that lesson. It’s age

150

Revista Adelaide

old, pracƟcally wriƩen into sacred scripture but I wind sweeps into my sweater. It disrupts the pri-
guess not everyone sees it as I do. vate space and a few young girls walk in. They’ve
got those same paper porƞolios I used to lug
These days it feels like everyone has an opinion about when I was their age. Their eyes are filled
on what it means to be an arƟst, what I should be with a familiar wonder and a natural insƟnct to
creaƟng, how I should do it and how fast… I miss create whatever they want.
the simpler approach. Draw what you see. Yes, I
will never ever stop doing that because to me “Uh…. Are you a teacher miss?” One of the braver
that is the only way to live my life. I can only cre- girls asks.
ate and keep telling the world that I am here to
stay. I am me, the me that I chose when the world I laugh a strong, ruffling giggle. I haven’t laughed
tried to pull me into a million different shapes. this way in quiet some Ɵme. My whole body feels
that sensaƟon of happiness that we too oŌen
My mind goes back to Josh’s words. It’s such a take for granted. It takes the girls by surprise and
privilege to get to create something. He isn’t out of the corner of my squinted eyes, I catch a
wrong, but I feel his statement is half-baked. It is glimpse of them moving back.
a privilege to create, but it’s a privilege you have
to fight for. The fight never gets easier and the “Sorry, no I’m not a teacher darling. I’m just a…” I
world will always try to tell you who you are be- couldn’t think of the right word just then to de-
fore you’ve decided for yourself. It’s far more scribe what I was or why I was here.
difficult a task to do the thing you love because
then you’ve got everything to lose. But if I could “An arƟst.” One of the girls stood looking over my
do it all over, I’d make the same mistakes. I’d take piece on the counter.
everyone’s judgment and keep on going.
She said it once and so casually, but the words did
I close my eyes and let tears fill out on the barren fit like a puzzle piece I had been missing all this
canvas of my skin. I’ll walk out of here in a few while.
minutes. I’ll Ɵdy up the room, put away the tools
and it’ll be like nothing ever happened. The rest “Yes that is who I am.”
of the world will not know. They won’t care and
tomorrow I’ll return to work where no one knows About the Author:
who I am. No one cares to know because we’re all
too busy with our important paperwork. Numbers Sasha Chinnaya is a recent graduate from St.
and names strain our eyes, but not images. No John's University with a bachelors degree in Eng-
voice of an individual glowing strong with convic- lish. Previously, she had another one of her short
Ɵon. Here, in exactly 30 minutes I have found stories published in her school's Literary and Arts
myself in a way I never could when I’m surround- Magazine (Sequoya 2016 issue). She is also a film
ed by the paperwork. reviewer for an online magazine called Mono-
logue Blogger where she reviews a wide variety of
I throw my hands up in the air and scream with short films. She also has a passion for drawing
joy, dancing to the music playing on the small and has an instagram account featuring some of
radio and feeling, feeling everything happen all at her artwork (madetowashaway). Her aspiraƟons
once. I did it. Today, I created something. It was- for the future are to conƟnue doing as many of
n’t a masterpiece and it’s not going to win any the creaƟve things she loves while also challeng-
awards. No one might see it, but I sat down and ing her abiliƟes.
drew as passionately and vigorously as I used to.
Today I was not lazy like the rest of the world.
Today, I was an arƟst and I am so fucking proud of
just that! There was no toning down nor thinking
pracƟcally. I just acted off of raw emoƟon and it
was incredible.

I dance for a good set of minutes before the liƩle
bell on the door rings. That familiar cold gust of

151

Adelaide Magazine

CLAWS

by Vincent Yu

At first there was horror. Then relief, acceptance, “Make sure you don’t pierce through the alumi-
love. When he was old enough to go to school his num, Claws.” A round of drunk chuckles made its
parents assured him he was normal and hand- way through the circle. He smiled; it was all kind
some and if anyone were to say anything hurƞul of affecƟonate by now.
about his thing then he should go to the teacher
straight away. But the first girl to whom he’d ex- His right hand-the claw- was a stump covered in
tended a tepid hand ran away screaming, and he fleshy nubs. The index, middle, and ring finger
wasn’t sure if that counted. The second boy had barely protruded past his knuckles. His thumb and
flinched and asked, pinky were a bit more fully formed- about half the
length of normal fingers, with putaƟve nail beds
“What’s that?” that curved inward towards the palm. His leŌ
hand was a normal hand.
“My hand,” he’d said.
The beer was difficult to open but not so difficult
“It looks funny.” as boƩles, which he had to press firmly against his
chest with his claw and vigorously twist with his
“Yeah, it’s how I was born.” good hand. To be safe, he wedged the can be-
tween his thighs, then hooked his thumb beneath
It became more or less this same conversaƟon the tab and pushed up unƟl he felt the spritzing
each Ɵme. Then he got to middle school, and the crack. When he looked up everyone was staring
comments turned meaner. They called him Claws, at him. “Dude, that was impressive,” his friend
they asked him how he jerked off with that thing, said.
they sniggered at him during the unit on Johnny
Tremain. But there was a fat boy in his class, too, He was impressive. Some people even called him
whom they called Pudge. And a girl with a inspiraƟonal when they saw the kinds of normal
unibrow and hairy legs who had BO. And an Asian things he could do with his 1.5 hands (violin, as-
boy with glasses who put so much gel in his hair sorted magic tricks, watercolors, etc). They
that in the sunlight it shined like a beetle’s wing. lumped him with the inner city kids when topics
It was the great saving grace of middle school that like “triumph over adversity” rose in conversa-
he could be as mean to anyone as he wanted: Ɵon.
everyone else was, everything was fair game.
But he sƟll preferred cold weather because it
The town he grew up in was small and prosperous gave him an excuse to hide his claw in the pockets
enough to have a magnet school whose entry was of hoodies or thick jackets. On warmer days,
determined by a loƩery system that kids from when short sleeves were the only opƟon, he felt
neighboring, lower-tax-bracketed ciƟes could so exposed he could’ve been naked. He hated
enter. Most houses had two-car garages for the washing his hands, guiding the perfectly normal
minivan and the sportscar. In a friend’s basement fingers of his leŌ over and in between the knobs
his junior year of high school, he had his first of his right. His hand wriƟng was chronically bad.
beer.

152

Revista Adelaide

His typing was slow and spuƩery. He was bad at Ɵny neural sensors all over- the ones that regis-
most sports except long distance running. tered the outside world to the inside you- were
flung down your body in all sorts of subtle asym-
By the Ɵme he landed in college he was tall and metries. Most Ɵmes it was barely noƟceable, like
stringy and fairly handsome. He had a sharp nose feeling for the minute indentaƟons on a stretch of
and thick, pork chop lips. His body broadened out scoured pan, but put the body under enough sud-
at the shoulders; his throat bulged with virility. den stress and you saw how very tenuous your
His eyes contracted into a singular smirk which balance truly was.
he’d developed in response to most awkward
hand-related interacƟons. “That hoodie needs to go soon, bro. It’s looking
awfully raƩy.” His hallmate Conrad extended a
He had relaƟonships with girls who consciously hand, his leŌ.
praised themselves for their openness and ability
to see past physical flaws. He had a fling with “It’s comfortable.”
some kind of kinktress who was sexually fixated
on certain acts involving his claw and her mouth. “Not to look at.”
He went to class and someƟmes drank, he experi-
mented with recreaƟonal drugs and made a few Conrad strode into the room and landed ass first
close friends. on his bed. “How you ever get pussy is, frankly,
beyond me.”
But college was big- far bigger than his home
town. People back home might remember him as “Fuck you,” he laughed.
“the guy with the hand,” but at least he could be
dependably that, and as soon as most people “Big news from our friends on the fourth floor,”
sized up the basic gist of who you seemed to be, Conrad said carelessly. “Some kid is geƫng ex-
they could get to the deeper, messier business of pelled on account of bad grades.”
understanding who you really were. It never quite
reached that point now. Every day he walked past “Oh yeah?” he flipped through an old math text-
people whom he’d never met, for whom it book. “I didn’t think that was possible, to be hon-
seemed like a waste of Ɵme and effort to reveal est. Isn’t there a ton of grade inflaƟon?”
this abnormal part of himself, since he would nev- “I’ve seen him around. Dude’s a freak.”
er meet them again. Who wanted to be a freak
just for the sake of idenƟfying as such? He got to “-You say as you talk to the guy with a claw for a
wearing his hoodie more and more frequently. hand.”

A cold aŌernoon in November. The skeletal radia- “Nah, don’t take it personally, man. There’re peo-
tor in his dorm room was puffing up steam at a ple who are different and then there are people
worrisome pitch that he was used to. Outside his who are truly freakish, you know? It’s not as if
window, campus was shivering with dull frost and you chose to have a gimpy hand. But acƟng like a
the bare rankling fingers of deciduous trees. In nutjob and snarling at people who walk past you?
the distance he could see the shaggy-sparse jack- That’s a choice and that makes him a freak.”
et of firs creeping up the New England mountains.
“You’re quite the humanist.”
His room was in an isolated corner of the 3rd
floor of a brutalist student housing complex over- “I’m sure if you saw him you’d recognize him.
looking the science quad and a porƟon of the Hard to miss, really. Just gives off the wrong kind
gothic-style freshman housing units. It was a mar- of vibe. Scares off all the girls.”
velous place in which to recede on cold, silent
days of autumn laziness. He was wrapped in such “Not my current forte either,” he said into the
a warm blanket of content that the sudden knock glum sheen of the book.
on his door almost threw him off his chair.
“You’ll be fine as long you stop wearing that fuck-
Another thing they never told you about having ing hoodie.”
a claw- that you would be forever off-kilter. The
So later that night he pulled on a buƩoned down
shirt, and when he and Conrad found seats at the
bar, he even brought his claw out from the shell

153

Adelaide Magazine

of his sleeve and used its nub to trace figure people put a conscious effort into making it seem
eights on the condensaƟon forming on his beer like not a big deal, as if talking around it makes it
glass. any less noƟceable.”

“My sister has the same thing,” a woman said “Yeah,” he said. “That can get annoying.”

suddenly. She’d sat down beside him when he “And the worst is when people flinch at it, right?
Like how it can get so alienaƟng? No one wants to
wasn’t looking. feel as if he has some kind of deformity.”

“Same what?” Defensiveness was a gut reacƟon. “Your sister has the right idea about all this.”

“Thing with the hand-” she pointed- “what you “I was bullshiƫng, I don’t actually have a sister.”
have.”
Beer went out his nose. The low Ɵnt of the bar
“Jesus, what a way to start a conversaƟon.” swam in hazy threads before his eyes.

Conrad, on his other side, jabbed him hard in the “Huh?”
ribs.
“I have this theory, see, that people aren’t willing
“Well I just wanted to get it out of the way, first. to open up to other people unless they feel as if
Sorry if I offended you or anything- I mean, I was they’re on a level playing field, or they at least
just staƟng a fact.” have something in common.”

He blinked and coerced his mouth into a smile. He “I’m not too sure I follow.”
took a sip of his beer, paying extra mind not to
leave any traces of foamy mustache. “Ok, well “Well your hand- see?” She picked it up and
now that it’s out of the way, uh, so, what’s next?” laughed when he immediately recoiled. “We hate
ugly things and we hate them even more when
In the corner of his eye he saw the flesh-colored they’re aƩached to us and the worst part of all is
outline of Conrad’s face sink into his hands. that once we address a thing as ugly, there’s no
way for us to change our minds about it. Even if
“What you say next is your name,” she smirked. most other people don’t find it ugly.”

“Howie.” He was a Ɵny bit offended but couldn’t locate
precisely why just yet.
“Good,” she laughed trillingly. “I’m Olivia. Next
you offer to buy me a drink- although I think “All I’m saying is that I don’t think you would’ve
that’s a bit old fashioned. Maybe instead you taken me seriously if I’d just approached you
could ask me what I wanted, order it, and then let without context.”
me pay for it myself.”
“How do you know?”
He nodded. “Ok, sure. So what’ll you have?”
“A Coca-Cola, please. Oh, and you forgot to shake “It’s the patriarchy, bro.”
my hand when you introduced yourself.” She
smiled; the bar rang with the clink of glasses, a “Well then, why did you approach me?”
constant low burble of laughter.
“That is something I don’t know how to answer-
“Right, right, my bad,” he said, extending. claw hand or not.”

“Other hand, please. I’m a righty.” “Well give it a shot?” he asked, feeling desperate.

He grunted. “Fine. Pleasure to meet you.” “I guess you seemed very spiritual,” she giggled,
and leaned in.
“Same.” She took his claw in both of hers and
shook firmly, holding it for a few extra beats. Her
hands were warm and understanding. Her fingers
pressed in and collapsed the space around his
barely-there knuckles, feeling around the way a
blind person would read braille.

“My sister tells me that it’s super annoying when

154

Revista Adelaide

They say that when you get to college, you have If you were from the middle of some hot, deserted
the chance to remake yourself. What they don’t nowhere, where only a porƟon of your family was
say is that there are only a few new versions of literate, where your father was shivved to death
you that people will actually accept, no maƩer in the jail shower for being at the boƩom of the
where you go to school, no maƩer where you hierarchy, where the freedom of your mother’s
wind up aŌerwards. death was the reason why you could aƩend col-
lege at all, you never really got to understand the
Mom was always telling me that the majority of kinds of campus issues that everyone else got so
people out there are dumbasses. That realizing riled up about- the animal rights and the social
this made me one of the smart but cursed few, jusƟce and the microscopic forms of racial aggres-
and that’s how I ended up here, you know. Col- sion. If you were me, all you wanted was a fucking
lege. She told me that it was proudest she’d ever friend. Preferably someone who could understand
been. And then she died- right there on the bed that a hungry thing is a hungry thing, and that at
we’d made for her, surrounded by the buckets the end we’re all just hungry, lonely things.
filled with her sick and the few family members
who weren’t sick themselves or locked up for sell- He woke up having to piss like never before, but
ing dope or something. her cheek was resƟng on his right bicep, his claw
siƫng on her waist. There in bed, his bladder set
I won’t pretend like that didn’t hurt- like I didn’t to burst, the evening’s events unspooled and
push past the screen door and rush into the dirty, rushed in like a high Ɵde of memory- how she’d
guƩed, back of our house and cry into the dried laughed at the musty old hoodie he’d insisted on
up dandelion stems I was planning to light on fire puƫng on because it was freezing, how she’d
later that night. SomeƟmes I thought I could sƟll known beƩer and coaxed the claw from its hiding
feel her- I know, I know, it’s got Oedipus wriƩen place, how she’d wrapped her whole hand
all over it, but it’s tough when you grow up in the around it as they giggle-walked back to his place,
middle of bumblefuck, south of nowhere, and then coaxed his body from his clothes.
someƟmes you feel so alone you have to take the
ring and middle fingers of each hand and walk There was a second, more intense kind of sweet-
them like a pair of feet, with the pinky and pointer ness that came with the first recollecƟons of a
extended as arms, and pretend like you and your pleasant moment- a leisurely thickness which
two hands are old buddies. gave you purchase to zoom in and savor all its
Ɵny feliciƟes, like how the starlike freckle on her
A few days aŌer mom died I landed here. Thought cheek collapsed inward when she smiled and how
I’d be excited but more than anything I was terri- that lovely, moon-flushed face glowed and spar-
fied. You don’t quite become aware of your inse- kled with jouncing stars the whole night long.
curiƟes unƟl you try to approach a preƩy girl at a
loud party. The only females I ever saw growing Then, if you liked, you could zoom back out and
up were my mom and my cousins: ugly folk. take a deep breath and realize in the warmth of
Muffin-topped, flabby breasted hunchbacks with its aŌermath that it had truly all happened, that
volcanic acne and overcompensaƟng hair. College perhaps everything was liable to change starƟng
was like a conference of preƩy girls; it made me from this moment on.
wish fairly urgently that my mom were sƟll with
me to give me advice, which I realize is extremely He managed to sidle out from under her without
patheƟc. eliciƟng more than a light snore, snatched up his
underwear and pants and made it halfway to the
What do you talk about when you’re a guy like bathroom before a violent buzzing suddenly
me? Two good shirts, only one with buƩons. Nev- erupted in his pocket. He reached in and felt his
er had the money for acne treatment or braces or phone,
good haircuts. Same pair of shoes for the beƩer
part of a decade. An old hoodie as the only pro-
tecƟon against a New England winter more
cuƫng than a knife.

155

Adelaide Magazine

Alert: ARMED GUNMAN ON CAMPUS: Please im- that freak Ewing family from up there in the coun-
mediately find shelter. POLICE ARE ON THEIR try,” and, “look, you can see the inbreeding in
WAY. him,” and, “I’ll be damned if that whole family
weren’t just a bunch of dirty welfare hicks.”
“Holy fuck,” he whispered into the empty hall.
Conrad’s head emerged suddenly from his room. Being my kind of poor means more than beaƟng
the odds of geƫng into a school like this, it means
“Dude-” he said, eyes peeled open with terror, circumvenƟng chance all-fucking-together. No
“Dude, get the fuck inside!” one cares about white trash; it’s not in vogue.
There’s nothing about white trash poverty that
It’s been three years and I sƟll haven’t found a can be parlayed into some kind of hip urban
girlfriend. Not even a regular friend- and you cache. There’s nothing about being so poor that
know it’s not for lack of trying. I’m not some kind your parents hate you for your hunger that’s in-
of snob; I don’t make an effort to push people spiraƟonal or redeemable. No. If you’re my type of
away. But I guess when you go to one of these poor, you’d best erase it enƟrely from the you that
fancy private colleges full of private clubs and people see- you have to talk all proper and write
invite-only events and buildings that have your well and shower daily and eat with knife and fork.
parents’ names carved onto their transoms, the Around here you’re allowed to be poor in name
only way that some people can have social curren- only.
cy is by denying it to others.
“Fuck,” he rushed back into the room. She was
The thing about being outside an established siƫng plumb upright, phone shaking in her hands,
group is that you’re more than just alienated; eyes protuberant. “Howie,” she hissed, “we have
you’re acƟvely disliked. You can feel it as you walk to hide.”
by everyone else- they avoid you like a swarm of
minnows forming the cauƟonary bubble around a “I think we’ll be fine as long as we stay here in
shark. People look at me and they flinch- as if it’s this room, right?”
my fault that my acne scars never healed, or it’s
my fault that all my clothes are a few sizes too She put a finger urgently to his lips. “What if he’s
big, or it’s my fault that my nose came in crooked in this building?”
because my pops got me so bad with the wrench
one Ɵme that not even he could hide it from CPS, There was a sharp crack from outside the win-
or it’s my fault that my hair goes back in a pony- dow; the sound of a small firework popping and
tail because that’s the only way I can cut it, or it’s fizzling in the cold autumn smoke. Somewhere in
my fault that just- just fuck. Fuck. the building they heard a shriek.

