Adelaide Literary Magazine no.30, November 2019

Revista Literária Adelaide

Claudia took up post on the couch. The “My God, Mom, no!” she said and then
workers had a ached a drill-like contrap- tried to say lightly, “Not in the middle of
this excava on.”
on to the backhoe. They cranked it high
into the air and let it drop, crashing it to “Think about it,” said her mom. She sound-
the ground. There was a crack and a rip as ed worried. “Think about me coming out.”
it punctured and smashed the pavement.
The impact to the house wasn’t bad. It “Right,” said Claudia, wondering if her
shook and the windows ra led, but then it mom meant it to sound like advice.
rested, s ll and firm, giving in to nothing at
all. There was no creaking or se ling a er In one day, the workers had transformed
each blow, no echo or cracking, only re- the puddle into a deep rectangular square
straint. She dialed her mom. with a fla ened gravel base. The street and
sidewalk seemed quieter in contrast to the
“I’m watching a metal awl smash through noise it took to get there. The hole was s ll
the street,” said Claudia, slumping into the and so structural that it reminded her of
middle of the couch. a mold, a form, a start of something. She
entertained the no on that perhaps by the
“Oh,” said her mom. “You are not in front end of her marriage, before Hugo and Liz
of anyone’s house you shouldn’t be, are got together even, she didn’t want to be
you?” with Hugo. She didn’t expect such a swi
and drama c end but when it was all un-
“Of course not,” she said. “Tyler called the earthed, she wasn’t surprised.
city to fix the puddle in front of my house.”
By three o’clock, the workers had packed
“Well that’s good news,” said her mom, up for the day and she waited for Tyler to
le ng out a sigh. “That thing is a menace.” return. And when he didn’t come home by
11:00 pm, she lay awake long through the
“I half expect steam to rise up any mo- night, through the sound of a truck braking
ment as it sucks me under,” Claudia said to navigate around the roadwork, through
loudly. the screech of two cats figh ng over territo-
ry, a loud breathy gasp of her house se ling.
“Believe me, you wouldn’t want to go She felt herself grow heavy, sink into the
too far underground there,” her mom said. bed, look at the window. Tonight, she would
“That’s where they put all the garbage from go one more me to Hugo’s, say goodbye to
the World’s Fair.” the cat and maybe, tomorrow, she’ll even
send Hugo and Liz a card. She would let it go,
“Right, that’s exactly why I wouldn’t want “Congratula ons on your baby.”
to sink underground.”
The cat ba ed at a moth that was danc-
“Are you alright?” ing in the light. There was a new clay pot on
the porch with a flowering cabbage. Clau-
“I got mad at Tyler for calling the city,” dia scanned the house. There was a mobile
she admi ed, making a last-minute deci- in one of the upstairs windows. The cat
sion not to tell her how she found herself at was squa ng, glaring at something, ready
Hugo’s house again – Not a good sign in life. to pounce. It was more playful tonight,
But then she said, “I almost took—” and she decided. She closed her eyes to calm
then she stopped, admi ed nothing more.

“Listen, Claudia, I could come out there
for a while.”

49

Adelaide Literary Magazine

herself and when she opened them again, fuzz and forced herself to poke above the
the cat had disappeared. Just as well, she re. It took just one touch to feel a doughy
thought, “goodbye ki y.”
warmth. She knew what it was, pulling one
Gazing out the car window, she was hand away quickly inspec ng her fingers
startled when a light went on upstairs. She for blood. A cry escaped and she gasped,
turned on the car but didn’t move. The cur- holding her other arm straight out to sup-
tain opened, and she saw Hugo’s face, a flat, port the carcass against the car, looking
uncomprehending expression as he looked away, unable to catch her breath.
out to the distance and then he seemed to
flash Claudia a grin or it was a peaceful gaze “No, not you!” she yelped. “Oh ki y, not
into nothingness and Claudia happened you. I’m so sorry!” She started to tear up.
to be there to catch a glimpse. Claudia A paw dropped down. Orange, fluffy, mur-
slumped down. She sighed listened to the dered. Something switched on in her. The
palpable thump of her heart. These visits blood in her body churned and swelling.
were taking a toll. Her surroundings changed – electrified and
awful. Everything that un l now only un-
Perhaps, if she’d be more open to Tyler stable had crumbled, fallen away, and was
they could – what could they do? Certain- rearranging to become something else. She
ly not get pregnant. It was that simple. She had killed a family’s cat. She was a cat-kill-
felt narrow, deteriorated, unstable; every- er! She started to shake, and her hands
thing, if she really thought about it, was the went numb so that she could barely feel
opposite of frui ul. She needed to grab her- the carcass. She could not go back in me
self, shake her, force her to get on with life, to fix this.
“on guard!”. If a family was what she really
wanted, she could do it. But she wouldn’t “Is that a dead cat?” asked a so voice
do it by ge ng a pet or caring for turtles! from behind. Tyler had returned.
She sat up to look again. The curtain was
already closed. As long as she sat there, “I hit it,” she said, sobbing hysterically,
she would be a stalker. Her mouth went dry. trying to catch her breath. “It darted out
“On guard!” She let herself mumble. and I hit it.” She began to weep and shake
so that Tyler turned her to face him so they
“On guard!” she repeated. She put her both held the heavy fur body. “I am a cat
car in gear pressed the gas, hi ng a bump killer,” she said, crying, resis ng the urge to
as she sped off. She looked in the rearview say more.
mirror to see if anything fell off her car.
“No, you’re not,” said Tyler. He guided
When Claudia parked, she swung her her to a small dirt area by the street that
legs to the ground and leaned out, scan- hadn’t been tamped down yet and helped
ning the length of the car’s body, verifying her lay it on the ground. He pulled her up
the hubcap was s ll in place. and wrapped his arms around her, holding
her ghtly. She held him back. The world
She stepped out of the car, looking seemed open wide and it was screaming
to the front door, hoping Tyler would be for sacrifices and leaps. She would bury the
home. Something drew her to glance to cat in the sinkhole, she thought, a hard-
the back re. She could see a tu of or- ened seed thrust deep down in her gut, for
ange fur in the wheel well. She fingered the surely it had to go there.

50

Revista Literária Adelaide

About the Author

Asa Noriega lives in Sea le, Washington and works as a brand and marke ng director for a
residen al construc on company. She earned a Bachelor of Arts degree in English Literature
from the University of Vermont and completed a cer ficate in Literary Fic on Wri ng at the
University of Washington.