People here think that being poor is just the state “Oh shit,” she said, making her way to the win-
of poverty, like it’s something so simple as the dow, “Oh shit oh shit.”
lack of money! No, no, being poor means that
your strongest memories of your pops are when “No-” He lunged and grabbed her forearm with
he had you ass out and bent forward, the wrench his leŌ hand. “No- you don’t want him to see us if
bouncing off the cheeks so hard you could feel it he’s out there.”
touch the bone and you knew you wouldn’t be
able to sit for weeks but what you didn’t know “We need to hide, then. We definitely need to
was why. Being poor is having to sell shit on the hide.”
sidewalks of the nearest city- laying the soŌ, mite-
filled miƩens and scarves that your mother spent They made their way inside his cramped and
her useless waking hours kniƫng on top of the sweat-smelling closet, crouching painfully on top
dirty blue tarp- and watching passerby sneer of some long-discarded socks, and as their heads
down at you and say things like, “oh he’s from brushed against the cluƩered clothes hangers and
they looked through the forest of his shirts for
any sign of intrusion, the dull ache in his stomach
became suddenly pronounced. He’d forgoƩen to
piss.

156

Revista Adelaide

Outside his door, down the hall and up the old into as pruny and Ɵght a shape as possible. The
stairwell, the puddle of steps echoed. She sound of all that chaos and hot metal clinking and
grabbed his claw and squeezed Ɵght; her palm ricocheƟng unƟl it was more than sound- it was
felt clammy and her fingers desperate. He had the smell of smoke and the hot, violent feeling of
inconceivable things on his mind: Last words? Last splintering all around him and in his stomach. His
moments? Funerals? Death? The steps were lower stomach. There was a shaƩering release
geƫng louder. Distant things were geƫng closer. and a sudden warmth spilling down him.

“Fuck,” she wheezed, squeezing his claw harder. “Oh my God!” she screamed. “Oh my God, have
“Fuck, I’m scared.” you been shot? Oh my God help, please!”

“It’ll be ok,” he whispered, although he had no Yes, he’d been shot. He was shot. This was it.
idea whether or not it would be truly ok. Funny, There was no one nearby to save him. He would
he thought, how even in this life or death situa- bleed out in his closet, next to this girl he’d had a
Ɵon he was sƟll projecƟng. In the face of total one night stand with. He’d collapse in this bloody,
annihilaƟon he was sƟll trying to make himself to wet heap of his clothes.
her. The pain in his claw was diverƟng necessary
aƩenƟon away from his bladder. The steps were But the warmth was cooling rapidly, and he was
geƫng louder. remarkably clear-headed, despite the shock. The
white-hot pain you expected with these kinds of
And then another crack- like the sound of a giant things had yet to seƩle in.
rubber band snapping in half. She winced beside
him and started, very silently, to cry. Now my mother- my mother was an angel but she
was also one of those psycho rednecks who had
“Shh,” he said meaninglessly. “Shh, we’ll be ok.” no faith in the government outside of their wel-
His knees were bent into each other, his ankles fare checks. If my mother knew anything about
knoƩed, the pain in his claw was becoming un- the kinds of arguments that the people in D.C.
bearable. were having about guns she would’ve blown her
top and waddled right on over there with her
As he thought how, thankfully, the gunman had grandfather’s ancient sawed-off shotgun, found
four whole floors with probably 10 rooms each in her way into the chamber where they held the
which to wreak his havoc. Their chances of geƫng meeƟngs, and pointed it at each of those congress
their brains blown out were relaƟvely low- plus- people without pulling the trigger to prove her
the individual pops of the gun made him think he point. “Thar!” she’d say. “Thar, see?! I git a gun,
wasn’t equipped with anything heavier than a but I ain’t gunna shoot and that’s why we don’t
semi-automaƟc. With any luck this was some kind need none of yer laws!”
of pinpointed vendeƩa, not a slaughter.
My mother, who was ignorant in just about every
“Why are the steps so slow?” she whispered. “Do realm of child-rearing, was prudent about one
you think he’s carrying a bag or something?” thing only. Dying in bed, each breath a heaving
labor, she pressed a shiƩy old .22 caliber revolver
He shook his head. into my hand and said to me, “for protecƟon,” as
if she had it in her head that New England was all
“How do you know?” bears and wilderness. Well right aŌer she did that
she caught a violent cough and all around her my
“I don’t,” he said. cousins and siblings were suddenly scrambling
with old pots and pans because this green-brown
“I just- I just really, really, don’t want to die.” slime was coming out of her mouth. It was spray-
ing with each cough unƟl it eventually became
And then- the unmistakable clanging of their hall- blood.
way door opening.
You can dress yourself all preƩy and act all high
“Oh fuck, oh fuck oh fuck.” A wildfire series of
explosions; an endless concussion of metallic
pangs whizzing outside the door.

He was squinƟng and squeezing his whole face

157

Adelaide Magazine

society but I wonder how many people know that Campus today feels chilly. Chilly and quiet; good
when you die, your bowels evacuate. Whatever for thinking.
was churning in there gets released. Every person-
rich or poor- dies in a puddle of his own shit. SomeƟmes I get flashbacks to the moment, but
There’s a metaphor for you. That’ll teach you all they’re blurry and vague, and feeling my way
to be so fucking snooty. through them is like trying to sprint on hot tar-
the details never stay sƟll enough for me to get a
My mother died on a Tuesday. On a Thursday that proper fooƟng. But the basic jist of it is that he’s
same week I took a 14 hour bus ride to school coming back towards me with a wrench. He’s
with the gun in my bag. On a Saturday my fresh- walking all lopsidedly and his fingers are so loose
man year I showed the gun to as close a person as around the thing that it looks liable to drop and
I’d ever goƩen to be my friend, and saw his eyes clang onto the floor at any moment. I’m confident
widen then bulge and his lip tremble, as if he were that I can slip away from him, right through his
afraid I’d shoot him right in the face with it or legs and out the screen door before he can make
something, before he muƩered something about any contact, but then she’s there. She’s standing
needing to go and scrambled out of my room. On between the two of us in a threadbare slip so I can
a Wednesday the next week my room was see her back fat folding over the straps of her old
searched by campus police who didn’t find shit bra and her legs which are basically being colo-
because I’d hidden it beneath the loose heaƟng nized by liver spots shaking but at least she’s
grate. On a Friday the next month word had standing up.
spread across campus that I was some sort of a
psycho. “Enough,” she says. Voice shaking too. Gun wob-
bling in her hands. But she breathes in deep and
The school started doing all sorts of bullshit to try says it again. “Enough.”
to kick me out- making me see some lousy cam-
pus psychiatrist who barely cared enough to learn You expect these moments to culminate in some
my siblings’ names, holding bullshit disciplinary kind of an explosion. She’s gonna shoot, right? But
hearings, puƫng me on academic probaƟon. Ap- she just held it, shaking, and when he saw the
parently being quiet means you’re potenƟally short-lipped barrel poinƟng straight down the line
violent. Same if you wear hoodies and baggy at him his eyes widened and he backed off. I think
clothes or if you’re from a place no one else is that was when Pops realized he couldn’t quite
from. fuck around with us anymore. He just turned
around and leŌ. A few days later he’d landed him-
On a Thursday last week I was expelled. self in jail, and we never saw him again.

And for the first Ɵme in an incredibly long Ɵme, I That was what the gun was for her- the last high
thought about my mom. Sloshing there in her hill. It was what she was willing to do to get my
wheelchair like a human puddle, many-chinned Pops to lay off. No one else understood what she
and half blind. The only thing that stayed nimble whispered to me but she and I did.
through her life were her fingers, always kniƫng
as she hummed some indeterminate melody. I Campus is cold and my hands are shoved in the
have this nagging feeling that mom would’ve front pocket of my hoodie. In my hand is the gun
been disappointed by me- not that her opinion that my mother gave me. The grip is Ɵny; my
maƩered, not that she had any stake in my educa- pinky finger doesn’t even have anything to wrap
Ɵon. But on a Friday the week before she died, around. But I squeeze it with all my strength be-
when she was hardly herself anymore-- just a cause I miss having a mom who’d blow a guy’s
shapeless, witless, snoring half-corpse-- my mom brains clean out at point blank range if that’s
had asked for me. All my cousins and siblings what it took to keep me doing ok. I miss a per-
pushed aside as if I were Moses or something to son’s eyes smiling at me, leƫng me know that I
let me near her and do you know what she said? I can do things. If I squeeze it I can get closer.
was leaning in and smelling the damp sourness of Squeeze my whole hand into it- because it gets so
her skin and her slimy halitosis when she said, in lonely someƟmes.
barely a whisper, “don’t forget your gun.”
My hand is a gun. I take it out and observe, turn-
ing it, leƫng the light bend and fracture off its

158

Revista Adelaide

curves and recesses. I’m walking towards my The dining hall was serving pork chops; he man-
dorm hall. My hand is a gun. I’m sorry, mom. aged to clip his knife securely between his thumb
and the first nub of his right claw while steadying
The story was that an isolated, severely unstable the fork in his leŌ hand. He noƟced her eyes
third year student who was failing his classes had avoiding it.
had a mental breakdown and walked around “Everything alright?”
campus for 45 minutes carrying a fully loaded “I was squeezing your hand so hard that morn-
0.22 caliber revolver and 12 spare cartridges. ing.”
“Oh, it’s alright.”
AŌer firing a few warning shots outdoors near the “I’m sorry for doing that. I’m sorry that on top of
science quad, he’d made his way into his dorm all the other shit that was happening you had to
building and climbed the stairs, firing several deal with how hard I was squeezing your hand.”
rounds down the main hallway of each floor. “Hey-” he put down the knife and made for her
Damage was sparse. Because of a series of warn- shoulder but she recoiled.
ings from the University Emergency NoƟficaƟon “I- I can’t stop thinking about your hand. I’m sor-
System, all students were in their rooms and no ry,” her eyes were watering, her mouth had fallen
one was harmed. into a grimace.
“My hand? This one?” he liŌed his claw and saw
At 9:45 AM, the perpetrator made his way into her flinch.
his room on the fourth floor of the building and “I’m sorry, it just- I can’t stop associaƟng it with
commiƩed suicide. what happened. And you know I’m not blaming
you- like I know you can’t physically change your
Hiding in the closet, he’d heard the dull, dragging hand, but, I just can’t stop connecƟng you and it
footsteps recede from the hallway and back up with the whole situaƟon and I’m just so sorry.”
the stairwell. For a few seconds or hours there He nodded and said it was ok. They made formal
was no noise save for the occasional shiŌing raƩle and awkward goodbyes.
of their bodies or the light paƩer whenever one Then put on his hoodie, fell into the cold, briƩle
of them had to adjust a foot in the wetness. Then evening, and walked back to him room.
a loud crack, which made them both shuƩer.
About the Author:
Some Ɵme later someone came pounding at their Vincent Yu is an employee at W.W. Norton and a
door- “Campus police! It’s alright, you’re safe.” reader/copy editor at a small press called 7.13
Books. He graduated from Yale University, where
Neither of them menƟoned that he’d pissed him- he was a staff member of the Yale Literary Maga-
self. zine. He is working on a novel manuscript.

Back in the hallway he saw Conrad staring down
at the floor. He walked up closer before noƟcing
the tear marks on his shirt.

“Hey-” a claw on his shoulder.

“Dude, did you not recognize him?” Conrad
looked up, red around the eyes, snot flowing.

“I didn’t see him.”

“He was the one from the 4th floor I was telling
you about. The one who got- who was- who got-”
before he trailed off and collapsed against the
wall.

He asked her to dinner a few weeks later.

“How’ve you been holding up?”

“Fine,” she said.

159

Adelaide Magazine

BEFORE THE DINER

by Tim Urban

Driving down the interstate with his Uncle Tucker The old ones were the originals, and unlike the
behind the wheel, Mathew stewed over how he new movies, where he knew the actors’ names,
was going to get back at that bully Sam Milton. As he didn’t know the names of the men who played
soon as his uncle pulled into the driveway, he’d the old detecƟves. He only knew their characters.
jump out of the truck and rush across that yard, It made them somehow more real.
moving with the surety of a cop who was about to
make an arrest. He’d push through the front door He loved the hardline detecƟves who were fierce
with ease. He’d find Sam siƫng at the kitchen and inƟmidaƟng because he wanted to appear as
table. That bully’s eyes would grow wide, the way one himself, but the truth was he was a straggly,
eyes of good-for-nothings always go wide in the awkward boy who was anything but inƟmidaƟng.
movies, and he would drag him out of his seat SƟll, he felt reassured of his abiliƟes when he
and rough him up and force him to beg for mercy. thought of himself as being in line with Sam
Mathew was certain of this. Spade in The Maltese Falcon. Sam Spade wouldn’t
be afraid of punching out a bully. Neither would
They were riding in an old Ford F-150 that had a Mathew.
bum muffler, which made the pickup whir like a
go-cart, announcing itself wherever it went. Uncle Siƫng inside Uncle Tucker’s pickup, he couldn’t
Tucker’s truck. It was a stereotype straight out of help but feel unique, in a league of his own, an
a Hollywood picture: American flags flapping from outsider, someone who was observant because
the roof, large monster truck Ɵres, and blue and he wasn’t part of the normal, everyday rouƟnes.
white decals across the sides. He knew Tucker Like this truck, he was meant to stand out. He
wasn’t much of a watcher of Hollywood films, but loved that the high wheels made them hover
if he was, Mathew felt certain that he wouldn’t above the passing cars on the freeway, giving
have much cared about how people perceived the them a presence. He thought the loud roar must
red paint peeling off his hood, or how they shook be daunƟng to strangers, and for a boy who tried
their heads at the confederate flag threaded to overcompensate and hide his own fear of the
through his front grille, and he sure as shit would- world, being seen as a threat, even if he wasn’t
n’t have cared about whether or not a bunch of one, was all that counted.
strangers approved of the decal in the back win-
dow with the boy pissing on the word ‘Chevy’. The summer heat clung to his skin in the same
way that dust sƟcks to sweat.
Conversely, Mathew loved and watched many
Hollywood pictures. Although he was only eleven, He glared at his reflecƟon in the side mirror. He
he’d seen all the old silver screen films: The Big wished he had a toothpick so he could flip it over
Sleep, Double Indemnity, and The Big Heat. He in his mouth. His face needed to be serious. He
loved the old griƩy quality they shared. Modern forced himself to scowl deeper, and he thought
blockbusters were too polished, too predictable. he looked intense, a man ready for a fight. His
eyes lingered on his reflecƟon for a brief moment

160

Revista Adelaide

before he glanced out at the green fields and the “So, mind tellin’ me where you got that shiner?”
blue sky converging into the horizon.
“Fell off the monkey bars during recess,” said
The sun crested above the skyline, showing half Mathew.
its face, across the expanse of farms that lay in
every direcƟon. They were riding through the “Sure must have been a nasty fall,” said Tucker.
land of cornfields, hay, and John Deere.
“It was nothin’.”
Like all good detecƟves that have brains but lack
the means, he had come up with a plan. He’d use He had been walking by himself toward the trees
Tucker to get to Sam. AŌer all, his uncle had a that were on the fringe of the baseball field,
truck. It was only natural he’d ask for a ride. And where he usually sat during recess, seeing as he
since, as was their wont every Saturday, the two didn’t have many friends. Sam had run up behind
went to Maud’s diner for breakfast, Mathew him and sucker punched him. He’d been caught
thought he could get to Sam by saying he wanted off balance, moving between steps, when the
to take a friend with them. This was unusual, see- strike had come. It sent him flailing to the ground.
ing as he never menƟoned any friends to his un- Sam spat at him and told him he’d stay down if he
cle, but nonetheless the older man had been hap- knew what was good for him. Mathew’s fear
py to oblige. Tucker was a sucker for an extra set flooded his belly and throat. He heard Sam yell
of ears. A real storyteller. “This faggot can’t even take a good punch” to his
chuckling group of friends.
Even with the windows down, the inside of the
truck smelled like diesel and stale cigareƩe buƩs. From the ground, he had watched the group walk
In between the seats, stacks of discarded fast away, and a burning hate mixed with shame cov-
food bags, old scratch Ɵckets, and Styrofoam cups ered him as if it were his skin. Now Mathew imag-
were aiming to make a mountain, fluƩering slight- ined laying a wallop on Sam’s head and watching
ly. the boy’s body crumble in on itself. He envisioned
pouncing on Sam, scratching at the boy’s eyes,
“Sure is looking forward to a big breakfast,” said squeezing his thin throat, and watching him cry
Tucker. and plea for mercy.

“Yeah.” With each imagining, the punishment grew
worse.
“How long you known this friends of yers?”
He wondered if his uncle could read his thoughts
“Long enough.” because he was never one for asking too many
quesƟons. He was aloof. InterrogaƟon wasn’t
“It’s sure nice to see you geƫn’ on with fellas yer Tucker’s style. Frankly, he was the type of man
age.” who could go on for hours without realizing you
hadn’t said a word. All these quesƟons skewed
Mathew rolled his eyes. Outside, three metal silos Mathew’s focus. He just wanted silence, a bit of
stood beside an old red barn. quiet, before this, his most important confronta-
Ɵon.
He leaned against the door and rested the side of
his face on his fist. He winced as he accidentally In truth, Mathew believed that his uncle was
brushed the shiner. The bruise burned. The raw nothing more than a country hick who made eve-
skin throbbed with its own pulse. ryone else down in Arkansas look bad with his
yellowed teeth, stubbly face, and balding head.
“You’s okay?” The southern accent Tucker had picked up during
his Ɵme in Tennessee didn’t help his case. The
“I’m fine.” long drawl, the minced words, all of it made him
seem like an inferior being, at least to Mathew.
“You sure is quiet this morning.” The dicƟonary definiƟon of white trash. If anyone
could have a fast one pulled over them, Mathew
“So?”

“Bit of an aƫtude to boot.”

“I’m fine.”

161

Adelaide Magazine

thought, it was Uncle Tucker. So why the hell was wants to miss a show. Not ev’ry day I get to see
he asking so many damn quesƟons? my brother’s boy make an ass ouƩa hisself.”

“What’s yer friend’s name again?” said Tucker, “You don’t know nothin’.”
breaking Mathew’s thoughts.
“You’s right. I don’t know nothin’. However, I be-
“Sam. And he’s not my friend.” lieve I know somethin’.”

“Then why the hell we pickin’ him up? My “He started it. It wasn’t my fault,” said Mathew,
stomach’s roarin’.” his jaw juƫng out as he spoke. “I’m just ending
it.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“How ‘bout you end it over a set of flapjacks
“You’s up to no good, MaƩy. I cain see as much.” ‘stead of rollin’ around like a monkey and pre-
tendin’ to be man when you ain’t.”
“I’m fine.”
Mathew’s hand was on the door handle. “Just
“I thank I’ll just go to the diner. I ain’t about to drop me off,” he said.
wait to be seated just to pick up a friend who you
say’s ain’t yer friend now.” “No, sirree. You see, I’s the adult, ‘n I say what
goes. Understood?”
“No!”
The roar of the muffler wedged between them.
“Then you come and fess up to why we be goin’ They passed a blue sign with gas staƟon logos on
out here.” it. Mathew’s eyes began to water from looking
into the wind.
“I just wanna lay out this son of a bitch. That’s all.
Okay?” said Mathew. “So I take it that you been geƫn’ bullied and
such,” a long pause as Tucker licked grease from
“That was easy. Didn’t expect you to cave so his fingers, “but it’ll pass.”
soon,” said Tucker, glancing at the stern faced
boy beside him. “You ain’t gonna be much of a In the side mirror, the cracked asphalt receded
fighter you cain’t even keep your damned mouth behind them.
shut fer twenty minutes to hold in a secret.”
“You know, I used to be a bit of a hothead my-
“That’s bullshit.” self,” said Tucker. “Now, I know that’s hard to
understand, me bein’ so genteel,” he stretched
“Whooey, you got quite the mouth, but I’d gather out the last syllable as if he were pulling it like a
you got a bark that’s worst than yer bite.” fish on a line, drawing it out some, “but I was, was
more a hot head than yer old pops is now. You
“You don’t know nothin’.” know what changed?”

“That’s right. I’m just dumb Uncle Tuck. I’m just a Mathew didn’t answer, so Tucker whacked him
crazed old fella who don’t know his damn ass upside the head.
from his elbow, right?”
“Boy, I’s talkin’ here.”
Mathew grimaced at the dashboard, noƟng the
dust that had accumulated in the vents. “I don’t know,” said Mathew, rubbing the back of
his skull, “What?”
“So, you fixin’ to be a big gun now, huh? Nice to
know my brother’s boy’s a fighter.” Tucker tore “How nice of you to ask,” said Tucker. “When I
through a half-eaten Slim Jim that had been was a young’un, not much older than you is, I
siƫng in a cupholder. “That ‘splains that sorry beat up on a boy. Kid was a real shit fire at school.
bruise on yer face. Take it this boy Sam’s the—” Cornered him in the school bathroom because, ya
see, a bully, he ain’t much of anything you get
“Just drop me off?” him alone. I beat his face like I was fixin’ to kill
him. And you know where it got me?”
“Oh, don’t you worry. I aim to,” said Tucker, grin-
ning with glistening brown chunks wedged in
between his teeth. “Don’t take me for one who

162

Revista Adelaide

“No. Where?” Mathew felt certain he’d prove him wrong, he’d
show him how he could beat Sam’s ass, and he’d
“Juvey. Like a goddamn criminal. Ya see, you fixin’ earn respect for once.
for a fight while yer angry and you go’n do some-
thin’ stupid. Take it from me.” He chewed at the skin on his lower lip.

Tucker leaned back in his seat, one hand They passed Maud’s diner. The lot was full of
stretched out on the steering wheel, as if he’d cars, and the large sign that rose up high glowed
said something wise and the maƩer was seƩled. neon red. There were families walking across the
That was that. parking lot. The diner was small with a silver glis-
tening frame and red trim. He saw the upper
In the distance, Maud’s diner was fast approach- halves of people siƫng at tables through the win-
ing. Faintly, beyond that, there was a group of dows. He envisioned the familiar faces inside.
ranches. Sam’s neighborhood. Men and women as old as they come who hadn’t
missed a weekend at Maud’s for as long as they
“You tell yer pa about what you’s was aiming to could remember. The booths and the bar and the
do?” smell of coffee roasƟng. He thought of drenching
his pancakes in thick blueberry syrup and his
“Yeah.” stomach rumbled.

“I find that hard to believe.” “Sure you don’t just want to make the day simple,
go eat, start it right with eggs and bacon? My
“You aimin’ to turn preacher?” stomach’s fixin’ for a fine meal right ‘bout now.”

“Boy, I’m a right mind to smack you upside the “You can. I’ll walk the rest of the way.”
head again you give me lip.”
“You sure is stubborn,” said Tucker, scratching his
“Sorry,” said Mathew, using his shirt sleeve to the forehead, which was dripping with sweat. “Guess
wipe sweat off his forehead. we can do it aŌer I watch you make a fool of
yer’self.”
“You aimin’ to do the work of a man, yet you
thank you cain act like a child right now. Let me “I won’t make a fool of myself. I’m in control.”
get you in on a secret, you ain’t never goin’ to feel
beƩer aŌer takin’ a revenge.’ “Boy, if you was in control you’d see how stupid
you was to wake up early on a Saturday to go
“You might not, but I will.” beat up some kid who ain’t goin’ to amount to
the shit on the back of yer boot. You smart in
“You thank you hate him right?” school, but you dumb as hell in life someƟmes.”

“I know I hate him.” “Pull over.”

“You ain’t even old ‘nuff to know the true hate. “Shut up. You’s one dumb sonova—”
Child’s hate ain’t nothin’ close to real hate.”
Tucker took a deep breath, his hands had Ɵght-
“How do you know? You ain’t me. You don’t know ened on the steering wheel, the knuckles grown
what I’m feeling, if it’s real or not. All you got is white. Seeing Tucker hold back anger made
your opinion.” Mathew’s guts coil. He’d never seen his uncle lose
his temper before. He’d only heard stories.
“I got an opinion backed by forty years’ experi-
ence you lil’ jackass. You got one that’s barely “Sorry fer yellin’,” said Tucker, licking his lips as if
even leŌ the womb.” he’d tasted something nasty. “But if you thank yer
man enough to beat a boy up just cause he beat
Stupid Tucker. AcƟng all wise. What the hell did you up, then you cain man up and listen to what I
he know? He wasn’t no more than a goddamn gas got to say. You’s convinced in this maƩer, so I’s
staƟon clerk who hadn’t made it past the tenth going to sit in here while you go out and do it on
grade. your own. You so grown up then you cain stand
on yer own two legs and act the fool.”
Adults thought they knew everything.

They thought their experience was the only expe-
rience.

163

Adelaide Magazine

The road forked. was drowning. Was he really about to go through
with this? Through the screen door, he could see
“Which way?” the dark foyer that led to a hallway. He glanced
behind him at his uncle’s red truck. Right now, he
“LeŌ.” could be eaƟng pancakes drizzled in that blueber-
ry syrup he so loved.
Tucker turned down a narrow side road. Up
ahead, Mathew could see the cluster of ranches. He was about to turn back, knowing this was an
The homes were dilapidated and in ill repair. insane idea as soon as it became real, when the
There were crooked and bent wire fences in some front door opened and a woman stood before
of the backyards with dogs siƫng and looking out him in her sweats.
at the world through metal wiring. A few barked
as the engine revved. “Who the hell are you?” she said, smacking down
her pack of smokes. She was an obese woman
“Which one is it?” who wore a Ɵght t-shirt that displayed all her
folds. Her hair was wet and wiry, stretching down
“There,” said Mathew, knowing it based on the past her ample chest and resƟng on the crown of
image that he’d seen on the computer aŌer doing her gut. She smelled like a vanilla lavender per-
a search for Sam’s address online. It had been fume. Her body hovered over Mathew, and he
surprisingly easy. grew small in her presence.

“The grey one?” The wind caught his blonde hair, and he wished it
would sweep him away.
“Yeah.” Tickle of self-doubt beginning to swell in
his chest. “What you on my property for?” she said before
sucking the flame through her smoke.
A secƟon of the roof was covered with blue tarp,
the front lawn was wild and long, patchy and “I—”
dead in certain spots, and the bushes had been
trimmed down to stubs. “Spit it out,’ she exhaled.

Tucker parked in front of the house. He turned his “I’m a friend of Sam’s.”
key and the loud boom of the muffler ceased. The
once vibraƟng pickup was sƟll. The neighborhood “Shit balls. I didn’t know my stupid boy had any
was quiet except for the dogs’ barking. Mathew friends.”
looked out at the yard, dust and dead grass and a
makeshiŌ window made from opaque plasƟc When she spoke, her voice sounded like golf balls
stared back at him, and a Ɵnge of fear shot down were stuck in the back of her throat. Her face
to his rectum. The stagnant heat burned his nos- contorted, constricƟng as if it were in pain, as she
trils. His hand lingered on the door handle, and he winced past Mathew at the truck siƫng in front
could hear his own heartbeat tapping in his ears. of her house.

“What you siƫn’ around for, tough guy? I’s aim- “Who’s that there? Your daddy?”
ing to see the show, and I’s hoping it would be
starƟng A-S-A-P,” said Tucker. “Or we havin’ sec- “That’s my uncle.”
ond thoughts?”
“AƩracƟve fellow,” she said, smiling and waving
Mathew opened the door and slammed it shut. at Tucker, who, for his part, returned the gesture.
He walked in front of the old Ford and ignored
Tucker, whom he could see from his peripheral, “Sam and I got a project to do for school. I figured
and focused on the house in front of him. A few we could go out to breakfast first.”
paces away he heard someone yelling from in-
side. The voice was loud and shrill and oozing “Sam didn’t menƟon anyone stopping by,” she
with cuss words. said.

At the front door, his hand was up and ready to “Oh, he doesn’t know. I figured I’d, uh, surprise
knock, but he stood frozen. His head swam as if it him.”

The decepƟon twisted through his throat strained

164

Revista Adelaide

and weak. She eyed him with something like sus- “Sam, get your fucking ass out here before I—”
picion. His face turned hot.
As soon as heard her swear, he fled. It felt like a
“Aren’t you two just a bunch a queers,” she said, shotgun was aimed level at his back and he could-
laughing, then coughing. n’t run fast enough. The truck seemed to stretch
farther away as his legs quickened.
He wanted to run back to the car and tell Tucker
to step on it. He didn’t know how those detec- He lunged into the old Ford and slammed the
Ɵves in the movies managed to hold it together as door shut. Once inside, he hunched down and
they raided a drug den or got caught in a peered over the armrest. Sam’s front door swung
shootout. in the wind. For a moment, Mathew felt as if he
were completely alone in the world.
“You should see your face,” said the woman,
throwing down her half-smoked cigareƩe onto Then Tucker chuckled.
the front steps and stomping out the flame. “Well
alright, don’t just stand there. Come in and I’ll go “Your ass shot out that front door faster than a
get that worthless piece of ass I call my son.” man who has just been caught banging the sher-
iff’s daughter by none other than the sheriff
Mathew looked back. Tucker waved for him to go hisself,” said Tucker, twisƟng the key in the igni-
on. He wished his uncle would stop smiling, he Ɵon.
knew it was mockery, he knew Tucker was think-
ing “I told you so.” He hadn’t expected it to go “Leave me alone.”
this way. He’d been so certain he wanted pay-
back, but he suddenly wished he was siƫng at the “What’s a maƩer big man? Thought you was
diner listening to one of Tucker’s stories about his about to lay a whoopin’ on someone.”
Ɵme in boot camp before he was discharged from
the service. He yearned to hear him talking about Mathew felt the tears well up under his eyes. The
all the characters he’d been with in those days. back of his throat was raw, and he knew that if he
He didn’t care if he had to listen to him spew pure talked he’d start crying. Regardless, a tear es-
bullshit, like the Ɵme when they were at a cook- caped against his beƩer judgment. Tucker’s face
out and Tucker was telling a group of people that soŌened with pity. He squeezed his nephew’s
he’d seen Bush in LiƩle Rock before the war and shoulder, his grip was strong but reassuring.
had actually stopped to talk with the man. Any-
thing, as long as he was away from her, would “Hell, let’s get out of here before that pleasant
suffice. He was even willing to sit through tales of woman moseys our way.”
Tucker’s UFO sighƟngs for the nth Ɵme. Really,
anything at all would do. Tucker pulled down on the gear shiŌer and made
a jerky three point turn. Mathew’s chest felt like
“You coming?” said the woman, standing in the it was about to explode while he anƟcipated see-
hallway. ing that woman prance outside. Sure enough, the
front door stopped swinging and two figures
The inside of the house smelled of stale Cheetos emerged in the entranceway. Mathew’s head was
and the floor was covered in dirt and discarded sƟll level with the armrest, so he could just barely
laundry. Pictures on the wall hung crooked. One see out the window. The truck sped away, but he
of them looked like a skinnier version of the wom- remained hunched down. He held his breath.
an. He eased forward, slow like a detecƟve on the
scene of a crime, and felt a chip crackle beneath “Sit up. They cain’t see you now,” said Tucker.
his shoes. The crunch nearly made him jump. The
TV was loud, coming from the living room. To his Mathew exhaled. Glancing out the back window,
leŌ, the dining room was swept in darkness, eve- he saw the large woman holding Sam by the col-
rything in it stared back at him like a ghost, dark lar of his shirt while they drove off. He’d avoided
figures covered in dust and hidden from light by the shootout, and he was fleeing in this, his geta-
the drawn curtains. He felt like spider legs were way car, without detecƟon. No one from school
crawling on up his spine. would have an inkling as to what he’d done. His
peers would never glean that he’d had the
balls to show up at Sam’s house, and they’d never

165

Adelaide Magazine

know that when things got too real he’d tucked About the Author:
tail and run.
Timothy Urban holds a B.A. in WriƟng, EdiƟng,
An acrid queasiness seƩled in his gut. and Publishing from Emmanuel College and an
M.A. in English from Bridgewater State University.
When Sam’s neighborhood was far behind, he His work has appeared in Wising Up Press's an-
turned around and looked at Tucker, waiƟng for thology View from the Bed; View from the Bed-
the gloaƟng, the mockery, and the air of superior- side, The Smoking Poet, and The Bridge: A Journal
ity, but his uncle kept his peace. All Tucker did of Fine Arts. He currently works and resides in
was glance over and arch an eyebrow. The sound Taunton, MassachuseƩs.
of the muffler’s roar swelled between them. Their
eyes met. Mathew wiped sweat from his face,
and he cleared his throat, as if he were
aƩempƟng speech.

“Don’t worry about it,” said Tucker, slapping his
shoulder. “I’d rather get breakfast too.”

166

Revista Adelaide

FORREST HILLS

by John Tavares

AŌer Ollie served nearly a full sentence, officials and at first refused to answer the brass knocker
decided to release him from the juvenile deten- on the door.
Ɵon facility early. They shortened his detenƟon
term aŌer he helped administer First Aid to a fel- “Whoever is at the door—go away.”
low inmate who suffered an epilepƟc seizure.
Then, when someone nearly beat his epilepƟc When Ollie persisted in knocking, Vermilion re-
friend to death, he intervened and made a ruckus lented. He grudgingly stepped forward to answer
unƟl guards could no longer look the other way the door, stumbling through a pile of unopened
and transported his injured body to the infirmary. envelopes, bills, invoices, receipts, bank and trust
Either way, Ollie became sidetracked by his own company statements, subscripƟon magazines,
desire to set life and past wrongs right. and flyers from high-priced shops, bouƟques, and
realtors. Vermilion indifferently allowed the mail,
In his plaid shirt, cargo pants, and scuffed canvas fallen beneath the leƩer slot, to accumulate over
running shoes, he took a nature trail for cyclists the past few weeks. He did not expected to meet
and joggers to the park near the detenƟon facili- Ollie face-to-face—a legacy of his past, a youth a
ty. He found the bayonet with its sheath where porƟon of his age, who looked worn, stressed, a
he stashed it in a hole in the sand and soil at the former student at his school, where he was for-
base of a culvert. He stuffed the sheathed bayo- merly principal in his hometown. He saw his for-
net in the pocket of his cargo pants, near his mer principal’s look had not changed drasƟcally:
thigh, which had grown muscle from exercise his physical appearance was similar, although he
rouƟnes and fitness training, part of a self- aged less than gracefully. He sƟll had that frozen
improvement regimen he followed rigorously in cheek, which caused him to grimace and look
prison. All he needed now was a bandanna, but peculiar when he spoke. Depending upon whom
he decided to skip that detail because he thought you spoke, the facial paralysis came from Bell’s
then he would look suspicious. palsy or from flying in bombers in the cold thin air
associated with the high alƟtude flying during
Gazing through the curtained window inside his combat missions, nighƫme raids during the Allied
former school principal's house, he stepped strategic bombing offensive of the laƩer part of
through rose bushes growing wildly beside the the Second World War.
cracked concrete stairs. Having already rung the
doorbell on his Forest Hills house several Ɵmes, Vermilion appeared to be neglecƟng his appear-
he knocked persistently with the tarnished brass ance and physical condiƟon; his clothes looked
knocker. His former principal shuffled on his bare rumpled and shabbier. He looked as if he had
stocking feet to the inside of the door, where he given up to nature, surrendered to aging, as if he
gazed intently through a peephole. Unshaven, had apatheƟcally reƟred—not just from work, but
gaunt, he carried a glass of Madeira in his hand life—everything. Leaner, he had the same amount
of thick hair—now tousled, white, whereas in the

167

Adelaide Magazine

past it was neatly combed. Dried salvia encrusted he aƩached to the thigh of his cargo pants and
the corners of his mouth and his chapped lips and made a dramaƟc show of the blade. He almost
flakes of dandruff speckled his shoulders. The felt like lecturing him on the past of the venerable
only item lacking was the fancy smoking pipe, object, but he was almost certain he was familiar
with swirls of bluish-white smoke, and the aroma with its history. He was a bit surprised he could
of pipe tobacco. SƟll, Mr. Vermilion aged consid- detect no sign of recogniƟon when he pulled the
erably, with more fine wrinkles furrowing his face bayonet and flashed it in his face. Ambrose Ver-
and lining his brow. To school pupils, he might milion gasped and backed away from him, terri-
have looked as inƟmidaƟng as the first day they fied, although lately almost any unexpected
met him in the school gymnasium. knock, snap, footstep, or noise startled him, in-
ciƟng considerable fear and anxiety.
Now, he was unafraid when he should have felt
the deep chill of fear, since the authority figure “Look, what I did to you a few years ago was
was poison to him. Before Vermilion could slam wrong and I paid the price," Vermilion said, calm,
the door shut, Ollie rammed his knee between raƟonal. “That’s no reason to come to my house
the door and doorway. The former pupil pushed and terrorize me. Now that business is over.
his principal further inside the house. Please just leave me alone."