51

THE THREE
QUESTIONS OF LOVE

by Jeff Hardin

In the days of siren and cyclops, a man with This state of indecision weighed heavily
ghtened brows hung his head in frustra- on his spirit. Milos had never been one to
on. He had a dilemma. For the past two lean both ways when faced with a problem.
Finding the right woman to marry was no
years, he had been wooing a young wom- easy ma er, and his conflict was growing
an of generous heart, lively mind and great steadily into a crisis.
beauty. The me had come when marriage
could be only expected. Everything seemed Each sunset, Milos prayed to Pallas Athe-
to point to this happy beginning. Both fam- na to guide his path and grant some kind of
ilies appeared to approve. Signs from the insight that would lead to the right choice
gods, difficult to interpret always, offered and a las ng peace. Each sunset, the God-
favorable portents. The problem was that dess of Wisdom greeted these pleas with
he could not bring himself to propose. silence. The day before, Milos had reached
the limit of what his pa ence could endure.
Milos was no fool. He had learned as if Traces of anger seemed into the invoca on.
by right of passage to trust in his ins ncts.
These had been nagging at him for weeks. “Great Athena, why do you not answer
He felt he should take the final step, but my entrea es? You know I keep perfect loy-
his resolve failed to tow the line. His heart alty to you, and I know you are not indif-
struggled under a weight of unknown pro- ferent to my fate. Mighty Goddess, please
por on. Marriage, he felt, was an enor- show me how I may know without a doubt
mous step. Clarity in such a ma er was that she loves me and that her love is true.”
worth the price of delay.
The Goddess seemed to withhold this
Time passed though, and his determina- secret, for only the forest creatures made
on to wed had the certainty of dice in mid- any sound. On his way home, however, Mi-
air. No ma er how many details of trysts re- los no ced a flock of birds in the distance.
called, he could not decide firmly whether They were headed for the sea and seemed
or not she loved him. In turn, Milos could to have no leader. The forma on looked
not decide upon commitment to the union. more like a generalized mass. Milos won-

52

Revista Literária Adelaide

dered if they knew where they were sup- nued to explain. “In our land, the state
posed to go but not the reason why. is everything. Every boy and girl raised by
my people learns that service to the state
As soon as he made it back to the vil- is the single most important calling in life.
lage, Milos found one of the elders to in- The forms lf love we have all derive from
terpret any possible meaning. Everyone this central purpose. A woman loves you
understood that birds were the frequent only if she loves her people.”
tools of Olympian tricksters who wanted
to convey a message. Unfortunately, fre- Milos struggled to understand this ex-
quent and always were altogether different plana on. “If you say that this is true in
words. It could have been simply migra ng your lands, then so be it. S ll, how can you
birds. The best chance of finding out was know that she loves you and not some oth-
obviously to be discovered in the prac ced er man in the name of the people?”
guidance of an elder.
The immediacy of Menacles’ response
“Hard to say,” the elder duly confirmed. revealed the training of a hundred rehears-
“Your idea has a degree of merit. This no on als. “It is actually quite simple if you think
of a lack of leadership could bear important about it. If a woman chooses another be-
lessons. It may mean that your ba le will fore me, I can find no dissa sfac on in her
be difficult. It is possible that you yourself commitment to the state. It is that com-
lack direc on. You should make an offering mitment which gives life its purpose. The
to the gods so they may more profitably purpose is the important thing, not a man’s
light your path.” individual fate. Love is not selfish.”

Milos could hardly sa sfy himself with “So what you call individual fate, the love
this reply. He decided upon a definite between a man and woman, has no place
course of ac on. He had pondered the at all?”
prospect of travelling to the Oracle ever
since he first recognized his problem, but Menacles though ully considered how
hesitated because of the great distance. to explain further while figh ng the urge to
Delphi was a journey that would see his re- recount examples of how limited the men
turn only a er the moon reached the same of strange lands could be. Just before they
fullness it had when he took the first step. were about to stop and camp for the night,
Milos reasoned that the moment for such a he struck upon a different way he could put
step had arrived, so he packed some cloth- across the idea.
ing and le .
“In Sparta, mothers send their sons to
The first few days proved uneven ul, but ba le with the tradi onal plea: Come back
one morning he came across a soldier on with your shield or on it. I know it is com-
the road. The fellow was mostly quiet, but mon for outsiders to cri cize the harshness
by midday the two had struck up a conver- of this.
sa on. To Milos’ surprise, Menacles of Spar-
ta had much to say on the subject of love. Now you listen to me if you want to know.
My mother first told this to me when I was
“Where I come from,” the Spartan began, barely fourteen. The outsiders are right, it is
“love is war.” Obviously unaffected by his harsh. What they do not realize is that it is
companion’s doub ul expression, he con- harsh because our love can be harsh.

53

Adelaide Literary Magazine

You think not? Without your family, your harm in hearing the fellow out and decided
people, could you really care much about to explain his predicament.
your own par cular life? My friend, if they
were all gone forever, what would you “Indeed,” Saminoos began, “this is a most
know about love? All Spartans must per- serious problem. You must allow me to con-
form their duty. That is what individual love sider it for a moment before presen ng an
is all about. You talk to me of your personal answer.”
feelings about a woman, but a lesser love
dies with the man.” The traveler was not surprised when
the right answer turned out to be a poem.
The two travelers broke camp early. They Saminoos informed him that these words,
reached a crossroads just a er dawn, and passionately spoken, would convince the
Menacles took the road to Sparta. Milos woman of his ardor and help love blossom
found him to be a noble creatures, but he into a garden of fruits and petals to make
could not accept his view of love. A lesser even the residents of Olympus grow jealous.
love might die with the man, he conceded, Milos said the last thing he wanted to do
bua great love should last into the a erlife. was make the gods jealous. The poet told
Living for a state was far too impersonal for him to withhold judgment un l he heard for
his needs, and Milos redoubled his efforts himself and then unveiled his crea on.
to reach Delphi quickly.
“Sweet and noble Pelucida,
Several days passed, and Milos came The morning dew on all the hills
upon a thriving town. He decided to stay In all the lands
the night and found himself meandering In all the world
absently through the ar st quarter be- Cannot compare to the tears that rain
neath the for fica ons of the acropolis. On from my eyes,
one corner, a crowd had gathered round Swelling with greatest fortune
two scholars engaged in heated debate. When they gaze upon your glistening
He listened for a moment but grew weary beauty.
of all the ponderous rhetoric. The words
spilled from their mouths like frenzied fish Delicate and lovely Pelucida,
who want to escape the hand and return The radiant sun dancing through the
home. When he turned to walk away, a skies
man’s hand touched his shoulder. Over all the lands
Over all the world
“You seem troubled my friend,” the man Cannot match the light that shines in
said kindly. “I am Sminoos, the poet. If you my mind,
have a troubled mind, allow me to ease Burs ng with joy
your worry. The essence of man is hidden When it recalls your delicate hair.
to all but those with the means to pierce Virtuous and gentle Pelucida . . .”
its blackened depths. I am at your service.”