"I told you never to call again," Vermilion said in Upset, angry, stuƩering severely, he was barely
his polished, precise voice. "No phone calls, no coherent. Ambrose Vermilion normally had no
leƩers, no visits, nothing. So get out." Ollie paƟence for anyone who couldn’t communicate
pushed him backwards into the hallway of the clearly according to his dictums. As Ollie held the
mansion-like house. Quavering, shaking, Vermil- bayonet, the principal did listen to him, although
ion demanded, "What are you doing here?" several Ɵmes he raised his brow in dismay, dis-
gust at Ollie’s speech, but Ollie realized however
Ollie started to communicate in American Sign he communicated his former principal’s aƫtude
Language, but his former principal became angry. of disgust and disdain would remain the same.
He complained they went over this a thousand
Ɵmes before and insisted he talk, speak. He knew “Business? That’s what you call it? You've com-
he could talk well and his loud voice and guƩural pletely ruined my life, made a mess of it.”
sounds did not bother him, so Ollie started to
speak, which made him more agitated and nerv- Because of him, Ollie said, he wasn't able to finish
ous. Ollie figured he should have known then his high school, didn’t trust anybody, and couldn’t
former principal was ulƟmately in control, just as love anybody now.
he was years ago.
"Look, it's over with. Leave me alone." Vermilion
“What were you doing to me years ago?” Ollie ran down the hallway to the telephone, mounted
countered. on an end table, which he programmed to dial
automaƟcally the nearest Toronto police precinct
"Get out of my house immediately.” at the push of a buƩon. SƟll, Ollie snatched the
receiver from his hand and slammed the tele-
“’Don’t be bold.’” Ollie tried to mock him, crudely phone down.
trying to mimic the voice he used on him so many
past Ɵmes. “That’s what you always told me “AŌer what you did, you’d have a lot of nerve
when I was sent to your office because I did calling the police,” Ollie said. Ollie wrapped his
something wrong. ‘Don't be bold.’” hand around the loose telephone cord, wound it
roughly, and ripped the plug from connector in
"Get out of my house or I'll call the police imme- the wall.
diately.”
"Look, what do you want? Get out of my house.
Upset, agitated, his speech barely comprehensi- You've no business being here.”
ble, he warned: if he called the police, he would
have to do him serious harm. Thinking he needed “You had no business messing around with my life
to remind Vermilion who was in control, he when I was young.”
slipped the bayonet knife from the leather sheath

168

Revista Adelaide

"But that's over now, man, get on with your life.” “So, Mister Vermilion, what have you been doing
these past few years?”
“How can I? You've destroyed my life.
Vermilion stumbled backwards, collapsed on the
"I didn't destroy your life. Now quit acƟng like a stairway in sheer exhausƟon and resignaƟon, and
vicƟm and get out of here." started sobbing. He cried while he brought up his
arms and flung them backwards. The image of his
“You destroyed my life, and now I’m here to de- former principal breaking down reminded him of
stroy yours.” World War Two photographs from the lavishly
illustrated history books series Ollie loved to read
Ollie lunged at him with the formidable bayonet, in the school library, showing the aŌermath of an
the blade flashing in the dim interior light of or- intense, fiery, destrucƟve baƩle. He specifically
nate dusty chandeliers. Vermilion screamed and remembered a picture showing a Russian mother,
backed away, stumbling over the worn malodou- flailing her arms upwards, grieving the loss of her
rous carpet, shouƟng for help, screaming bloody soldier son during the siege of Stalingrad. When
murder. Begging, pleading for mercy, he scram- he was sent to the principal’s office, he some-
bled to his feet and started running up the car- Ɵmes avoided any meeƟngs or confrontaƟons by
peted stairway. Ollie easily chased him upstairs heading straight to the library. The principal usu-
and down the hallway, while he shouted and pro- ally knew exactly where he could find Ollie,
tested. With a lull, Vermilion surmised he derived though. In the school library, he spent plenty of
a certain perverse delight from terrorizing him. Ɵme perusing oversized photojournalism books
and history volumes, parƟcularly on World War
"That happened years ago!" Vermilion screamed. Two, the Korean War, and Viet Nam War years,
"Now let me get on with my life!" instead of working on his school assignments. He
leaned against the wall and watched with curiosi-
Ollie thought his former principal sounded like ty, stroking his chin, which had grown peach fuzz
the crusty reƟred woman who worked as a volun- and pimply—from the starchy foods, he
teer in the school library. Whenever he visited the guessed—in the detenƟon facility. The outpour-
library, the woman hassled him, toleraƟng not ing of emoƟon from his usually cold and reserved
the slightest transgression, giving him no breaks principal, with his privileged upbringing, surprised
on overdue books, books damp from rainfall or him. He remembered him for his calm, reserved
stained from accidents, coffee or hot chocolate demeanour and painstakingly correct speech. Yes,
spills, rejecƟng his requests for books through his principal always showed a veneer of civility
interlibrary loans. She did liƩle to conceal her and polish of genƟlity, even when he abused Ol-
revulsion with his lisp and stuƩer, or guƩural lie. This outburst of strong emoƟon Ollie would
voice, and permiƩed absolutely no noise or have normally expected more from his mother or
sounds from him. Whenever she saw him signing father than from this sham paragon of Victorian
in American Sign Language in the library, she morals and virtue.
cracked down on him mercilessly, saying he was
distracƟng other students, expelling him from the "I've paid the price!" Vermilion cried repeatedly.
library, hoarsely shouƟng to shut up, ordering him "My life is sƟll in ruins. It's over. It's over."
to sit elsewhere, or at a study carrel near the back
or the emergency exits, or even sending him to “Your life is in ruins?” Barely able to mouth the
the principal’s office. The only word in American words, Ollie stammered he wasn’t able to finish
Sign Language sign she knew: NO, which she school and wasn’t able to love anyone because of
made whilst shaking her head, clasping two fin- him.
gers and her thumb together. Ollie loomed over
Ambrose Vermilion on the staircase to the third “That’s because you’re sƟll too young. Give it up.
floor. Breathing hoarsely, he reeled backwards as Give it Ɵme, boy.”
the bayonet blade approached his throat. When
he feared he would plunge the point deeper into “I—I h-h-haven't b-been a-able to—to trust any-b
the loose flesh of his neck, he eased up and pulled -b-body.”
back.

169

Adelaide Magazine

"But is that my fault?" Vermilion bellowed. he was smart, he would walk away before his
mood and impulses, ugly and vengeful, turned
“Y-y-yes, it—it i-is,” Ollie spat. Although he real- into even more awful acƟons, but he was acƟng
ized the more potent weapon with his former on sheer, raw emoƟon. Neither of them, he real-
principal were words, he stepped towards him, ized aŌerwards, was behaving intelligently and
ready to strike him with my fists. “Y-y-you've s- raƟonally. Ollie raised his steel-toed work boot,
screwed up—up—up m-my l-life t-t-totally.” He which he wore harvesƟng the vegetable crops,
decided to reveal he had been in jail, a facility for mainly potatoes, onions, and beets, growing on
young offenders. the grounds of the minimum-security detenƟon
facility, thinking he could slam the heel down and
"You're merely using me as an excuse for your smash his skull. Instead, he lightly pressed the
failures and shortcomings." grooved soles of the heavy-duty boots against the
side of his face. He even gestured, as if about to
Ollie swung his open hand, slapping him on his strike him with his fist, but then he scowled and
drooping cheek and Vermilion started sobbing pushed him away at the shoulder with his boot.
again. Wiping away his tears and blowing his He leŌ Vermilion cowering on the stairs and went
nose, he managed to find some coherence to downstairs.
speak again. "You're life has been ruined? Well,
my career was destroyed." Ollie wandered around on the first floor restless-
ly, taking an impromptu tour of the home. He
Ollie looked around the hallway at the comfort snacked on some cheese and overripe grapes in
and luxury of the home, the ornate decor, the the kitchen and then made himself comfortable in
plush carpets, the rich, densely woven tapestries, the old man's study, looking at some fine books,
fascinated by the high quality reproducƟons of leather-bound classics. Eventually, he noƟced his
classic painƟngs, Renaissance depicƟons of boys high-fidelity stereo system and searched through
and young men, with names like Holy Family, the music collecƟon. He found a Mozart compact
Ganymede Rolling a Hoop, and Prince Carlos, and disk and slipped the symphony recording into the
fancy, carved frames. The stuffed deer heads and CD player. Then he returned to the kitchen,
moose heads, the mounted walleye, northern where he made himself a sandwich, using the
pike, and rainbow trout, and other species of On- leŌover salmon salad Ambrose Vermilion pur-
tario freshwater fishes, and the aged photographs chased earlier at a midtown deli. With a sandwich
of hunters and anglers seemed tacking and out of in one hand, he sat down in a comfortable chair.
place, alongside the fine art reproducƟons, and AŌer he found a pen and paper on the coffee
reminded Ollie of his hometown. He commented table, he bit into the whole wheat bread, and,
it certainly looked as if he had done well enough more out of insƟnct, started wriƟng notes about
for himself; certainly, he did not appear to have his experiences in the correcƟonal facility for
financial worries. Vermilion felt he owed him an young offenders. Meanwhile, Vermilion sat
explanaƟon: "This was the house of my grandfa- slumped at the boƩom of the stairwell, and, as-
ther, who owned the gold mine near Beaver- suming they shared a love of classical music,
brook, which you are too young to remember, thought hope sƟll existed.
since it closed before you were born. It's part of
an inheritance, my legacy, from which I have de- Later that evening, aŌer being forced to cook
rived my income." He narrated addiƟonal family supper, Vermilion tried to leave the house. He
history, but Ollie thought the elderly man preten- intended to escape in his luxury converƟble se-
Ɵous and conceited, thinking his white robber dan, which he planned to race across the city to
baron ancestors owned and operated the bushes, his sister's house. Wiping the sweat from his brow
the mines and forests, around his hometown. and the crumbs and rich icing from the corners of
Then, distracted, Ollie asked himself what he was his mouth with a silk napkin, Ollie looked up from
doing in this man’s house and felt his misery devouring a thick slice of chocolate cake, creamy
knew no end. This old man, a figure who exer- with icing, which had gone crusty and stale, which
cised authority and control over him in what Vermilion picked up earlier in the week at
seemed like an enƟrely different life altogether, an Eglinton Avenue bakery. He spoƩed Vermilion
was provoking him in ways neither understood. If

170

Revista Adelaide

stumbling across his front lawn in his soiled, the pocket of his plaid shirt. AŌer staying awake
smelly, ill-fiƫng socks. Ollie burst from the house without even a nap for over a day, he fell asleep
and balcony and chased him across the land- in his chair, reading a book. Vermilion hurried to
scaped grounds. He dragged Vermilion, yelling his bedroom, but, when he desperately checked,
and cursing, spiƫng and dribbling salvia down the listening intently through the telephone exten-
corner of his mouth, back into the house. sion with faint hope, he discovered the phone sƟll
dead. Gasping and grunƟng, he reached under-
"Get out of my house!" Vermillion protested. neath his bed and grabbed a .303 Lee Enfield rifle,
"Leave me alone!" a souvenir, an heirloom in the family since the
end of the Second World War. He relied on the
“You never leŌ me alone. Why should I?” rifle for a greater sense of security. He earlier
loaded the vintage BriƟsh army rifle with brand
"What do you want? Look, if it's money, I'll give it new .303 cartridges and started keeping the gun
to you." nearby, hiding it underneath his bed. He went
downstairs and confronted Ollie, previously
Breathing hard, Vermilion troƩed over to a desk awake for countless hours on end, now asleep in
in his study and opened a drawer, pulling out a the chair at the kitchen table. He poked Ollie’s
chequebook from a fine leather-bound wallet. shoulder with the iron sights of the muzzle. When
Vermillion started to write out a cheque, muƩer- that did not rouse me, he tapped his forearm with
ing, “Pay to the order of Oliver Eagleton,” wriƟng the barrel. Ollie sƟrred and awoke, blinking his
his name on the recipient line, saying, "Just name bloodshot eyes open.
an amount, and I'll give you your compensaƟon,
fair and square." The sight of Vermilion aiming point-blank the bar-
rel of this almost anƟque rifle—the same rifle
Ollie seized the cheque he draŌed and the pad of with which his uncle had bayoneted a German—
blank cheques out of his hands and ripped and startled him at first when he awakened, but then
tore the bank note into shreds. Although he had he merely smiled. Then he blanched, wondering if
liƩle money, he decided the passion that drove Vermilion realized that the knife he brandished
his vengeance would be spoiled and his integrity was actually a bayonet for the rifle. In fact, he
would be damaged if he accepted money. His discerned that if he aƩached the bayonet to the
integrity would not be harmed if he kept the rifle the fit would have been snug, perfect.
leather wallet, he decided; he had liƩle money
and his own wallet, assuming he could find it, was "Get out of my house or I'll have to shoot you,"
so worn out and torn he needed a new one. As Vermilion warned.
the Friday turned into Saturday and the morning
turned into aŌernoon, Ollie conƟnued to refuse Ollie dared: “Shoot me, kill me; you’d only be
to allow Ambrose Vermilion to leave the house on puƫng me out of my misery. My life has been
any errands. He did not even allow him to shop nothing but wretchedness since y-y-you d-did w-
for groceries, fresh fruit or vegetables, or refill his w-what you d-d-did t-to—to m-me.”
prescripƟons for high blood pressure medicaƟon
and sleeping pills at the drugstore. He would not "Leave! Leave now.”
even permit him a walk to the corner for a news-
paper from the vending machine. Reminding him Ambrose Vermilion had a look of disgust and con-
they had a few scores to seƩle, he insisted they tempt on his face. “You—you—you—” He pointed
stay at home. He sat in a chair at the kitchen ta- his finger accusaƟvely and thrust it repeatedly “I
ble, rolling his own cigareƩes from papers and a have a word for people like you. You're a profes-
small pouch of tobacco. He picked up the terrible sional vicƟm."
habit of smoking in the detenƟon facility. Like
other young offenders, he rolled his own ciga- “You're a coward. You don't even have the cour-
reƩes to save money. age to shoot me.”

Ollie looked worried, troubled, preoccupied, lost Ambrose Vermilion moved his finger over the
in thought. SomeƟmes he made notes in a wad trigger and applied light pressure to the groove.
of three-hole ruled paper he folded and stored in Ollie could clearly see his finger on the trigger—

171

Adelaide Magazine

the distance between us was no more than a iron gates surrounding estates with landscaped
body length—but he merely shrugged and forced gardens and lawn sculptures made from bronze,
laughter. "Go ahead. Pull the trigger. S-s-shoot m marble, and ornate water fountains, past private
-me." colleges and prep schools with magnificent and
immaculate green grounds, and homes of the
Seemingly ready to fire the gun and send his own privileged, rich, and famous. The cruise in the
existence into oblivion, Vermilion swung the bar- comfortable car with muted classical music play-
rel around and inserted the muzzle into his own ing on the high-fidelity car stereo gave me some
mouth. He feared a boom and blood and grey unexpected pleasure, so he could not help nod-
maƩer splaƩer, but he expected Vermilion to ding and behind the Ɵnted windshields. He re-
behave raƟonally and forced more laughter, but, laxed in the comfort of the automobile, enjoying
in his grim state of mind, his own aƩempt at a the opulence of the scenery. They conƟnued to
gesture of mirth was half-hearted, barely credible cruise through the surrounding neighbourhoods,
and, indeed, his voice sounded sinister. He tugged and Ollie iniƟally felt lulled into a certain sense of
at the scratched, dented stock and wrenched the complacence. While conƟnuing to drive the Jagu-
vintage military rifle from Vermilion’s hands. He ar, Vermilion noƟced a police cruiser trailing be-
accused him of being a coward and said he did hind them. His driving became slightly erraƟc, as
not even have the courage to kill himself. he gently swung the vehicle back and forth into
the opposing lane, weaving the sleek car back and
The rest of the weekend passed in unevenƞul forth across the traffic median. NoƟcing the odd
periods, which alternated with a peculiar tension. driving paƩern, Ollie peered into the rear-view
Then Ollie tuned Ambrose Vermilion’s expensive mirror, but could not see anything from his per-
stereo receiver into a favourite FM radio staƟon, specƟve, so he turned around and glanced out
which played loud hard rock and heavy metal the rear windshield.
music. To feel the vibraƟons on his body, Ollie
cranked up the volume of sound on powerful am- A Toronto police officer, wearing sunglasses, at
plifiers to a level intolerable—far too loud—for the wheel of a brand new cruiser, polished,
Ambrose Vermilion and pressed his head against buffed, and waxed for a car show, virtually
the large speakers. The unbearable noise drove hugged the bumper of the luxury motor vehicle. If
the elder Vermilion into a fury and a vale of frus- the police officer gazed closely enough, Ollie sup-
trated tears. Oblivious to his turmoil, Ollie occa- posed he might surmise the pair was a couple.
sionally made notes into his folded bundle of Ollie slid down in the seat, close to the driver’s
ruled paper, wriƟng passages he wished to incor- posiƟon, and put his arm around Vermilion’s
porate into the memoir/novel he was wriƟng on shoulder. Then he placed his foot alongside Ver-
again, off again for the past several months, since milion’s on the accelerator pedal, only then noƟc-
he was an inmate. ing the arƟsanship and fine materials used in its
manufacture of his shoes.
His former principal said he seemed wise beyond
his years, so why was he conƟnuing with this If he kept acƟng up, this could be the last ride for
farce? He merely replied he seemed to be pre- both of them, Ollie warned, as he rested the sole
suming something, and they conƟnued an argu- of my own steel shank leather boots against the
ment that intermiƩently grew more heated unƟl fine shoe leather and braided laces.
just as unpredictably it quieted down.
“If you're going to try to speed this car into any-
On Sunday evening, Ollie forced his former princi- thing, I should tell you there is an emergency
pal out of the house for a drive in his luxury se- brake."
dan. They drove through the Forest Hills and
Rosedale neighbourhood around what Vermilion Vermilion stared straight ahead, boldly disregard-
referred to as his estate, past mansions and ing his abductor. “Yes, and I could just strangle
through narrow winding streets, shaded by ma- you on the spot,” he warned. He pressed the
jesƟc elms and maples, immaculately maintained sharp edge of the bayonet blade against his side,
grass and gardens, with prisƟne ponds and walk- poking the Ɵp through the fabric of his sweater
ways. They rode the sleek car past black wrought and undershirt, indenƟng but not penetraƟng his

172

Revista Adelaide

bare flesh beneath. The bayonet was a giŌ from in his school principal days. “You know what you
his father, he explained. are? A vicƟm. That's what you are—a professional
vicƟm."
Vermilion cringed at the thought of the boy’s abo-
riginal father, who had guided him more than “What?”
once musky and lake trout fishing and moose
hunƟng; he thought he understood the boy’s “You asked for it."
mother—his Portuguese side much beƩer. Am-
brose Vermilion remembered pulling him out of Ollie couldn’t believe what he heard—Vermilion
class and summoning him to his office to inform assigning blame, virtually accusing him. Glowering
him his father, who had once guided him on a ominously, Ollie strode towards him with his rifle,
fishing expediƟon up the large reservoir of Lac which he hoped to use to frighten him away. He
Seul, had passed away, a vicƟm of an apparent carried the rifle, pressing the stock against his
suicide, a finding Ollie disputed and disbelieved thigh, the muzzle pointed towards the floor. He
originally. The thought of the boy’s father’s de- had been almost using the rifle as a walking sƟck.
mise and the potenƟal such violence might lurk The presence of the rifle started to anger and
within his former pupil caused Ambrose Vermilion annoy him. He resented Vermilion’s introducƟon
to shudder and pause. In fact, Vermilion resumed of the weapon into the situaƟon. He actually
driving normally. feared he might need to resort to use of the fire-
arm. Ambrose Vermilion feared for his life; he had
Ollie ordered him to head home, and the rest of never seen such a look of anger on the face of a
the drive passed in silence. AŌer they arrived pupil before, a depth of rage and passion, he pre-
back at his home, he decided he needed the con- sumed, originated in the darkness of his soul.
solaƟon and distracƟon he usually found in books, “What did you say just now?”
and he turned to Vermilion’s bookshelves. He
started to make himself comfortable in Vermil- "No, no, no," Vermilion sobbed.
ion’s study again with a fine, portable hardcover
leather-bound ediƟon of Homer’s Iliad, neat be- “What did you say?”
cause it was no larger than a compact paperback
book. "No, no, no, I'm sorry, I misspoke. I am truly and
genuinely sorry. You're perfectly right: It was my
Having spent Ɵme in an insƟtuƟon that enforced fault. I just inadvertently released an outburst."
isolaƟon, he thought he could now easily tolerate
a lonely existence and monkish lifestyle. OŌen- “What did you say before? I think whatever
Ɵmes he preferred such solitude, but when he you’re saying now is an act of self-preservaƟon.
thought of the loneliness stretched over a life- You’re cowardly.”
Ɵme, it invoked fear. However, Vermilion found
himself filled with a newfound resentment of Ol- “Oh, what does it maƩer anymore? I said it's your
lie’s presence; for the past few years, he zealously fault. You asked for whatever you got. At least
protected his privacy, building an impenetrable you never protested.”
wall of secrecy around himself. He even went so
far as to lay off the hired help, cancelling the reg- Ollie became agitated, heated, and enraged he
ular visits by the cleaner, groundskeeper, and could barely make his speech understood. “How
maintenance worker. Now this mischievous figure was I to know? I was young. I didn't know beƩer.”
from his past intruded into his life, trying to de- Ollie insisted he abused his posiƟon of authority,
stroy his peaceful, sheltered existence. Growing but Vermilion insisted he did everything with his
heated at the thought, he decided he could toler- knowledge and consent. Ollie started swinging
ate Ollie’s presence and anƟcs no longer, and the rifle.
exploded with anger. "Leave! Leave now!” He
flailed his arms in the general direcƟon of the Vermilion screamed hysterically that, yes, of
front doors. “You! You!” He pointed his fingers course, he had been too young to know, as he
accusaƟvely, a gesture he resorted to frequently backed away and raised his hands for protecƟon.
“You—you’ve r-r-ruin—ruined m-my l-life,” I pro-
tested. “R-r-ruined it.

173

Adelaide Magazine

Hovering above him, he held the rifle by the bar- into the coffee mug, before he had even finished
rel above his head, swung the stock down, and it, muƩering, "Damn everything." Tears trickled
slammed the grip against Vermilion’s legs. He down his dimpled, withered, wrinkled cheeks. The
could hear the bones break in Vermilion’s upper singer's voice climbed, raising his him upwards,
legs as he slammed the wooden gunstock down upwards, soaring above the melee, seƫng him
and swung the rifle down again. By the Ɵme he adriŌ a sea of pained bliss.
finished, Vermilion was groaning, gasping, sƟfling
the animal noise the tremendous pain forced him FranƟc to leave, desperate to flee his former prin-
to make. Unable to move, he looked down at cipal’s house, on the verge of panic and breaking
himself, his legs limp. down himself, Ollie checked to see if he could
leave Vermilion alone, unassisted. Vermilion in-
“Are you saƟsfied? Have you had enough?” sisted he go so he decided to leave the house
immediately, even though Ollie sƟll had too many
Ollie wanted to touch his legs, straighten them, uncertainƟes in his mind about the man’s condi-
and make certain they were all right, but he real- Ɵon. The sight of the man in such incredible pain
ized that gesture would only cause him great filled him with fear and remorse. He suddenly
pain. He remembered the excruciaƟng pain he became aware of the consequences of his acƟons,
felt when his own legs were broken, and he felt of how wrong and misguided he had been.
pity for him. He realized the same type of injuries
he suffered when a snowmobile struck him afflict- He felt mysƟfied at how he arrived at the point
ed Vermilion. where he could commit such violence. This sort of
awareness and dawning might affect somebody
“Are you sure you don’t want to leave?” who suddenly realized that they might have lost a
limb in an accident or hears of the sudden unex-
Silenced, Ollie grimaced and felt he was no longer pected death of somebody precious and close to
in a posiƟon to argue, or reject his pleas or que- them. As he jogged out of the neighbourhood
ries; his mood had turned to dread and fear. Fi- with fine houses and majesƟc trees, he feared he
nally, he watched the old man painfully drag him- might aƩract the aƩenƟon of the police or private
self over to the stereo, using the armrests of security patrols. His aƫtude changed drasƟcally
chairs and sofas as supports. He felt incredulous from the mindset he possessed when he originally
Vermilion could sƟll walk and even advised him went to confront Ambrose Vermilion. Depressed
he should stay off his feet and rest. Vermilion and remorseful, he realized the drasƟc acƟon he
somehow managed to put on a compact disk took could not be reversed easily. Eventually,
from a London musical and limped back to his Ollie rode the southbound subway to Union sub-
chair. way staƟon.

He covered his legs with a quilt from the sofa and AŌerwards, Ollie made a collect call from a pay
grabbed a boƩle of Scotch. He reached over to phone in the lower floor of Union StaƟon to his
the table and grabbed a mug, dumping the flat cousin. Knowing Ollie was recently released from
leŌover ginger ale onto the carpet. His hands the juvenile detenƟon facility, Gary said he would
trembling and quavering, he poured Scotch into a send him a train Ɵcket on the passenger service
coffee mug and sipped the drink. The climbing from Toronto to Vancouver. Gary said that, once
voice of the singer flooded the house and caused Ollie learned the coffee shop business inside out,
his heart to swell, his chest to ache, and his eyes he wanted to put him in charge of a third Mocha
to fill with tears. Van coffee shop in the Upper East Side, near shel-
ters where he felt confident the homeless, ad-
The soprano’s voice soared, filling the upper dicts, drug dealers, sex trade workers, and shelter
reaches of the loŌy spacious room with her song workers would appreciate the caffeine fix.
of love and mourning. His hands trembled, spilling
drink on his lap, and he cursed and muƩered, “You want to set up a coffee truck near a home-
breaking into tears. "Just can't seem to do any- less shelter?”
thing right. Damn it all." He splashed more Scotch
into the coffee mug. "Bloody well damn every- “It’s not a coffee truck; it’s a full-fledged coffee
thing." He gulped the drink and poured yet more shop. It’ll be my third cafe, if you help me.”

174

Revista Adelaide

“Why do you want to set up a coffee shop near a About the Author:
homeless shelter?”
Born and raised in Sioux Lookout, Ontario, John
“Because I have a social conscience, and I like to Tavares is the son of Portuguese immigrants from
make money at the same Ɵme.” Then Gary the Azores. His educaƟon includes graduaƟon
laughed his manic giggle, creepy, frightening, par- from 2-year GAS at Humber College in Etobicoke
Ɵcularly if you knew he suffered bipolar disorder. with concentraƟon in psychology (1993), 3-year
Indeed, just as Gary promised, by the Ɵme Ollie journalism at Centennial College in East York
ascended the ramp in the vast cavernous train (1996), and the Specialized Honors BA in English
staƟon to the Ɵcket counter, the agent handed from York University in North York (2012). His
him a train Ɵcket, reservaƟons, and luggage tags wriƟngs have been published in various maga-
for the following morning. zines and literary journals. Set of his short stories
has been broadcasted at the Sioux Lookout’s
Ollie decided to wait overnight in the staƟon, CBLS/CBQW radio.
since the train to Vancouver was scheduled to
leave in several hours in the early morning. Mean-
while, Ollie looked about vigilantly, fearfully anƟc-
ipaƟng the arrival of the police. Finally, he man-
aged to nap in the waiƟng lounge, tranquilized by
the sole other train passenger in the train staƟon,
playing a saxophone. By the Ɵme the train pre-
pared for boarding at eight am, Ollie was at the
head of the line a few hundred passengers long
and, aside from train officials, there was no au-
thoriƟes. Ollie boarded the train and seƩled in his
seat for a weeklong journey across Canada. As the
passenger train passed beneath the CN Tower
and the office towers of the financial district of
Toronto, he peered up through the window and
thought there was a glimmer of hope.

175

Adelaide Magazine

DR. PERKINS

by Heide ArbiƩer

Dr. Perkins signed up immediately. It was in the insect ranch. That did not sound right. Others
desert, aŌer all, his favorite vacaƟon spot. Not beckoned him to “The Enterprise”, but with this
many other dermatologists approved of these warning: “Their replicators are offline which
desert landscapes, which made the days there means you have to eat whatever awful food they
more precious. Dr. Perkins was always interested throw at you. ConvenƟoneers will have to do
in Star Wars, and when his wife, Fifi, leŌ him for daily shiŌs in the kitchens as evidence that they
not only a Wookiee impersonator, but an imper- are complying with the laws of gravity on a con-
sonator of Chewbacca, the greatest Wookiee of structed, staƟonary space complex, where unity is
all, he figured that he would have Ɵme alone, to the theme and monogamy to the crew encour-
not only think and imagine, but actually try out aged”. Dr. Perkins decided against that one, as he
something he had only dreamed of before. Dr. had already had seventeen years of monogamy
Perkins would aƩend a science ficƟon convenƟon and not one of them was unified.
by himself.
Then, there was the desert. The e-vite said “Sci-Fi
Dr. Perkins and Fifi did have that in common. Of ConvenƟon 99 – All Welcomed” Did that mean it
course, he aƩended these convenƟons only to had met yearly for 99 years? If so, this suggested
listen and learn, she because of her love of cos- stability. The thought thrilled and intrigued him,
tumes. Her favorite character was Lady Godiva, as was the idea of a mulƟ-character convenƟon,
which authorized her to unbraid her long blonde not one driven by theme, and, yes, even fanaƟ-
hair and let it flow down her naked body. Dr. Per- cism. Dr. Perkins threw his luggage into his car
kins and Fifi fought about that, but in the end the and set off.
pleasure of simply travelling with her always won.
But, the instant Dr. Perkins pulled up in the dusty
But, Fifi was travelling without him now, first parking lot a mile away from the ConvenƟon Cen-
throughout Australia, and then onto New Zea- ter which was, as he could see from this distance,
land, where her Wookiee lover, Jeb, owned land. a lime green motel, he had a sense of dread. His
Well, that would not be a deterrent. Dr. Perkins was the only car in the lot. Dr. Perkins got out of
was a grown man. He owned a condo. He would his car, and stared at the desert. He looked at his
triumph by himself. watch. 7 A.M. Wasn’t that when registraƟon
began? Dr. Perkins looked up at the sun. All he
SƟll, the idea of going alone made Dr. Perkins saw were flocks of birds overhead. Vultures, his
nervous. He closed his pracƟce. He wanted Ɵme favorites, were circling rather close. Fifi called
to research and prepare. His e-mail flooded with these birds boƩom feeders, but he knew their,
recommendaƟons from acquaintances and invita- yes, horrible dietary cravings, but intelligent and
Ɵons from convenƟoneers. Some suggested he gentle natures set them apart as royalty.
try the “Firefly” convenƟon, held yearly at some
Dr. Perkins was about to get back into his car,
when Dr. Strange, his adornments magnificent,

176

Revista Adelaide

pulled up next to him. “In costume already?” Dr. torment him. Dr. Perkins grabbed his name tag
Perkins asked. “Where’s yours?” snarled the con- and ran shrieking from registraƟon. Those stand-
venƟoneer, as he turned off his igniƟon and got ing behind him jeered.
out. “I’ll park over there,” said Dr. Perkins as he
got into his car and rode over to the only shady Alone in his room that night, Dr. Perkins read over
spot near an enormous cactus. the next day’s schedule only to discover it was
Wookiee friendly, complete with a Wookiee pa-
For a while, Dr. Perkins sat in his car, thinking. He rade and a Wookiee panel. One panel caught his
knew he was was not a handsome man. His bald eye. “Wookiee Women: Where are they?” This
head and thick glasses implied old age, even might answer his quesƟons. Were they hiding?
though he was in his prime. AŌer a few years of Afraid? Were they modest? He, himself, had de-
marriage, style conscious Fifi had given up on his signed garments that would hide their furry
sci-fi costumes and simply focused on trying to Wookiee nakedness, but he was too Ɵmid to pub-
modernize his daily sense of fashion. But Dr. Per- licize them, even here. In his secret heart, Dr.
kins refused, suspecƟng she would make him look Perkins hoped that a Wookiee woman would ap-
worse, not beƩer. SƟll, he thought, the frayed proach him and perhaps help him market his cre-
Armani suit he was wearing and the fact he had aƟons, or more.
purchased it at Housing Works, should give him
some leverage. The next morning, Dr. Perkins, sƟll wearing his
Armani suit, strode into the panel. He looked
Siƫng in his car, Dr. Perkins thought about how around to see the room was already packed with
he should introduce himself. It was bad enough Wookiee impersonators, but not one of them, as
that embarrassment followed whenever he spoke far as he could tell, was a Wookiee woman. Dr.
of his profession. “A dermatologist, huh?” was Perkins took his seat in the audience and said to
the usual response. Then, the inevitable pulling the Wookiee on his right, “Where are the girls?”
down of pants or unbuƩoning of the shirt. “Into “Can’t you tell?” the Wookiee snapped. “No won-
skin? Well, doc, look at this. Did you ever see a der they have to scoop away our wives,” Dr. Per-
blob like this?” Amazingly, this happened every- kins said to the Wookiee at his leŌ. The Wookiee
where he went, museums, the laundry room, growled, “How come you’re not in costume?” “I
even the florist where he yearly bought Fifi dai- am in costume. I come as an observer and a re-
sies for her birthday. Of course, he could always corder of experience.” “Kind of like an Away
outright lie and when asked about his job, shrug Team?” the Wookiee asked. “Sure,” Dr. Perkins
and say he was unemployed, but the looks that answered.
he would get from that kind of response would be
more than his delicate sense of self could handle. The boring panel ran over three hours. As the
Wookiee emcee droned on about equality and fur
With a sigh, Dr. Perkins snapped into the present. is fantasƟc, Dr. Perkins driŌed off into his own
The sun was seƫng. The parking lot was full. world in which he found a Wookiee woman to call
Maybe, the fun was about to begin. Dr. Perkins his own. In their bedroom, as night, he examined
pulled himself from his car and aƩempted to hold beneath the fur, touching her skin and feeling it
his head high as he walked into the building. for boils and blemishes. Much to his delight, she
met with his approval. His Wookiee woman had
In retrospect, perhaps a mulƟ-character conven- perfect skin, subtle and smooth.
Ɵon was not a mature choice. While standing in
line to register, despite the all characters wel- That’s how Dr. Perkins met Fifi. She came to his
comed moƩo, the place was sƟll overwhelmed office with something so minor, he almost sent
with the usual standards, young women and even her to his associate down the hall. But when, at
men costumed as Katniss Everdeen, Wonder his request, she opened her hospital gown from
Woman, Klingons, the always favorite, Yoda, the neck down, he gasped. Her skin was like
Spock and Data, of course, Wolverine, Bat Man, saƟn. Pure and shiny and devoid of stretch marks
the always despised Jar-Jar Binks and much to his and scars. It was as though she had never been
horror, not a few, but a plethora of Wookiees. touched by human hands or crumpled up as she
It was as though they were summoned there to

177

Adelaide Magazine

passed through her mother’s birth canal, so flaw- top of him. The man screeched, but Dr. Perkins
less was her skin. She was perfecƟon. She want- did not hear, as he pummeled the man’s face into
ed to know about a Ɵny pore on her nose. “It just a bloody mess that no amount of dermabrasion
appeared out of nowhere”, she said. He gazed at could remedy.
the perfect skin on her perfectly porcelain face
and was speechless. Under his magnifying glass, About the Author
the Ɵny pore, barely visible became his focus. He
stared and stared and suddenly he felt himself Heide ArbiƩer's plays have been produced in
standing in the largest crater on the moon, look- New York City and regionally. Some of these pro-
ing up at millions of brilliant stars, realizing he ducƟons include a one-act, HAND WASHED, LINE
was one of them and delirious at his weightless- DRIED, which was produced at the Public Theatre;
ness. This was love. This was splendor. a full-length, FROGS FROM THE MOON at the
American Theatre of Actors; and a one-act, TILL
The Wookiee to his right wiggled closer to make WE MEET, at Unboxed Voices. Smith & Kraus and
space for the new Wookiee pal now joining him. Excalibur have published JILLY ROSE, SHARON and
“How do you guys tell each other apart?” asked POPPY. Heide was recently interviewed on the
Dr. Perkins. The Wookiees around him chuckled. radio, WFUV.
“Where are your women?” screamed Dr. Perkins.
“As if we’d tell you,” the Wookiee to his leŌ said.
“Where?” Dr.