Milos eyed the bard skep cally. A natu-
ral ins nct made him doubt the usefulness
of flowery verse and lo y pla tudes, but
a er all, he planned to spend the me wan-
dering the streets anyway. He could find no

54

Revista Literária Adelaide

Milos could no longer contain himself, to a condi on. The tradi onal ceremonial
and he interrupted the minstrel’s presenta- tribute would be waved in exchange for a
vow of silence regarding the response. The
on at that point. He doubted words that knowledge imparted by the gods was not
served as sen mental decora on could be intended for the use of men. Milos alone
of any use in his search. He had heart their was the one upon whom they would be-
kind o en, par cularly among the beard- stow this precious gi of wisdom.
less and the damned. To add insult to injury,
Saminoos expressed a profound indigna- A er agreement upon this point had
been reached, the Priestesses gracefully
on at the interrup on. He felt that ser- withdrew. Milos was le to his own thoughts
vices as renowned and enchan ng as these once again. His dreams were stained, partly
naturally required compensa on. the result of the encounter with the Priest-
esses, partly in an cipa on of the answer to
In order to extricate himself from this what had proved to be such a vexing search.
difficult circumstance, Milos decided to Each evening he prayed to the gods, Athena
review the situa on from a more business- above all, for guidance and a sure path.
like perspec ve. However inopportune the
event may be, the act was plainly seen. On the third sunrise, the Priestesses
Saminoos had never finished the poem and admi ed Milos into the inner chambers of
could therefore not demand payment. Un- the Oracle ant Delphi. The moment of res-
fortunately, the traveler reported, a sense olu on had arrived at last. A er a number
of the most dire and pressing urgency of complicated rituals and whispered sup-
obliged him to press on. Only such a pro- plica ons, the virginal servants of the gods
found and necessary need could force him closed their eyes.
away from what promised to be a poem of
such obviously unique cra smanship. Milos, who had remained silent during
these otherworldly procedures, thought
In the way of most working ar sts, Sami- the women might be res ng before some
noos accepted the praise. He was forced to more significant event. He shi ed his feet.
agree in the end that it was a regre able His best guess put them in that posi on
but unavoidable loss. The two parted on completely mo onless with yes gently shut
friendly terms, the poet s ll in possessions to the world for nearly two hours. Sudden-
of his professional ethic and the pilgrim ly one of them rose from the ground and
with a grip on his pa ence. shuffled herself in gilding mo ons un l she
stood before him.
The remainder of the journey passed
quickly. Milos arrived in Delphi two nights lat- “Heed the word of the gods, and all will
er. He went to the Oracle at dawn only to dis- be well with you. Ignore it, and your life will
cover a considerable line had already formed. wither and deform. We must ask you now,
The Priestesses listened to his request short- once again, do you agree to the bargain
ly a er the sun had passed its zenith and in- forged in the skies?”
formed him that the divine pronouncement
would be granted in three days at sunrise. Her voice was somber and carried along
the wind in unnatural wisps and whines.
As others watched somberly, one of Milos accepted once again, and the Priest-
them cau oned Milos that the Oracle’s de- ess spokeswoman began in earnest.
libera on required agreement in advance

55

Adelaide Literary Magazine

“To know with absolute certainty if the with a passerby and also because of an ex-
person you love has a great love for you, citement now swelling in his stomach that
you must ask her three ques ons. Listen urged him onward. In the towns, he kept to
carefully, for they must be asked in the his room and le before sunrise. Whenever
proper order. Examine her answer closely, his mind wandered to expecta ons of what
for it will contain the seed of truth. Grow Pelucida might say, he focused instead on
it inside your mind, following every chute the thought that peace was the long await-
and stem and branch. In its fruits you will ed harbor before him. It was a promise of
taste, bi er or sweet, the knowledge you knowing the truth.
seek. Such is the nature of the three ques-
At night, when the stars aligned them-
ons of love.” selves into pa erns for men and Milos was
alone, his heart beat a quiet song of long-
Milos listened intently, absorbed in the ing. He hoped Pelucida was his true love
message that would in all probability de- before. Soon he would be able to prove it.
termine the course of his future. The cer- The possibility that his plan could disprove
emony ended a er the announcement and it never crossed his mind. His hopes and
brief explana on of the ques ons. When the high clouds to the north had much in
the traveler asked for more of an explana- common.

on the Priestesses only shook their heads. When he arrived home, he immediately
It was clear they would say nothing more. set out to find the object of all these efforts.
Pelucida was working in her garden and
They re red without further remark, and showed obvious surprise mixed with relief.
Milos was le with a churning in his stomach.
Perhaps because he lacked sufficient faith in “Are you well, my love?” she asked with
heavenly direc on, to say nothing of divine tender concern. “We did not expect you for
methods, he felt his fate was as mysterious several days.”
as ever. The ques ons themselves were sim-
ple enough, but the interpreta on seemed Milos confessed to her that he had not
impossibly complex. The sheer number of taken the trip because of business. He had
possible phrases and mannerisms was as- needed the me to judge his ideas for the
tounding. What any of these clearly meant future. Before he could decide to ask her to
seemed no more than the product of guess- become his wife, he had to ask her three
work or a vagary of magic. ques ons.

Milos decided to put this faith in the Pelucida seemed confused and embar-
magic. If the gods said the ques ons would rassed all at once. She showed not a drop
work then so be it. Gods may lie, but in of hesita on at this proposal, however, and
all the legends of Greece they were never swore she would speak words of truth. The
wrong. Milos took himself for much too two sat together at a table by the edge of
unimportant a personage to be worthy of the garden. Milos looked directly into her
any cunning trick. From what he could tell, eyes and studied them intently. For the
they seemed to show far more interest in first me in his life, he felt he was about to
heroes, ba les and royal intrigues. reveal their mysteries. He prayed one last

The way home took less me, main- me for success and then asked his ques-
ly because he never stopped to converse ons.

56

Revista Literária Adelaide

“What is the quality you find in me that The only problem was a nagging suspi-
you most love?” cion that blemished an otherwise flawless
unfolding of events. The third ques on s ll
“Pelucida answered without hesita on. seemed strange and especially unpredict-
“That is easy, my treasure. What I love most able. It was the only weak spot of doubt.
about you is the way you look at me. Even
when I appear to be engaged in something “What is the quality you find in me about
else, I can s ll feel your eyes follow me. which you are indifferent?”
Some mes they make me forget myself.”
Pelucida’s features grew distant. Her
How could a man have any objec on to suitor waited in apparent repose, pa ently
that? His gaze moved her. It meant some- wondering if she understood the ques on.
thing to her, changed who she was. Her re- Against his ins nct, Milos determined to
mark was personal and reflected what she keep silent and allow fate to take its course.
found unique to him. Milos searched him- This was the instant when magic would
self and could find no discomfort. have to unveil its enchan ng form. Her
answer came a er his pa ence had been
On the contrary, he deemed it a worthy sorely tested.
sen ment for a devoted mate. He swi -
ly concluded that there was no reason to “Only one part of you means nothing to
postpone the next ques on. me, my light, and that is your reputa on.
Though your name were spoken through-
“And what is the quality you find in me out the lands with venera on, worship
that you most hate? even, I could not love you any more. Should
you become the bane of every man, the pu-
At this her brow furrowed ghtly into trid of every woman, the nightmare of ev-
knots of worry. She was uncomfortable, ery child in all the world, I could not love
and Milos viewed this as a favorable sign. you any less. I swear it. My love for you is
Perhaps she would be unable to discover true.”
one. While he pondered whether or not
such an absence would count as an answer, Without a corpse’s whisper of a doubt,
she stared out into the hills. At last she he knew she was the one. He asked her for
seemed to find her way. her hand, and they were married forthwith.
The three ques ons of love led Milos to
“It is hard to find a single thing about you truth, in his case a happy one. The advice of
I could hate, my prince. It is a strong word. the gods lit the path in a bathing radiance
I know the answer because I thought of no one could miss.
what I could wish for. If the gods should one
day decide to grant me such a gi , I know I Unfortunately, the life of Milos thereaf-
would ask that you should live forever. This ter took a black turn. The Priestesses had
is impossible, I realize, but that is now I know plainly and fairly warned him about the
what I hate about you. I hate your mortality.” gravity of the consequences should he
break the agreement. No man defies a con-
Milos never expected to hear an idea tract with the gods without penalty. How
like that. She had surpassed his hope again. Saminoos the bard acquired knowledge of
Thus far, the address of the Priestesses had this great secret is a story perhaps best le
proved to be accurate in every regard. He to another day, a darker day. The tragic des-
felt a confidence growing within.

57

Adelaide Literary Magazine

ny of Milos and his line is not appropriate would con nue to gain knowledge. None
for this occasion. could foresee how men might use it. One
or two went so far as to predict that even-
As for the gods on Olympus, they unan- tually men would have no need of gods.
imously rued the day Athena had persuad-
ed them to allow a man to know such an They resolved to conceive a way to force
important and divine secret. Some among men to feel a need for faith. Meanwhile
them suspected, therefore feared, men their wrath was severe.

About the Author

J. Sco Hardin is a writer and co-host of the Up Your Dialogue podcast. His work has appeared
in The Louisiana Review, Bards and Sages Quarterly, Bewildering Stories, Salzburg Poetry and
elsewhere.

58

ARTFUL DODGE

by Joe Giordano

Maxey’s eyes welled. “Adriana held the I puffed out a long, frustrated breath. “Is
shotgun inches from my face. She demand- Adriana the hot blonde with green eyes I
ed I kneel.” saw you with at Lombardo’s tra oria?”

Nicknamed the Dog of Flatbush, Maxey “That was Lenore. Adriana’s a brune e.
always a racted the pre er girl when we She confronted me over Monica, a redhead.”
hung around together as teens in Brooklyn,
an annoying tendency. During the last de- “Three women?”
cade, he hit the bo le rather hard and our
lives dri ed apart, so my eyes widened in “We can’t change our nature.”
surprise when he showed up at my office
door in Brooklyn South dressed like a cover “What would you like me to tell her?”
model for GQ. My name’s Bragg, and I’m a
homicide, gold-shield detec ve. “Keep her distance. A cop’s warning
should be sufficient.”
“Obviously, you survived,” I said.
“Get a restraining order,” I said.
He reddened. “I nearly pissed myself”
“I don’t have any lawyer friends.”
“Perhaps that was her intent.” Years and
alcoholism had transformed Maxey’s face “You’ve go en cheap in your old age.”
into parched desert, but I supposed wom-
en thought him ruggedly handsome. My “Just poor. Do me this one favor.”
long day made me insist he get to the point.
“Do you want to press charges?” “You s ll maintain a Rolodex-worthy list
of girlfriends?” I asked.
“There were no witnesses.”
Maxey managed a hapless smile.
“‘Homicide,’ not ‘Help for the Lovelorn,’
is stenciled on my office window.” I said, “One of these days you’re going
to mess with the wrong woman, and either
Maxey implored. “My best suit s nks she, her husband, or boyfriend will hand
from putrid sweat.” you your ass.”

“Try dry cleaning.” Maxey hadn’t le my office five minutes,
when I received the call. A homicide at an
“Couldn’t you talk to her?” address on Willow Street near the Brooklyn
Bridge in the DUMBO, Down Under Man-
ha an Bridge Overpass, sec on of Brook-
lyn. Surrounding residents termed it the

59

Adelaide Literary Magazine

DUMB part of Brooklyn, leaving the “O” off The doorman at the Hunt’s building called
the acronym in an envious jab at the arty, ahead before I arrived at their door. Mr. Hunt,
swanky neighborhood. fi ies, graying, in a royal-blue cardigan, bade
me to enter his vaulted, cream-colored foyer
The interior of the red-brick home and led me to a Louis XIV appointed living
shouted ‘money.’ A maid discovered the room.
body. Christopher Lewison, sixty, shot once
in the chest, lying on a parquet-floor living A er showing him my creden als, I
room with a crystal chandelier, a suede asked if he knew Sidney Master.
leather couch, muted-tone upholstered
furniture, the largest flat screen TV I’d ever His face soured. “Elder gentleman. Art
scene, with the walls and niches crammed dealer. I bought a few pain ngs from him.”
with pain ngs and sculpture.
“Any problems with provenance?”
Living alone, no family, rather reclu-
sive according to my canvas of neighbors, “No, and I was pleased with our rela on-
I found no indica on he had enemies or ship un l he offered me a Frida Kahlo.”
anyone holding a grudge. He le his estate
divided among the major art museums At the men on of the ar st, I leaned for-
in New York. Going through his bank re- ward. “What happened?”
cords, I found a check to Sidney Master for
eight-hundred-thousand dollars with the “Master pressed me for a quick decision
hand-wri en nota on, “Frida Kahlo piece.” saying that a number of his clients were
A search of the apartment found none of ready to bid on the piece.”
the Mexican ar st’s work.
“That was unusual?”
Master lived in a lower East Side Man-
ha an apartment. Before confron ng him, “He asked for nine-hundred-thousand
I stopped at the Helman Art Gallery in Chel- dollars with no me allowed for authen -
sea. I’d known the owner for years. ca on or appraisal. Claimed the pain ng
was from his personal collec on.”
John Helman chuckled when I men-
oned Sidney Master’s name. He said, “A “You didn’t bite.”
sly old fox with a spo y reputa on.”
“The Kahlo looked genuine, and the
“How so?” pain ngs I’d previously purchased from
Master were authen c and a good buy. De-
“I’d worked with him for years, but his tec ve, perhaps you’ll understand, an avid
last consignment, a Jack Wilkinson Smith collector develops a sort of fever in these
coastal landscape, Waves Crashing on Rocks, situa ons. I wanted that Kahlo. I’d taken
turned out to be fake. Now, I’d give his piec- out my checkbook when my wife Emily in-
es a proctological exam before hanging terjected. She said if she were contemplat-
them in the gallery.” ing a fraud, she’d first bu er up the vic m
by selling him less expensive, legi mate
“Know any collectors who’ve had experi- works at good prices.”
ence with Master?”
“She convinced you to back off.”
“Try Richard and Emily Hunt. They own
an apartment on Fi h Avenue.” “In a sense. Are you married?”