Perkins shouted. Suddenly, all of the Wookiees in
the room joined in. “Get your own women. Get
your own!” they cried. The Wookiee uproar
reached a crescendo. Covering his ears, Dr. Per-
kins ran from the room and down the hall, bang-
ing into popcorn stands, knocking over whirling
pink coƩon candy vats, and crashing head long
into the caramel apple stands.

His face covered with these snacks, Dr. Perkins
raced to the lobby, past a bunch of Wookiees
shouƟng excitedly, poinƟng at him and laughing.
Where could he go? Where could he find her?
Fifi. He loved her. He missed her. Was she here?
Did she leave her Wookiee lover alone, in New
Zealand, to frolic with his sheep, so she could
return to the doctor, her husband, and reinvent
the true meaning of science ficƟon?

Dr. Perkins stopped and tried to catch his breath.
Next to him, a Wookiee was talking up a Wonder
Woman. Her robust skin glowed under the fluo-
rescent lights. She whispered something and
opened her mouth revealing newly installed ve-
neers. Saliva drooling down his chin, the Wookiee
moved in for a kiss.

But the dermatologist was too fast. He lunged at
the Wookiee, and ripped off the Wookiee’s head,
revealing the bumpy, fissured face of a middle-
aged man with adult acne. The Wonder Woman
screamed and hid behind a chair. The dermatolo-
gist wrestled the man to the floor and climbed on

178

Revista Adelaide

WET FEET, DRY FEET

by Taylor Lovullo

HAVANA, 1994 hot Caribbean sun with his two best friends, Yunel
and Camilo. They were his next-door neighbors
It was exactly 2:30am, and Joaquin leŌ his small and Joaquin had known them for as long as he
house located in Vedado, a small neighborhood could remember—they were both a year older,
outside of the city. He shut the door quietly be- and he looked up to them. He didn’t have siblings
hind him, and conƟnued to walk across his front of his own, but he considered those two his
yard unƟl he reached the mango tree. It was the brothers, even though they were all from differ-
high point of summer, and the fruits were grow- ent families. Yunel taught him how to hit a base-
ing in abundance— Joaquin looked at its long, ball right here on the patchy grass of this front
green leaves and the liƩle bright mangos hanging lawn when they were liƩle, and how to do front
from the branches. He thought of how he and his flips off the Malecon, or the sea wall, into the
mother used to sit underneath its shade on blaz- ocean.
ing, humid, summer days because it was unbeara-
bly hot in their home and they needed to get Camilo was less athleƟc and free-spirited
some fresh air. She would read to him pages from than Yunel, but Joaquin always secretly favored
El Canto General, a poetry book by Pablo Neruda, him. Like Joaquin, Camilo grew up without a fa-
a Chilean, while he would pick mangos off the ther, and the two had a sort of unspoken bond
ground and stuff them into his shirt, sweaƟng and because of it. Plus, he admired Camilo because he
listening to the chaos of street vendors and old was always one of the smartest kids in school
cars honking outside. growing up—Everyone said that he was giŌed in
math and science, and that he would probably
A light breeze rustled the leaves and some palms grow up to be an excellent doctor one day. He
overhead began to sway. It was sƟll warm out, would always help Joaquin and Yunel with their
and Joaquin stood underneath the old mango homework, and was always so paƟent to explain
tree and put his hand on the trunk. His eyes filled everything. Joaquin turned around and looked at
with tears as he thought about the memories and his house for what would most likely be the last
Neruda’s poems that always made him smile as a Ɵme. He blinked back some more tears and
child. He took a few steps away and stood on the smiled at the Ɵny, one-story building with a ce-
sidewalk, observed its cracked, uneven surface ment exterior and the chipping blue paint on the
with unruly weeds growing through it, and door. As he was turning away, the door cracked
thought of how he always used to look for insects open. He could see his mother’s gaunt face and
in those liƩle crevices with the other kids in the peƟte frame hiding behind it.
neighborhood and poke them with sƟcks. Those
were the days, he thought. Before everything “Come here, my love, I want to hug you one more
went to shit in this country. Ɵme,” she said soŌly, but sƟll loud enough for
him to hear.
He closed his eyes and could see himself as a child
running around careless and barefoot under the Joaquin crossed the lawn one more Ɵme, and
embraced his mother on the paƟo.

179

Adelaide Magazine

“I love you so much, Mama,” he said. “I am so for about five minutes. He knew exactly where to
sorry.” go—he had already been to this spot with Yunel
and Camilo three Ɵmes while they were searching
“I love you too, more than you will ever know. for the ideal place to depart.
And don’t be sorry. You are doing the right
thing— I will be fine here. I will be happy knowing They had agreed to leave Tuesday morning at
that you are going to have a much beƩer life 3:30am, which would allow them to escape the
somewhere else,” she responded. island in the dark, but the full moon would sƟll
permit them to see what they were doing. The
He nodded, thinking about the hardships that the light of dawn would guide them from that point
island had been facing for years now—the short- on. They would be able to navigate their way
ages, the oppression, the food raƟons—and then across the ocean in the daylight.
they broke from their embrace. “Goodbye, Ma-
ma.” “Joaquin!” He heard Yunel’s voice, calling him in a
loud whisper.
“Goodbye, Joaquin. But it’s not goodbye forever. I
know it,” she whispered, while taking his hands in “Hey, how’s it coming along?” Joaquin respond-
hers. ed, approaching them. His heart fluƩered as he
looked at the makeshiŌ raŌ that would be their
He nodded again. transportaƟon across the sea. It was made from
Ɵres, pipes, and wooden planks. They had con-
“I have one more thing for you,” she said, choking structed a few oars just in case, and it was just
up. barely big enough to fit the three men, who were
now all between 19 and 21 years-old. Camilo was
She disappeared inside for a moment and re- hunched over, Ɵnkering with an old outboard
turned with an old, taƩered book. It was El Canto motor that he had acquired from his uncle, who
General. A smile broke through Joaquin’s somber seemed to have everything for the boys just when
expression as he flipped through its pages, under- they needed it.
lined and annotated with his mother’s fragile
handwriƟng in blue ink. The pages with the po- Camilo looked up at him and grinned. “We should
ems that she read to him under the mango tree be good to go. I just put in the fuel and am look-
were dog-eared, with stars next to their Ɵtles. He ing over it one more Ɵme. It’s old, you know.”
flipped to the back cover, where there was an
address printed. His mother had already given Joaquin and Yunel grinned back. “But at least we
him the informaƟon of his cousins who had leŌ have a motor,” Yunel said. He was trying to sound
the island many years ago and had seƩled in Mi- like his usual cheerful, confident self, but Joaquin
ami, but she wanted him to have it somewhere could detect the fear in his voice.
else “just in case” he forgot. His cousins had been
there since 1980, when Castro sƟll let people emi- Camilo stood up and sighed. “Alright, we’re
grate from the country. ready,” he said.

“Thank you,” he said, tucking it into his backpack The three looked at each other. Joaquin unzipped
and hugging her once more. his backpack, his hands shaking. He handed them
each a boƩle of water. They took a few sips and
“Of course, my love. Now go, but please, just be looked at each other’s now-solemn faces in the
careful.” moonlight before stepping on board the raŌ and
pushing themselves out to sea.
It was a full moon that night. The sea was illumi-
nated by its reflecƟon and looked almost silver, It was about 3pm now, and the young men were
and its gentle waves lapped against the shore. siƫng in the raŌ, baking under the hot tropical
Joaquin walked through the dense brush from the sun. All three were sunburned and dehydrated,
forest and stepped out into the opening. Once he but they hadn’t encountered any life-threatening
was on the sand, he took off his sandals, closed obstacles so far, so Joaquin considered his party
his eyes, and exhaled deeply. lucky. They weren’t going too fast, but Camilo,

He turned to the leŌ and walked along the shore

180

Revista Adelaide

who was steering and checking his compass, told said that there wouldn’t be any major storms
them they were making good Ɵme and would near the island for the next few days.
probably hit land by sunrise the next morning.
“Mierda,” Yunel cursed as the first raindrops fell.
Yunel kept his eye on the fuel gauge, and Joaquin He had just menƟoned that they were low on fuel
was assigned to watch the horizon for any boats a few moments before.
in the distance. They had seen two so far, and
both Ɵmes, Joaquin felt his stomach drop and a The sky was darkening, and the winds were pick-
rush of blood to go to his head, only to come a ing up.
liƩle bit closer and realize they were only fishing
boats. “The current’s geƫng stronger,” Camilo said,
looking over his shoulder. “I’m going to keep
“Coast Guard?” Camilo would ask, turning steering… I think we have enough fuel to make it
around. His eyes flashed with panic. there. But can you guys sƟll grab some oars and
help out?”
“No, no. I think we’re all right,” Joaquin respond-
ed, peering through his binoculars. They nodded, and Yunel took a seat behind Cami-
lo while Joaquin sat more towards the rear. They
Then they would fall silent, and the main concern began to row in silence as the rain fell heavier and
would once again become the sharks that were more steadily. The water was black and growing
abundant in this part of the strait between Florida choppier by the second. Joaquin felt nauseated
and Cuba. Joaquin felt bad for the Cubans who and he had a very uneasy feeling growing in the
couldn’t find engines for their raŌs, because that pit of his stomach. This was a preƩy sturdy raŌ,
meant they would have to sail or paddle, slaves to but he wasn’t sure if it would be able to with-
the winds and currents. He had heard about some stand a tropical storm at sea.
people who took nearly an enƟre week to make it
to Florida, aŌer being blown off course and losing One moment, he was blinking the water out of his
members to heatstroke or shark aƩacks. They eyes, rowing stoically and thinking about how his
would make it there in just over one full day. backpack must be geƫng soaked. He thought of
his mother’s Pablo Neruda book, with its pages
Yunel broke a long silence. “‘Pies Mojados, Pies soggy and the blue ink smudged and running.
Secos.’” Then, the next moment, he was suddenly air-
borne somehow and launched into the dark sea.
“Wet Feet, Dry Feet,” Camilo replied in English.
He was flung far and deep and was submerged
Joaqui put down his binoculars and bit his tongue. underwater for a moment, unable to process
“It kind of sounds like a children’s game,” he re- what had just happened. When he resurfaced, he
marked. found that it was difficult to tread water with the
growing waves, and was overcome with anxiety
“Yeah, it does,” Camilo said, with a Ɵny smile. when he saw that the raŌ was already dozens of
“But it’s no game.” feet away from him. He saw Camilo and Yunel
hanging over the edge, looking and calling for him
Joaquin knew this. If they were intercepted at sea amidst the angry waters.
by the US Coast Guard, they would be sent back
to Cuba, and most likely put in jail. But if they hit “Camilo!
land, they would be granted asylum in the United
States, and would be able to stay there. Yunel! I’m over here!” Joaquin shouted, as thun-
der boomed in the distance. They didn’t seem to
Yunel changed the subject, and soon the three hear him. He felt that rush of blood to his head
were talking about lighter maƩers, like baseball once again, and heard his heart pounding in his
and fishing. A few more hours went by, and they
knew that the worst heat of the aŌernoon had
passed. There were a few dark clouds lingering in
the sky from the east, but they did not panic: the
weather forecast that they’d seen on the state-
run channel on Camilo’s uncle’s television had

181

Adelaide Magazine

ears. Don’t lose me, he thought. Please, I’m too seƩled into an uneasy, dreamless sleep right aŌer
young to die. scanning the sea for any boats nearby.

He took a deep breath, and began to swim to- “Wake up!” Yunel shouted, shaking Joaquin by
wards them, trying not to think about any sharks the shoulders. Startled, he opened his eyes. Cami-
that might have been nearby. AŌer a few strokes, lo and Yunel were standing up in the raŌ, looking
he paused and called again. alarmed.

Thankfully, this Ɵme they heard him. “Keep swim- “What’s going on?” He asked.
ming!” Camilo screamed over the wind. They
were paddling toward him now, but struggling to “That’s the US,” Yunel said quickly, poinƟng
gain control of the steering. Joaquin kept swim- ahead. Joaquin couldn’t believe his eyes—it was
ming even though he could barely see and was only about 500 feet away. “But look,” he ges-
fighƟng for breath. tured. A medium-sized white boat was rushing
toward them from behind, coming so close that
A large, black wave emerged and engulfed him he could read the words “U.S. COAST GUARD”
enƟrely. He panicked as he was pulled under, wriƩen on the hull. They heard a siren go off, and
saltwater filling his mouth and nose. AŌer a few could make someone out shouƟng at them in
seconds, he felt his all his thoughts beginning to rapid English through a megaphone.
fade.
“Jump off and swim!!!” Camilo yelled, and all
Joaquin made one final effort to save himself—he three jumped overboard, diving headfirst.
wasn’t sure how long he’d been under or how far
he was from the surface—but he extended his Underwater for that brief second, Joaquin could
arm, hoping to get it out of the water. His eyes sƟll hear the sirens. He went numb just thinking
were closing. about being captured and repatriated back to
Cuba, aŌer everything they had gone through to
Almost immediately aŌer reaching out, Joaquin get this far.
felt someone grab onto his hand. He could hear
Camilo shouƟng at Yunel as he was pulled up When he came up, he was facing the land. He
from the sea. The two men on the raŌ each started swimming, flailing his arms, and kicking
grasped one of his shoulders and pulled him back his legs. He imagined himself as a machine— he
on board. The raŌ rocked wildly for a moment, picked up his speed and did not even look back to
but they did not capsize. Yunel paƩed Joaquin’s see where his friends where, nor to see that the
back as he coughed profusely for a few moments Coast Guard was beginning to close in on them.
and regained consciousness.
He could hear the man with the megaphone sƟll
Then, the three sat back down and did not say a barking at them, and realized how close they
word. They each picked up an oar, and had no were coming. He finally turned for a split second,
choice but to hunker down and try to hold on, and saw that Camilo and Yunel were only a few
keep moving forward, and stay on course. strokes behind him, and that the Coast Guards
were now on a bright orange raŌ only trailing by a
It was morning again, and the horizon to the east few yards, rushing towards them.
began to glow as the sun rose. The storm was
over, and Camilo had declared about an hour be- Joaquin kept kicking and stroking unƟl he was
fore that they were almost to the Florida coast. sure he was close enough for his feet to reach the
Joaquin looked at his friends: Yunel was sleeping, ocean’s floor. He started wading through the wa-
siƫng straight up. Camilo was sƟll up front, row- ter, with the waves sloshing around his shoulders.
ing and pausing every now and then to check his
compass. His face looked gray and grim in this Soon, his torso was out of the water, then his
lighƟng, and there were dark circles underneath knees, and then he was sprinƟng up the sand.
his eyes. Joaquin knew he probably looked simi- Camilo and Yunel followed, and the three of them
lar—they were all exhausted, famished, and shak- ran as fast as they could up the beach and did not
en from the night before. When Yunel woke stop running for several more minutes.
up, Joaquin knew it was his turn to nap, and he
The Cubans entered a neighborhood just as the

182

Revista Adelaide

sun was rising, illuminaƟng everything in sight About the Author:
with its golden rays. The sky was vivid blue and
clear, and before collapsing on the front lawn of a Taylor Lovullo is a sophomore at The George
random house, Joaquin noƟced that the green Washington University in Washington, D.C. with a
mass dancing above them in the breeze was a major in Spanish & LaƟn American Languages,
mango tree. He was wheezing and staring up at Literature, & Cultures. Taylor has always been
the sky, adrenaline sƟll rushing through his body. interested in learning about the Spanish-speaking
Once he could collect his thoughts, he thought of world, especially Cuba. She grew up in Southern
his mother and how she was probably outside the California and also enjoys reading, studying other
liƩle cement house in Vedado at this Ɵme, siƫng languages, and traveling.
under that mango tree like she did before work
every morning. His eyes welled with tears, and a
smile spread on his face.