I shook my head.

60

Revista Literária Adelaide

“What echoed in my brain was the end- “My father purchased the picture from
less rebuke I’d hear from Emily if the Kahlo her estate in the mid-fi ies. A private trans-
turned out not to be genuine. I closed my ac on, the piece enjoyed considerable ap-
checkbook.” precia on over sixty-plus years.”

Unannounced, I called on Sidney Master. “Do you have any paperwork on the orig-
He opened the door wearing a three-piece inal sale?”
beige suit with purple e. Seventy-five, tou-
sled white hair, glasses, his merry face re- “Lost, I’m afraid.”
minded me of Santa Claus without the beard.
“You’re an ac ve art dealer?”
I showed him my badge and said, “I’m
inves ga ng the murder of Christopher “My only means of support outside of a
Lewison. Do you know him?” meager social security check.”

“I do.” He greeted me like an old friend. “May I see your business books?”
“Come in, Detec ve.”
“Record keeping isn’t my strength.” His
Rather cool for a perp, I thought. smile widened.

His small apartment looked like the On an end table stood a bronze balleri-
a ermath of a 6.0 earthquake. Pain ngs na, a miniature replica of Edgar Degas’s Lit-
and sculpture lay strewn around the room, tle Dancer Aged Fourteen. I picked up the
some hung crookedly, others bunched atop statue and asked, “Shouldn’t genuine De-
a pedestal, many on the floor or leaning gas’s be numbered?”
against a wall. He li ed a pile of wooden
frames off the couch before I could sit. Master’s grin wavered a millisecond.
“That piece isn’t for sale.”
“Cup of tea?” he asked.
“I see. Do you own a pistol?”
“No thanks. What was your rela onship
with Mr. Lewison?” “My father owned a 9mm. Also lost.”

“A client. I recently sold him a fine paint- “We couldn’t find the Kahlo in Lewison’s
ing by Frida Kahlo.” apartment.”

“How much did he pay?” “Ah. The murder was probably a the
gone wrong”
“Eight-hundred-thousand. My asking
price was a bit higher, but he nego ated “Please describe the piece.”
hard, and I was anxious to sell.”
“A self-portrait, flowers in her hair.”
“You needed money?”
“That describes a lot of her work.”
Master said, “I’m sure you know, Detec-
ve, one can’t live in Manha an earning “True enough.”
the wage of a Walmart greeter. Plus, my old
bones have red of New York winters, and I “Easier to fake. Do you paint?” I asked.
plan to relocate to Florida.”
“Poorly, I’m afraid. Not well enough to
“How did you acquire the Kahlo?” forge a masterpiece, if that’s what you’re
implying.”

“Did Lewison discover that the Kahlo was
a forgery and demanded his money back?”

61

Adelaide Literary Magazine

“Really, Detec ve? Wasn’t that an epi- I contacted the IRS and gave them his Flori-
sode of Law & Order?” da address along with a photocopy of Lew-
ison’s eight-hundred-thousand-dollar check.
“Shoo ng Lewison was preferable to re- Not being able to prove Al Capone’s many
turning his money and exposing your fraud. crimes, the Feds sent him to prison over tax
Jail me at your age must’ve been a fright- evasion.
ening prospect. What did you do with the
fake Kahlo?” ***

Master stood. “If that’s all, Detec ve I finally got around to visi ng Adriana, Max-
Bragg, I have appointments to a end.” ey’s girlfriend. Miles of cleavage, a choco-
late brune e with blazing hazel eyes and
Reluctantly, I le the apartment. blood-red lips ck opened her door. Even
a er flashing my badge, she looked me up
*** and down before le ng me in.

I checked the art fences and pawn shops in Si ng across from me, she crossed
the city. Nobody had been approached to shapely legs.
buy a Frida Kahlo. I obtained a warrant and
searched Master’s apartment but didn’t I said, “Do you deny pu ng a shotgun
find the murder weapon or anything to to Maxey’s head?”
connect him with the slaying of Christopher
Lewison. Almost all the art in his apartment “He’s a three- ming son-of-a-bitch, but
were fakes, and he had no record of trans- I keep the weapon next to my bed for de-
ac ons. I couldn’t find anyone in the art fense against intruders. That’s all.”
community who would admit to being de-
frauded by Master. “You’ll stay away from him?”

I brought my dilemma to my supervisor, “He’s so damn good looking. Did he piss
Lieutenant Dixon, a grizzled African-American. his pants and run to you?”

I said, “I’m certain that Master mur- “Basically. Yes.”
dered Lewison, but the DA won’t authorize
his arrest on circumstan al evidence.” “Good. Want a drink?”

“What did your gallery friend call Master, “I’m on duty.”
‘sly fox’?”
“When you’re off duty, why don’t you bring
I said, “If he slips this noose, he’ll con n- your baby blue eyes here for a nightcap?”
ue his frauds.”
“That’s probably not a good idea.”
Dixon asked, “Isn’t he moving to Florida?”
She uncrossed her legs, leaving them
“Yeah.” parted. “Why not?”

He emulated a Pon us Pilate hand-wash- I swallowed and said, “I’m not as good
ing mo on. “He’s Dade County’s problem. looking as Maxey. Me, you’d shoot.”
Move on.”
As I le her apartment, her comment
Dixon was cynical, but right. I had one smacked my back. “Scaredy-cat.”
card to play. A er Master moved to Miami,

62

Revista Literária Adelaide

About the Author

Joe Giordano’s stories have appeared in more than one hundred magazines including The
Saturday Evening Post and Shenandoah. His novels, Birds of Passage, An Italian Immigrant
Coming of Age Story, (2015), and Appointment with ISIL, an Anthony Prova Thriller (2017)
were published by Harvard Square Edi ons. His third novel, Drone Strike, will be published
by Rogue Phoenix Press in 2019. Joe was among one hundred Italian-American authors
honored by Barnes & Noble Chairman Len Riggio to march in the 2017 Manha an Columbus
Day Parade.

63

ONCE UPON A
TIME IN DETROIT

by Michael Walker

She walked through the massive casino, weekends were a much be er me. Lots of
scanning the heads of the people who men. Lots of beau ful, leering men. Drawn
sat, oblivious, playing slot machines. It to her as easily as insects drawn to the nec-
was 2:30 pm on a Wednesday, so the casi- tar bribes of a pitcher plant.
no crowd was (mostly) people who didn’t
work for a living. No one to her tastes at all. As she drank a Bloody Mary, she stared
A lot of black women wearing t. shirts and at her reflec on in the long mirror that ran
leopard-skin ghts. Gaunt, elderly women the length of the counter behind the bar.
in windbreakers and dress slacks, reaching She knew that she looked really sexy to-
with trembling hands for another quarter day. There was no ques on. She was wear-
from a seemingly endless supply piled high ing one of her favorite ou its—a ght-fit-
in plas c cups. Gambling addicts, their eyes
glazed over, spinning, following the lies of ng tank dress whose abbreviated length
the quarter slots. A room full of sound and and loud, black-and-white print made her
fury signifying…nothing. look like a high-class call girl. On her feet,
black, s le o high heels. Her raven hair fell
She stopped and sat in one of the many straight, almost to her waist, caressing her
bars flanking the ground floor of the casi- naked back.
no. It was called Motown Sound. On the
weekends, local R&B combos played on its She sat on the bar stool, her long legs
crossed, indolently pumping. As she con n-
ny, carpeted stage, churning out perfect ued to stare at her image in the mirror, she
imita ons of the songs that had once made pulled the celery stalk from her drink and
Detroit famous: My Girl; Dancing in the started to munch on it.
Streets; Where Did Our Love Go? She knew
because she had been here before on the She needed a man. And she needed one
weekends. Go en up and put her lithe body NOW. That thought was like a skipping sty-
on display. Rocked her hips and her ass un- lus in her mind.
der the exac ng eye of the strobe light. The
But there was no one in the bar but her
and the bartender. And the casino was a

64

Revista Literária Adelaide

bust. She had wandered its three floors for ably in his mid-twen es or thereabouts. But
almost two hours, almost disoriented by her need was overwhelming, and she had
the combina on of her need and the chaot- no me to discriminate anymore.
ic carnival of computers designed to do one
thing only: suck up people’s money. There He was standing at the driver’s side door
had been no one to her liking in the whole of an immaculately white SUV, trying to in-
crass, audacious place. Unbelievable… sert the key into the lock. He appeared to
be a bit drunk. His body swayed percep bly
She thought briefly of flir ng with the as he bent to his task.
bartender. He wasn’t a bad looking man
really. A li le younger than she liked them, “Hi,” she said, approaching him. Her s -
but he was very clean cut and had an easy, le os clicked on the cement of the garage,
pleasing smile. He just seemed so confident sending up a flurry of echoes through the
and purposeful, as he bustled around be- whole structure.
hind the bar, cleaning counters with a tow-
el, organizing bo les of tequila and vodka. He looked up at her. His brown eyes went
Yes. He would do very nicely… wide, swallowing her whole it seemed. His
sensuous mouth broke into a broad grin.
As if he was reading her mind, he came One of his front incisor teeth was chipped
down to where she was si ng, and flashed making him, even with the suit, look like
that easy smile at her. His eyes gli ered as some schoolyard bully.
they played over her black-and-white dress.
It was obvious he liked what he saw. “Hellooo,” he said in reply. He had a pleas-
ing burr of an accent. Sco sh, probably. His
“You want another?” he asked. eyes con nued to roam wildly over her dress.

She hesitated for a minute. He WOULD “I was wondering…are you looking for
do nicely. some company?” she pouted, stepping
very close to him now. She could smell the
She shook her head, and her hair brushed whiskey on his breath, every me he ex-
her back in an easy, pleasing way. It would haled. He was definitely very drunk. Well,
probably be impossible, no ma er how hard that did not ma er…
she flirted, no ma er how many phero-
mones she exuded, to get this guy to leave “Company? You and me, lassie?” he said,
his work and just go with her now. Fly to her shaking his head. Then, his brow furrowed.
hotel room. Be er to look elsewhere… “And what is your company gonna cost me
then?” he asked, warily.
“Just the bill,” she said, returning his
smile with a small sad one of her own. “Nothing,” she whispered, standing inch-
es from him now, trying to dazzle, hypno ze
*** him with her body, with the zebra print of
her ght dress. Yes, she looked so good. No
She found him in the parking garage across man could resist her. “I need a man. That’s
the street from the casino. He was dressed all.” And with no further preamble, she
impeccably in a gun-metal suit—a tall man brought her long slender fingers down and
with a dimpled chin, square jaw, and a cupped his crotch, started to rub his cock
mouth that probably would have done Cu- through the material of his dress pants. He
pid proud. Once again, he was young—prob- was hard immediately.

65

Adelaide Literary Magazine

“Aaayeah,” he said, staring at her as if she pleasurable orgasm. There was no need to
were just some fevered whiskey dream, his move, to seek, to do anything really. Her
keys s ll clutched in his hand. “Aaayeah…” need was palpable again. As always. No
ma er how much she fed it, it never abated,
*** never faded. But this place, unlike some of
her haunts was crowded with men. Men on
The bar was called Bright Moments, an up- the prowl. And she was a beau ful woman,
scale bar that featured jazz combos on the drinking alone. It would be very soon…
weekend. On the cramped wooden stage
at the front of the dining room, a four- The waiter approached her table. He
piece was soloing its way through some was a burly black man wearing an orange
old-school hard bop tune. The corne st vest and a white shirt that was as immacu-
was now taking his turn, the shiny bell of late as the table cloth. He had a wiry neatly
his horn pointed toward a microphone. He trimmed afro, and a broad, dimpled chin.
had his eyes closed as he soloed, and his He had been to her table to check on her
fingers flew up and down over the instru- like four mes in the last hour. And there
ment’s pistons, sending a shiver of blues seemed to be more to his fevered interest
echoing through the small, brightly lit club. in her than increasing his p. Oh yes…She
The place was packed, as it always was on knew his look very well.
a Friday night. The upscale clientele, De-
troit’s discerning one-percenters, sat at ta- “You doin’ OK Miss?” he asked, poin ng
bles shrouded in blazing white table cloths, at her mostly untouched drink. His almost
ea ng shrimp cocktails and guzzling mar - yellow eyes danced over her black confec-
nis. Occasionally they stopped to see if mu-
sic was s ll being played… on of a dress.