He looked at his friends, who felt like his family
more than ever now. They were sƟll lying flat on
the perfectly manicured, green grass. AŌer a few
seconds, Yunel got up on his knees and began
praying.

Camilo caught his breath and sat up, too.

“We made it.”

183

Adelaide Magazine

HEARTWOOD

by MaryeƩa Ackenbom

Andy leaned back in his comfortable lawn chair. were released from detenƟon aŌer two weeks.
“Do you remember?” He turned to Sue, siƫng Now I call that sex discriminaƟon.”
beside him. “We were only 15, but already deeply
in love. We would wander through that liƩle “But aŌer two weeks I could at least pass by your
woods in the park…” house and see you through your bedroom win-
dow.”
She stretched and reached for his hand. “Yes, my
love, of course I remember. We would get lost in “And I would wave at you and throw kisses. But
the liƩle woods, happily lost, and we’d find a they wouldn’t let us date for another whole
place to sit, and…” year.”

“And we’d kiss. First kisses for both of us.” “And the first thing we did when we were allowed
to see each other again was to go to the elm tree
The sound of water from the small waterfall Andy and run our fingers over the carving.”
had built in their back yard echoed the long-ago
kisses they shared. “The sap had already hardened in the tree’s bark.
That’s when we knew for sure our love would
“Andy,” she said, “How did we lose so much Ɵme last.”
before we joined our hands and our hearts and
our bodies in marriage?” “Then you moved away. I was so sad.” She sighed.
“Every day I’d go to the elm tree and trace the
“We were only fiŌeen, Sue, and our parents tried heart, and then our iniƟals.”
to keep us apart. And not only because we were
only fiŌeen.” “And then you’d write me the most beauƟful
leƩers.”
“Those were glorious days, walking in the woods,
but then there were the bad, lonely days when “UnƟl my mom found out.”
they forced us to separate.”
“Why would they keep us from wriƟng, Sue? You
“They tried, didn’t they? And for a while they suc- were just perfecƟng your poetry, right?”
ceeded.”
“And you perfected your arƟstry, which you be-
“Oh, Andy, I remember the day you carved a gan by carving up the poor tree.”
heart with our iniƟals together in the sweet old
elm tree. ‘AM loves SR.’ I was so thrilled.” They both sighed and closed their eyes.

“Then that brat of a sister of yours found the tree Some Ɵme later, they pulled themselves out of
and our love iniƟals.” the lawn chairs and walked slowly through the
green spring grass into the house, leaning on each
“And my folks grounded me for a month. You other.

184

Revista Adelaide

Together they fixed their usual light supper, tea
and crackers, and maybe a piece of fruit. Togeth-
er they sat at their small kitchen table.

“How long was it before we saw each other again,
Sue?”

“Don’t you remember? It was a couple of years,
and you made some money delivering papers and
used it to come see me.”

“Oh yes, and you weren’t home. I almost cried, a
big seventeen-year-old baby. Then I guessed
where you might be.”

“And you found me, seated under the old elm
tree.”

“I was so surprised to see how the heart outline
and the iniƟals had widened. But we kissed. And
kissed some more.”

“Yes, we did.” She smiled at him. “I came almost
every day to the tree, and I noƟced the carving
growing larger. And my heart grew with love as I
remembered our kisses.” She raised her eye-
brows. “Do you want to see the evening news?”

“No, dear, I want to kiss you again.”

“We have never stopped kissing. Our parents ac-
cepted that we were not going to part, and they
let us enroll in the same college.”

“Sue, do remember learning anything in college?”

“Mostly, I remember strolling around the campus,
our arms around each other. Our friends used to
call us the Siamese twins.”

“I think the old elm tree put a spell on us. I never
thought about any other girl. Oh, I admit I liked
looking at some of them…”

Sue drew back and lightly punched his shoulder.
“Do you want me to confess to my countless
affairs?”

“I know you were in love with Rock Hudson.”

“Ahem. Weren’t you?”

“That didn’t get either of us very far, did it?”

They chuckled, drew each other up from their
kitchen chairs, and seƩled again on the living
room couch. The green and white print on the
couch matched a couple of armchairs, and green
drapes were pulled aside to let in the darkening

185

Adelaide Magazine

evening. In front of them a coffee table, carved About the Author:
from natural wood and covered with a thickness
of plate glass, shone from frequent dusƟng. MaryeƩa Ackenbom has published several short
stories online, and has just published her second
Sue smoothed her hand over the glass, tracing novel, "Hope Abides," available on amazon.com.
the symbols below it. “I’m so glad we could get She lives and writes in Merida, Yucatan, Mexico, a
this, Andy. It’s a symbol for us.” warm city with warm, welcoming people.

“How many Ɵmes…” He put his hand over hers on
the glass. “How many Ɵmes did we go back to the
elm tree? Every Ɵme, it was like geƫng married
again.”

“And when we got married, in the old Methodist
church, we went to visit the tree before we even
went to the recepƟon. And whenever we visited
the tree aŌer that, we noƟced that the carving
seemed a liƩle wider, more disƟnct.”

“Sue, we’ve traveled all over, and we’ve lived in
different places, but we’ve always come back to
our old home town and the elm tree heart. I’m so
glad we reƟred here.”

“We had to come back, Andy. When my brother
wrote us that they were cuƫng down the woods
where our elm tree grew, we had to come back
and save it.”

“And we sure fought with that construcƟon com-
pany. I wonder if anyone has ever loved a tree
like we loved the elm tree.”

“And we only gave up when they showed us the
old tree was dying, anyway. I cried so hard!”

“But Sue, we didn’t give up. We won! They made
us the offer, and we accepted, reluctantly, but we
knew there was no alternaƟve.”

“We watched them cut down the tree, and I cried
all the Ɵme. I think you did, too.”

Andy put his arm around her shoulder. “I admit it.
But then the company representaƟves took us to
their workshop, where we saw their people carve
down into the heartwood of the elm tree, and
they sanded it and varnished it…”

“And ever since then we’ve had the tree with its
heart in front of us, always reminding us of our
young love.”

Sue ran her hand over the glass again, over the
outline of the carving, now aŌer so many years
much smoother and wider than ever. Andy rested
his hand over hers.

186

Revista Adelaide

SCHADENFREUDE

by Jack Coey

The sun was going down when Jessica appeared “What’s his status?”
at Father Brendan’s office door, and aŌer being
moƟoned in, in a hissing whisper, told him what “Bachelor as far as I know,” said Becket coming
happened. Father Brendan recoiled from hearing down from the ceiling.
it; not because he didn’t believe it, but more, it
was a problem he didn’t want. He reassured Jessi- “Perhaps we or I should speak with him?”
ca he would speak with the named perpetrator,
and aŌer she leŌ, rethought the problem, and “Let sleeping dogs lie, I say.”
because of the sensiƟvity of it, decided to speak
with Becket, the choir director. Becket came to “Yes, but what if Jessica tells her tale in the com-
Father Brendan’s office doorway with trepidaƟon munity?”
at the unusualness of the summons. Father Bren-
dan asked if he’d noƟced any odd occurrence in “I’ve got it! I’ll insƟtute a new policy of separaƟon
the choir. Becket put his fingers to his lips, and of the genders. Men on one side and women on
looked at the ceiling for several moments, before the other. That should solve it.”
he said,
“Well done, Becket! Thank-you for your help with
“Perhaps. There was this moment, yesterday it this.”
was, when Jessica jumped in her seat like a Jack-
in-the-Box, and I passed it off as a bit of choreog- That ended the commoƟon in the choir unƟl the
raphy, nothing more.” next Ɵme which came during an aŌer-service
coffee hour when Jessica let out a blood-curling
“Yes, well, she claims Edgar put his hand on her scream from the corner of the room, and a red-
knee.” faced Edgar made a hasty retreat down the hall.
Father Brendan and Becket hustled Jessica to Fa-
“Oh, dear!” ther Brendan’s office and closed the door unƟl it
was pounded on by three or four women of the
“Oh, dear, indeed.” congregaƟon. It was just as well, as it was plain
that Jessica wasn’t going to speak with any man.
Becket took refuge in the ceiling. The women huddled with Jessica and whispered.
Olivia Proctor rose up, and said,
“Awfully good baritone, Edgar,” he said.
“If you gentlemen would kindly leave the room?”
“We can’t have any bad opinion of the church;
aƩendance is waning as it is,” said Father Bren- “I beg your pardon? This is my office,” said a per-
dan. turbed Father Brendan.

“I never knew Edgar to have predilecƟons that “You want to help Jessica or not?” snapped Agnes
way,” said Becket. Williams.

187

Adelaide Magazine

Father Brendan and Becket looked at each other. office and took a chair without being offered one.
AŌer a beat, Becket jerked his head toward the He didn’t look at either man.
door.
“Edgar, do you know why you’re here?” asked
“I’ll be back in fiŌeen minutes,” said Father Bren- Father Brendan.
dan.
“It’s not what you think.”
The women wouldn’t tell the men what went
wrong. Father Brendan tried to exert his authority “What isn’t what we think?”
as minister of the church, but the women would-
n’t yield. Father Brendan and Becket sat in si- “What you think it is, is not what it is, but only
lence. what Jessica wants you to think it is.”

“What say we talk to Edgar?” suggested Becket. “Why would Jessica want us to think it is, when
what she wants us to think it is, isn’t true?”
Father Brendan thought about that.
“Dunno.”
“Do you think he’d tell us?” asked Father Bren-
dan. “Tell us your side of the story.”

“Don’t know really. He’s a bit of an oddball,” said “I didn’t iniƟate anything.”
Becket.
Father Brendan and Becket looked at Edgar.
“You can’t recall anything peculiar?”
“How did your hand end up on her knee?”
“Well, come to think on it, and I recall seeing him
looking at Patrice.” “She put it there.”

“He’s a funny looking fellow, wouldn’t you say?” Father Brendan and Becket looked at each other.

“Yes, his long cylinder like nose, and thin torso “Edgar that’s a very serious charge. You’re sure
gives him a rather scarecrow like look.” that’s what happened?”

“Poor fellow probably doesn’t do well with the “I would never touch Jessica on my own. Now,
women, I would guess.” Patrice is another story.”

“One aŌernoon I overheard him describing proba- “So your story is that Jessica put your hand on her
bility theory to MaƟlda Owens.” knee?”

Father Brendan put his hand to his chin. “Yes.”

“Oh Good Gracious! That sounds dreadful.” “What happened during the coffee hour?” asked
Becket.
“Okay so he’s not Hugh Hefner.”
“She bumped her rear-end into me like a boat
“I think we should give him an opportunity to give docking.”
his side of the story since the women don’t want
us to know what happened from their point of Father Brendan and Becket looked at each other.
view,” said Father Brendan.
“Edgar you understand the seriousness of what
“Yes. I would say that seems fair enough.” you’re saying?” said Father Brendan.

AŌer the Tuesday aŌernoon choir pracƟce, Father “The truth is always serious. That’s why people
Brendan and Becket waited in Father Brendan’s avoid it.”
office for Edgar. There was a soŌ knock at the
door. Father Brendan acknowledged the knock “I want you to tell me you understand the seri-
and there stood Edgar. He wore a vest two sizes ousness of what you’re saying.”
too big that looked like a sail. He glided into the
“Of course I understand. I only look stupid.”

Father Brendan felt pain at Edgar’s honesty.

“Edgar did you ever think that Jessica might like
you?” asked Becket.

188

Revista Adelaide

“I don’t think that’s our concern at this point,” “Pray, enlighten me, then.”
interjected Father Brendan, “Edgar is there any-
thing else you want to tell us?” “I don’t or Freud don’t literally mean his penis.
She’s fixated on his nose.”
Both Edgar and Becket looked at the ceiling.
Father Brendan flushed red.
“Well, there is one thing…”
“His nose?”
Father Brendan and Becket leaned forward in
their chairs. “She looks at his nose and has eroƟc thoughts.”

“I think I should get the second verse solo on Father Brendan’s mouth was open and speech-
Faith of Our Fathers.” less; his chest was heaving like he couldn’t get air.

Becket watched Edgar and Jessica during the next “How about this? Come to a choir pracƟce, and
pracƟce, and Edgar acted oblivious, and he saw watch how Jessica looks at Edgar, and see if you
Jessica look at Edgar several Ɵmes not without don’t see what I see.”
some feeling in her eyes. Becket directed the
choir long enough to know to be careful about Father Brendan with What A Friend We Have in
forming any opinion: the feeling could come from Jesus in his ears came into the basement and sat
the music or from what she was looking at. But in a folding chair. There were two and a half rows
she kept looking at him, there was no mistaking of men on one side, and two rows of women on
it; then he realized why: his nose. the other, looking out at Becket who appeared to
be in some kind of reverie. He waved his arms,
First chance he got, Becket went to Father and swayed his torso back and forth, looking up
Brendan’s office. He was on the phone. When he with his eyes closed. Father Brendan found and
hung up, he said, focused on Jessica who was looking down at her
hymnal. He watched her through Rock of Ages
“What a nuisance fund raising is!” and into This LiƩle Light of Mine, and sure
enough, she looked sideways at Edgar’s nose with
Becket slid forward in his chair. a small smile on her face like she enjoyed what
she was thinking, but didn’t want anyone else to
“I’ve got a clue about that Edgar business,” he know. He watched long enough to believe it was
said. diabolical. Flustered, Father Brendan got up and
leŌ.
“Really?”
Jessica joined the congregaƟon looking for copu-
“Yes, if you watch Jessica, you can discern what’s laƟon. The choir was even beƩer because she had
on her mind.” to interact with men. She was in her late twen-
Ɵes, skinny, with dirty, stringy blond hair, flat
“Really?” chested, with glasses. She lived with her aunt in a
small, run-down house out past the sand and
“Penis envy.” gravel pit. She worked as an accountant for a
landscaping business, and at one Ɵme, was seen
“What?” around with Edwin Lancaster who was arrested at
a rest stop for lewd acƟviƟes. That’s when Jessica
“Penis envy.” came to the church. Her aunt was known to hold
séances, and worked as a greeter at Wal-Mart.
“What in God’s Name are you talking about?” Jessica was confused about what she was feeling;
she enjoyed looking at Edgar’s nose, but didn’t
“Penis envy.” know why. She wanted to believe that Edgar de-
sired her enough to put his hand on her knee.
“Good Gracious, man, how can she see his pe-
nis?”

“You obviously don’t understand Freud.”

Father Brendan annoyedly stared at Becket. He
extended his arms on either side of him.

189

Adelaide Magazine

Father Brendan sat behind his big, oak desk and
brooded over how to help Jessica; he believed
she was possessed by evil spirits. This wasn’t the
first Ɵme he had sex problems between members
of his congregaƟon, and it annoyed the hell out of
him, because it seemed he was doomed to deal
with it over and over. He considered talking with
Becket about it, but knew what he would say,

“Have her see a psychiatrist.”

He thought psychiatrists made paƟents feel com-
fortable with their malady rather than change
their behavior for redempƟon. So, having elimi-
nated all other opƟons, he decided to talk to Jes-
sica.

Jessica, with half her face obscured by her dirty About the Author:
blond hair, stood in Father Brendan’s doorway. Jack Coey lives in Keene, NH.
He signaled her in, and she hesitated. He waited.
When she was seated, he began to talk to her
about how he felt used by her when she com-
plained about unwanted behavior, but didn’t co-
operate with him when he tried to make things
beƩer. Father Brendan unexpectedly heard his
voice rising. He stopped talking and Jessica calmly
smiled at him. Anger shot through him.

“Jessica toying with peoples’ emoƟons is mean,”
he told her. She slightly nodded; smiling. Father
Brendan waited several beats before he said,

“That’s all I have to say.” She stood up and
walked out of his office, and he had several un-
charitable thoughts.

Jessica’s aƩendance became erraƟc before she
stopped coming all together. Becket asked aŌer
her several Ɵmes, but no one seemed to know.
Becket was surprised when he suggested he and
Father Brendan make a visit to her house, and
Father Brendan was lukewarm about the idea.
One member of the congregaƟon said he saw her
in the supermarket with a six-pack under her arm.
Then there was the emergency with Maureen
Sullivan being taken to the hospital with chest
pains. Father Brendan took the city bus to the
hospital, and was waiƟng in a hallway when a
gurney wheeled by with Jessica’s bloody and
bruised face above a sheet. He smiled, and later
that night, prayed for forgiveness.