She sat alone, in a corner of the club, “Fine…” she sighed. Men were all the
drinking a mai tai. She knew that she same. Everywhere. Rich. Poor. Old. Young.
looked really sexy. Occasionally, she would Beau ful. Ugly. They just wanted the BRASS
pick up the bu er knife from the mostly BOOTY. No ma er how much they ra onal-
empty table top to stare at her face—her ized. No ma er how much they denied. No
dazzling blue eyes, the irises shot through ma er what godawful things they tried to
with specks of silver, the short blond hair channel that grasping need into. The BRASS
curling at her cheeks. Before leaving the BOOTY. Well, she had that in spades, of
hotel room, she had daubed her lips with course. Some mes though, it was amusing.
a bright orange-red lips ck. Like the focal What gibbering fools it made of these crea-
point of some sensual pain ng. She was tures…
wearing a black cocktail number with a
gauzy, frilly skirt. On her feet, a pair of black “Let me know if you want anything…” he
leather mules with spindly heels. The over- said, towering over her, his wild eyes look-
all effect made her look like one of those ing for some egress to her dress. On the
Vargas pinup girls from the 1950s. stage, the horn player swayed and fingered
like he was possessed.
She sat at the table, half-listening to
the music, le ng its shi ing, erra c vibra- “I will,” she said, coolly, not looking at
him. There was no need to turn it on for
ons just wash through her body like a long this menial, this waiter. The room was too
fer le with men for that.

66

Revista Literária Adelaide

She hoisted her mai tai to her bright lips “What?” he said. As if he had not quite
and took a long swig, as the waiter stood understood what she had said. As if the
there watching her. He opened his mouth music had drowned her out or something.
as if he were going to say something else. He had heard all right. She could see his
And then, abruptly, he walked away, to- black wool pants quiver. His crotch had got-
ward the kitchen’s swinging doors. ten the message immediately…

“Thank God,” she thought, le ng the al- “I said what I really would enjoy is a good
cohol warm her. fucking. My hotel is two blocks from here.
Do you want to help me out?” she said,
She placed the drink on the table and looking at him as if he was the only thing in
closed her eyes, just trying to recapture the the world that ma ered.
pleasurable vibra ons of the music. The
horn player was done soloing. The tenor ***
saxophone player had now picked up the
melody of the tune, and was pu ng it The place was called The Book Worm, and
through some heady varia ons, like some it was an old brownstone house (about
yo yo champion going through his dizzying three blocks from her hotel room) that
menu of tricks. had been converted once upon a me into
a used book haven. If you were looking at
“Excuse me, miss?” a gruff voice said, as the structure from the outside, it seemed
if from far away. very narrow and insignificant—just some
crumbling old house, its rust-colored bricks
She slowly opened her eyes. Standing almost concealed behind a green pa na
in front of her, where the waiter had just of ivy. But that was deceiving. Inside, The
been, was an older man, about fi y-five or Book Worm was a vast labyrinth—a veri-
so. His short, thick hair and neatly trimmed table maze of old books and rooms full of
beard were shot through with white. On his old books. A very easy task to become lost
hirsute wrist, an expensive-looking Rolex there, in those rooms. Signs at each narrow
flashed and gli ered. doorway not really aiding in the least. Just
indica ng a new des na on, dissociated
Oh yes… from the last, in the empire of books. Non-
fic on. Fic on. Travel. History. Horror. True
“Yes?” She smiled, turning it on now, Crime. Etc. etc… And no arrows poin ng
bringing her heavy pheromones into play. It hopefully toward exits.
was HER turn to solo now. This was the one…
She wandered through the vast square
“Are you enjoying the music?” he asked. room labeled Art, occasionally pulling a tle
She could tell that her soloing was hav- out to look at the pictures. She knew that she
ing the desired effect. Very gra fying. She looked really good today, really sexy. Her long
could sense that this was someone who red hair hung down in a very ght braid on
prided himself on his self-control, on his one side of her face. She was wearing an in-
command in most situa ons. And with a digo-colored blouse, very low- cut of course,
red-orange smile, she was quickly under- that showed off her breasts quite nicely. And
mining that… a pair of jeans that were shot through with
holes in all the right (or wrong ) places. Her
“I am. But what I really would enjoy right
now is a good fucking,” she whispered,
leaning toward him.

67

Adelaide Literary Magazine

fingernails were painted a warm lavender, as She was reality. She did not need to read
were her pre y toes, showing through the about it…
open-toed boots that she was wearing.
She did pause before a dusty glass
She pulled an oversized tome from one counter to examine a squeaky, spindle
of the peeling bookshelves: a collec on rack displaying postcards—the kind that
of nudes by Renoir. She thumbed through once been euphemis cally described as
the book rapidly, admiring the so colors “French” postcards. They held her a en on
of the models, their rounded forms and for several minutes. They were obvious-
curves, the way they just seemed to morph ly reprints. But the sepia-toned images of
from the wild, stormy backgrounds of the models, most of them in various stages of
oil pain ngs. Something to keep in mind for undress, interested her. They were incredi-
future reference. For a future hunt… bly tame by today’s standards (par cularly
if one spent even a minute clicking through
The Book Worm was not a good place the porn that clo ed the Internet) but the
to find a man at all, par cularly at 11:00 message was the same. Sex sex sex sex.
AM on a Monday morning. If it happened, How do we get it? How do we keep ge ng
it happened. But she had had a very good it? She imagined that the first Cro-Magnon
weekend, and her need was nowhere near sculptor who fashioned a figurine of Venus
insistent. It never really abated of course, just could not wait for the clay to dry, so he
but her eyes were not on fire like they usu- could jerk off repeatedly over that plump
ally were when she was wanton. And there li le icon.
was no roaring sound in her ears.
She kept turning the postcard rack
She placed the Renoir por olio back on around, causing it to let out a slow-mo on
the shelf and wandered on to the next room squeak. She was half-expec ng to see an
in the labyrinth. Gray light sloped down into old picture of herself --in one of her myri-
the store, from slits of windows that edged ad disguises--her breasts on display above
the fiberboard ceiling. An overcast Detroit some lacy chemise. Or reclining nude on
morning. Probably a storm later on… some divan, like Degas’s rendering of Olym-
pia. It was en rely possible. She had done
The next room that she came to was many things in her long, long life.
labeled Ero ca. It really meant nothing to
her. The room could have been labeled tax “Excuse me, Miss?”
forms for all she cared.
She turned from the rack, to the door-
The room was exactly the same as the way she had just come through a few min-
one before it—a square, its four walls utes before. A man was standing there, one
flanked with bookshelves. And there were slender hand res ng on the jamb. He was
three or four squat shelves in the center of about thirty or so, his long blond hair pulled
the room, arranged in a row. back ghtly in a ponytail, a pair of tortoise
shell glasses sliding down his aquiline nose.
Bookshelves crammed with smut. With A hunky, nerdy type.
desire. With all the lizard-brained base fan-
tasies some ugly, frustrated ar st had never “I seem to be lost,” he said, half-smiling.
been able to turn into gold, into reality. “Can you help me out?”