190

Revista Adelaide

ANXIETY, TIME, AND

BEING PRESENT IN THE

MOMENT

by Wally Swist

Time presses upon us in innumerable ways. this seemingly limitless breadth of Ɵme will seem
Proust wrote, “When a man is asleep, he has in a unreal and unreachable—the dream of boundless
circle round him the chain of the hours, the se- Ɵme, dreamed from the confines of an egg car-
quence of the years, the order of the heavenly ton. But that’s a thought for tomorrow. For now,
bodies.” Not only can Ɵme weigh heavily on our it’s now, and the Ɵck of the bedside clock is the
psyche but it may also appear to control us in muffled beat of a heart.”
ways which seem even beyond its measure, as
William James wrote, “All my life I have been Burdick has successfully taken the ire out of the
struck by the accuracy with which I will wake at illusion that Ɵme needs to be the perpetrator of
the same exact minute night aŌer night and any anxiety whatsoever. The Amherst poet, Rob-
morning aŌer morning.” Alan Burdick recently ert Francis, who lived very much as did Henry
provides insight into the psychological aspect of David Thoreau for nearly a half century in a
Ɵme in a New Yorker arƟcle, offering the elucida- coƩage he had built for himself and his wife, Pa-
Ɵon that “most likely it’s the work of the circadian Ɵence, wrote a poem, enƟtled “Glass.” In it he
clocks, which, embedded in the DNA of my every creates a working metaphor for what a poem, or
cell, regulate my physiology over a twenty-four- poetry, could actually be, and, in fact, what life
hour period. At 4:27 A.M., I’m most aware of could be, if we remove all that it isn’t: “If the im-
being at the service of something; there is a ma- possible were not/ And if the glass, only the
chine in me, or I am a ghost in it.” glass,/ Could be removed, the poem would re-
main.” EssenƟally, this is what Alan Burdick has
“Ghosts” and “machines” in congruence with accomplished for us in taking Ɵme and the illusion
each other can precipitate a kind of horror. Simi- of Ɵme away from what it really isn’t, and that
larly, as in Edgar Alan Poe’s short story, “The Tell- being the ever-present moment that Buddhists
Tale Heart,” Ɵme can, in the very least, produce have always propounded we live in—each chang-
within us an anxiety, possibly reigning chaos in ing moment being what is our eternal now.
our daily lives: in our relaƟonships, in our careers,
in every waking moment. There actually is liƩle room for anxiety if we are
present for the words of Plato, wriƟng in the
However, Burdick points out that in waking up at fourth century B.C.E, “The instant, this strange
4:27 a.m., in an incantatory prose which is reso- nature, is something inserted between moƟon
nant, that “as worried as I am in these waking and rest, and it is in no Ɵme at all, but into it and
moments, I also find them oddly calming. It’s as if from it what is moved changes to being at rest,
in falling asleep I’d fallen into an egg and woken and what is at rest to being moved.”
as the yolk, cushioned and aloŌ on an extended
present. It won’t last, I know. In the morning, the Alan Burdick suggests experiencing how Ɵme
hours and minutes will reassert themselves and “unfolds in a sentence. Recite a poem or a psalm
by heart: your mind strains to recall what you’ve

191

Adelaide Magazine

said and reaches forward to grab what you will About the Author:
say next.” Expounding upon a passage from St.
AugusƟne, in The Confessions, wriƩen circa 397, Wally Swist’s books include Huang Po and the
Burdick inƟmates a cogent theory of Ɵme—and Dimensions of Love (Southern Illinois University
consciousness, “Vital energy: that’s the essence Press, 2012), The Daodejing: A New Interpreta-
of AugusƟne, and of you, too, right now, as you Ɵon, with David Breeden and Steven Schroeder
absorb these words, strive to remember, and (Lamar University Literary Press, 2015), Candling
wonder what comes next. ‘Time is nothing other the Eggs (ShanƟ Arts, LLC, 2017), The Map of Eter-
than tension,’ AugusƟne wrote, ‘and I would be nity (ShanƟ Arts, LLC, 2018), and Singing for Noth-
very surprised if it is not tension of consciousness ing: Selected NonficƟon as Literary Memoir (The
itself.’” OperaƟng System, 2018).

References His poems and prose have appeared in The Amer-
ican Book Review, Anchor: Where Spirituality and
Burdick, Alan, “The Secret Life of Time,” The New Social JusƟce Meet, Appalachia Journal, Arts: The
Yorker, December 19-26, 2016, 68-72. Arts in Theological and Religious Studies, Com-
monweal, North American Review RaƩle, and The
Burdick, Alan, Why Time Flies: Mostly a ScienƟfic Woven Tale Press.
InvesƟgaƟon, Simon & Schuster, 2017.

Francis, Robert, The Collected Poems of Robert
Francis, University of MassachuseƩs Press, 1976.

192

Revista Adelaide

ANXIETY & SYNCHRONICITY:
LIVING IN THE REAL WORLD

by Wally Swist

The concept of synchronicity was iniƟally posited or more?” What if Easwaran’s last paragraph of
by the psychoanalyst C. G. Jung as being an inci- the guidance for the day reads, “But the spiritual
dent in our lives that reveals itself as a significant, approach is very simple. Whatever you give—it
or consequenƟal, coincidence which apparently may be a check to a worthy cause, it may be
has no causal relaƟonship to one another yet clothes to a person who is cold, it may be food to
seems to be, in fact, directly related. The psychic the hungry, it may be medical help to the sick—
healer and medical intuiƟve, Caroline Myss, do it without thinking of geƫng anything in re-
claims that synchronicity is prevalent in our daily turn. Do it as a service to God, not reluctantly,
lives. Some writers, for instance, experience typ- but with joy.”
ing the same word as it is being spoken as they
may hear it when they have the radio on while Then what if the plowman who is clearing a part
working. You think of your best friend in fiŌh of the iced-over driveway, where your car is
grade while shopping at the mall, and when you parked, knocks on your door? It could be he is
turn your head, arms full of wrapped giŌs, there just the person who plows your driveway. It
she is, smiling, having stopped right in front of could even be a neighbor who you have known
you. for many years. It could be all or any of those
people rolled into one. He is angry because he
What if you organize your life to such a degree phoned you earlier but you were in the shower,
that all is laid out the night before— as ritual? and you didn’t hear the phone ring. He is angry
What if you are having Sunday breakfast before because of many reasons: he had to wait several
going to the mall, the day aŌer a snowstorm? If hours to borrow the plow truck, he has been
there was an anxiety meter, you wouldn’t be reg- salƟng the driveway since early morning, he is
istering any. You have just finished reading your Ɵred, and he is cold—all of the above.
daily affirmaƟon in Words to Live By by Eknath
Easwaran (Ish-war-an), a spiritual teacher who Standing outside with him beside your car, which
founded the Blue Mountain Center of MeditaƟon you are about to move, the weight of his anxiety
in Berkeley, California. snaps his otherwise taciturn nature and normal
good intenƟons, and he says, “We need to live in
Easwaran prefaces his thought for the day by us- the real world. If I am offending you, I can’t help
ing a quote from literature, or from a spiritual it. I am not sensiƟve [with the ellipsis filling the
text, such as The Upanishads, from which he was air with ‘like you’],” his eyes burning directly into
an expert interpreter. What if the quote was you.
from William Wordsworth, from his EcclesiasƟcal
sonnet, “Inside King’s College Chapel, Cam- Well, here it is: your opportunity to accept this
bridge,” which reads: “Give all thou canst; high moment of synchronicity in either accepƟng a
Heaven rejects the lore/ Of nicely-calculated less challenge to engage in a verbal exchange
you immediately know you will rue, even by only

193

Adelaide Magazine

defending yourself, or by just uƩering one incon- You don’t even really feel a need to share your
siderate word. However, you can, indeed, offer new secret with anyone that you feel you are, at
him “not reluctantly, but with joy” by giving “all this instant, truly, living in the real world.
thou canst.” Your intuiƟon is ringing like a bell:
there is nothing you can do to assuage him or the References
situaƟon. Your inner voice is exclaiming, “Let go
of his insinuaƟon that you don’t live in the real Easwaran, Eknath, Words to Live By: A Daily
world. Just let go. Let go of being right. Let go of Guide to Leading an ExcepƟonal Life, Tomales,
being wrong.” CA: Nilgiri Press/The Blue Mountain Center of
MeditaƟon, 2005.
Driving over to the mall in the winter rain, tapping Wordsworth, William, The Collected Poems of
lightly on the hood of the car, you feel a sense of William Wordsworth, Ware, U.K.: Wordsworth
peace. No amount of preparaƟon could have EdiƟons, Ltd., 1998.
prepared you for just being in the moment, being
present, being in harmony with a moment of syn-
chronicity in your life in which your anxiety wasn’t
a determining or detrimental factor. As Easwaran
inƟmates: doing something “without thinking of
geƫng anything in return” is veritable joy enough
to fully grasp “High heaven” rejecƟng “the lore/
Of nicely-calculated less or more.”

194

Revista Adelaide

NIGHTTIME LANDSCAPES:
A MEMORY OF

IRIDESCENT GREEN

by A. M. Palmer

The porch was elegant and funcƟonal. It extended neighbors, were hurried away unƟl the following
from the front door to the yard in a delicate way year. The flood lights were a cauƟon as much as
that discouraged lounging and accented the an invitaƟon. In similar fashion, Christmas guests
sprawling length of the house. This was the Ɵme would approach the house quietly, always hidden
of American middle class prosperity, the postwar in shadows of iridescent green, bearing giŌs and
era, and such features truly spoke to the context speaking in slightly hushed tones. These were the
of a home and to its character. Constructed at the fesƟviƟes I remember from childhood.
height of midcentury modern design, the ranch
house next door was similar to ours in many As an adult, mysterious hues and colorful illumi-
ways; the floorplan, the lush but small front yard, naƟons of night remain intriguing to me, in the
and the overall décor of modest prosperity. I re- neon expressions of Las Vegas, the bar scene of
member it well. Just beyond the concrete slab— downtown Los Angeles, and the sprawling city-
that minimal but elegant porch—was an outcrop- scapes of ManhaƩan. All such environments re-
ping of ivy that thrived year round and undulated mind me of the peaceful yet haunƟng presence of
like a sea of sprouƟng tentacles. At night, when my neighbors’ yard. Perhaps the effect would
the accent light was on, iridescent green flooded have been lessened had they chosen a less obvi-
the leaves, giving them a glow that reminded me ous color, like blue, or even purple. Fortunately,
of a dream, an atmosphere that felt just as prom- the symbolism of nature was indispensable to
ising as it did unpleasant and menacing. This is my them. And what about this color and its undenia-
memory of the neighbors’ front yard. Looking ble impact?
back, it speaks, not only to childhood imaginaƟon
but to my curiosity about darkness and the land- Green. On one of my nighƫme journeys to a
scapes of night. bookstore, I came upon a memorable work by
Kassia St. Clair, The Secret Lives of Color.
On Halloween, costumed trick or treaters “Verdigris, absinthe, emerald, Kelly green, Schee-
would approach with cauƟon, clad in plasƟc cos- le’s green, terre verte, avocado, celadon,” she
tumes from the drugstore, flashlights in-hand, lists the various shades in a wonderful narraƟve.
ever mindful of the older couple who would ap- From the arƟst’s pallet to the medicinal and culi-
proach them from the cold, concrete slab, admin- nary aspects of the color, St. Clair tells us the sto-
istering small candy bars along with a hint of sus- ry of green. Looking back, I find that emerald per-
picion. Who were these children? Did they haps best describes my childhood recollecƟon of
emerge from the surrounding homes anƟcipaƟng the hue, as it was made to glow and hint at the
a handout? Who were the neighbors? At night, in nether realms of suburbia. Also, I remember that
the restrained suburban atmosphere, the cordial my neighbors’ use of green made it feel quite
tones of daylight disappeared into darkness. spontaneous and free, although it remained mal-
leable to the eye of landscape designers. But
Children from other areas, less familiar to the there is one final connecƟon I found between the

195

Adelaide Magazine

color and my memory of night, the one that took About the Author:
place at the end of my mother’s life.
Allison is a municipal park ranger, writer and
Just prior to my mother’s death in a nursing copyeditor living in San Diego, California. She is
home, aŌer a two month baƩle with a rampant currently the editor of Footprints, the publicaƟon
infecƟon, I was reminded of green. of the Japanese American Historical Society of
San Diego. Allison is also the founder and director
One night, as I looked at old photographs, I found of the Palmer Memorial HumaniƟes Library.
an image of her on vacaƟon in the Midwest, a trip
taken during the 1950s. It was a candid black and
white picture that captured her as she examined
her own camera, one of those ancient devices
that required the viewer to glance through a lens
mounted

on top. I remember it, because, although caught
forever in shades of gray, her dress was avocado
green, a favorite of hers that she described to me
when I was a child. Those images—the ephemeral
life of greenery, the glow of the house next door,
and the strange gray tones of illness and de-
mise—all merge into a picture of my childhood, a
landscape of night and a memory of iridescent
green.

196

Revista Adelaide

BABY BROTHER

by Kat Kiefer-Newman

I had a brother. But I never had a brother. with my stuffed animals; birthday parƟes, Hallow-
eens, school pictures. When parents have their
He died before I was born and if he hadn’t, I first child, they over-do the picture taking. Look-
might not be here. His burial was my concepƟon; ing through those many albums, one might mis-
we are permanently linked, LiƩle Eddie and me. takenly think I was a first child and not the fourth
He is frozen as a copper boot-shaped bank, a pair and last. On film I was always “on”; my first five
of white leather baby shoes, a small stack of con- years I was watched over, dressed-up and
gratulaƟons cards, a handful of photographs. It’s adorned. I was a doll, A picture-perfect Gerber
a sparse collecƟon. The photos are perhaps the baby girl. Every giggle, every pout, every liŌ of my
saddest memorial. Two show my father holding eyebrow. My oldest sister, Eva, had the knack of
my brother, one my mother, the rest him learning leaning into photos with me; Maryellen, the mid-
to sit up on blankets around the house and yard. dle sister, oŌen looks resenƞul at having to be
FiŌeen pictures. Taken on a borrowed camera. there. To the outside it appeared I was the most
beloved, the goldenest golden child ever.
“I always regreƩed not buying a camera sooner,”
my mother told me once. “People I knew just But LiƩle Eddie, the true golden child, didn’t live
didn’t own cameras back then. And geƫng the long enough for more than fiŌeen photos. Those
film developed was a chore. Later, we had Foto- fiŌeen photos were carefully tucked away in their
mats. That made things easier, but Fotomats own child-sized album. It didn’t live in the hall
weren’t really around unƟl aŌer you were born. linen cabinet with the other albums and scrap-
Oh, and it cost so dear.” She shook her head and books. It stayed in my mother’s stocking drawer,
smiled in a way that suggested the cost was more under mounds of perfectly ironed, yellowing,
than money, although I didn’t understand what hand-taƩed handkerchiefs—all of them kept like
she was geƫng at. I’m not sure I do now. lost dreams.

My mother bought a camera as soon as she When my father got his orders to go overseas
learned she was pregnant with me. There are with the USO, my mother was worried. Not be-
many, too many, leather-bound albums of my cause he would be traveling, although that could
first five years. LiƩle black and white squares of be perilous. He might have been sent to play in
funny faces (I learned early to mug for the cam- Korea, or in the Philippines—places where civil
era), drooling chin, food smeared on my face (and unrest matched that happening in the States. But
in my hair), weird hats (so many of them). Later, he might also have gone to Japan, or Australia—
there’s me in a flowered Easter dress with crisp neither of which was so acƟvely tumultuous. Re-
white gloves and a straw hat; in pajamas under a gardless, aŌer living in Hawaii for a couple of
Christmas tree; standing next to my first bike; years—joyfully, contentedly—my father got his
dressed for the Colorado Springs Centennial Cele- orders to go on tour.
braƟon in a pioneer costume; playing tea party

197

Adelaide Magazine

My mother was worried because she was preg- school to go work for his older brother. There, he
nant again. learned construcƟon, and helped to build many of
the important buildings in town, including private
“I never seemed to be able to birth the babies I’d homes for the social elites.
planned on,” she told me when I was about elev-
en or so. She held my chin and squeezed a liƩle. When I was building my family tree on a genealo-
“It was always you surprises.” Her smile said the gy website, my Aunt Theo told me, “Daddy
surprises were happy things, but her eyes carried bought and rebuilt the rental house he and Moth-
faraway shadows. er raised us in.” Official records hold that this hap-
pened someƟme in 1935 when he and my grand-
She came from a big family and thought she’d mother purchased or obtained (finalized) the
have a big family of her own. She said she never deed on their rental house. Over the next many
even realized there was any other kind of family, years, unƟl his death, he would redesign, expand,
except large, to have. Had she been able to do and alter both the footprint and the funcƟon of
this, I might have been the last of six or seven; or the formerly two-bedroom coƩage, creaƟng a
they might have stopped with Eddie. patchwork four-bedroom home with a den. When
he died, my grandmother, then forty-eight, a wid-
And here she was aŌer five pregnancies, with ower with a thirteen-year-old daughter sƟll at
only two living children, pregnant again and about home, had to figure out a new life for herself and
to be alone. Eva was finishing first grade, it ended up away from that house and away from
Maryellen was a toddler, and the new baby would Moultrie.
be born while my father was overseas. It wasn’t
that she expected help with the children. He was- It was September when my mother arrived with
n’t the sort of father who changed diapers or her rounded belly and two liƩle girls. They barely
made meals. In 1962, dads didn’t do that kind of had Ɵme to unpack because Edward “Eddie”
thing. But servicemen’s paychecks could some- George Kiefer, Jr. was born on October 25th,
Ɵmes be delayed when they were overseas, and 1963—twenty-four days aŌer his cousin, Theodo-
how would she cover the bills? sia Burr, named for my Aunt Theo. Both births
were quickly overshadowed by the assassinaƟon
She called my Grandmother, who said, “You’ll of President John F. Kennedy on November 22 in
bring those girls home and have your baby here, Dallas, Texas. Maybe because of this, or perhaps
with your family.” because of Eddie’s short life, the two cousins nev-
er got to meet. Aunt Theo told me that she’d
“I can’t do that. Eva has school. And it would be meant to come for the birth of LiƩle Eddie, but
such bother for ya’ll.” Sarasota was almost five hours away and she was
busy with her own newborn.
“Eva can go to school in Moultrie just as well as
anywhere else. Besides, you’d be helping me out. Years later she told me, “I never saw him unƟl the
Your daddy would be appalled that his house was funeral.” Her introducƟon to my brother was him
siƫng empty.” dressed in a Ɵny suit and laid out in one of the
smallest coffins anyone had ever seen.
Mother knew that this was likely true.
But that was later. In that October, Eddie was sƟll
Moultrie is in the Southern Rivers area of Georgia. a much-anƟcipated handful. His face rosy, his
Once, this was a dense forest. But by 1900, indus- eyes clear blue. He wasn’t fussy, even when they
try had milled most of the old Ɵmber. It’s the seat first brought him home. Mother said he was a
of ColquiƩ County, Georgia, which has, since the dreamy baby, quietly watching the shadows play
end of the lumber industry, been one of the most along the ceiling near his crib. He lay for hours
prolific agricultural producers in the state. My listening to the birds call from outside the bay
granddaddy, Charlie Rainey Milligan, was not a window at the front of the house. Life was
farmer, but he did come from a farming family, as seƩling in for my mother and her three children in
my grandmother did. Granddaddy was the elev- her old childhood home.
enth of twelve children, and his father died when
he was three. The family struggled so much that
when he finished eighth grade he dropped out of

198