Well. That was a good thing…

68

Revista Literária Adelaide

She could tell by the way that his blue Why not? she thought.
eyes gleamed, by the way that he kept
coming back to the many places where her She returned his half- smile with a full,
invi ng one of her own. Then she started
ght jeans were torn, that he was anything to walk slowly toward him…
but lost. He knew what he wanted. Oh yes…

About the Author

Michael Walker is a writer living and working in Columbus Ohio. He is the author of two
novels: 7-22, a young adult fantasy novel, and The Vampire Henry, a “literary” horror novel.
He has also seen his fic on and poetry appear in numerous magazines including PIF, Fic on
Southeast, and Weirdbook.

69

THE PACKAGE

by Christopher Carroll

On this dark and dreary Tuesday, Tom re- Ryan just decided to let himself in. “Did you
turned home from his trip. Tom walks up decide not to unpack at all while you were
the stairs to his apartment door when he wai ng on me?” asked Ryan.
realizes that there is a weird looking pack-
age just si ng there. Tom all of a sudden “Nope,” said Tom.
thinks, what the fuck is this. The box is a
dark brown color with nasty looking stains “Don’t tell me that you’ve just been sit-
on it. It smells like someone rolled it around ng there staring at that damn package,”
in shit. Tom stands there deba ng whether said Ryan. Tom just stands silent and with
or not he should pick it up and bring it in- this extremely paranoid look on his face.
side or just leave it there at the door. “Look at me everything is going to be ok,”
said Ryan.
Tom then looks for a label to see who
sent it without touching it. A er realizing Ryan walks over to the package that is
that there isn’t a label, he decides to call si ng on Tom’s beige looking carpet. “So
his friend Ryan. It takes a while for Ryan to did you order anything before you le for
answer the phone, but when he does he your trip?” asked Ryan. “No,” said Tom. “Al-
can just tell how scared and confused Tom right, do you know anyone that might have
is. “Hey did you send me a nasty looking decided to send you something while you
package?” Tom asked. were on vaca on?” Ryan asked. “Not to
my knowledge,” said Tom, “And if they did,
“No,” Ryan replied, “Is there not a label why wouldn’t they have labeled it.” “Hmm
on it?” that’s a good point,” Ryan said.

“No there’s not and I’m really freaking Ryan then stands up and walks into the
the fuck out,” said Tom. kitchen to get a knife. “Let’s see what this
package has to offer us,” Ryan says while
“Alright well take the package inside and holding the knife. “What if this wasn’t
I’ll be right over there,” said Ryan. They meant for me?” asked Tom. “Well I’m pret-
both hang up the phone, and Tom heads ty sure that whoever dropped it off meant
inside with the package. to put it at your door since they hand-de-
livered it,” said Ryan. Ryan then takes the
Tom is si ng on his couch just staring at knife and begins to cut the tape on the top
the package. When he hears a knock at the of the box. By this point, Tom is standing
door. Before he could get up to go answer it over him nervously looking over his shoul-

70

Revista Literária Adelaide
der. “Alright you ready to see what’s in the
box?” asked Ryan. “I guess,” said Tom. Ryan
had a smile on his face while he opened the
top of the box. When all of a sudden him
and Tom both hear a faint click, and then
see nothing but a bright light.

About the Author

Christopher Carroll grew up in Macon, Georgia, but is currently living in Winter Park, Florida.
He is pursuing a career as a writer while also doing Youtube on the side. His Youtube channel
name is Cri calRay.

71

DOWN BY THE
RIVERSIDE

by Jeannine Cook

She was used to the flinching. The fiddling. “My neighbor.”
The mess. The begging. The crying. The
blood. These women with their thick thighs “My nephew.”
and thin thighs and saggy thighs and shriv-
eled thighs came here to spread them. She “My friend he raped me.”
was as close to God as they could get.
So she’d do it. Her clear eyes made her
“Miss.” feel invisible to them and she couldn’t see
them either. As a formality she’d run her fin-
“Miss.” gers across their foreheads, over their eye-
brows, down their noses, and their lips. The
They’d whisper down her hallway. only thing she ever remembered were their
voices. She could recall the slightest trem-
They knew to ring the bell, that only ors from aisles away in the marketplace.
they knew existed. They’d come with their There goes flat face or bumpy face or wrin-
differences, but they couldn’t help being kled face—-pretending not to know me.
the same.
Babies don’t come from nowhere. But
“I changed my mind.” she didn’t ask ques ons. If they wanted to
share, she’d listen.
“They say I will die.”
“He climbed me.”
“This baby is sick.”
“Again and again.”
“I don’t know the father.”
“I’ve tried to get rid of it.”
“I’ve started to show.”
“I punch my belly”
“My father raped me.
“I drunk cleaning spray.”
“My grandfather.”
“I stuck a hanger up there.”
“My uncle.”
“My mom said come see you.”
“My brother.”

72

Revista Literária Adelaide

“My grandmother.” was unsafe. And she s ll needed to escort
some of them home.
“My aunt.”
Old Face wasn’t any different. Her hair
“My sister” was course, her nose double wide. Her
thighs firm but bowed. An older woman.
“My neighbor said come see you.” Old Face had a scar that ran clear across her
neck besides that she was easily forgo en
It didn’t take much to prepare. The reci- un l she spoke.
pe had been handed down to other people
with clear eyes. “Nothing to see here,” her “I am here to… you know,” Old Face
cousin would say to onlookers half joking started in a piercing tone. Her voice out of
and half serious when people would stare. breath and s ll full of knives.
She kept a mixture of mouse dung, honey,
Egyp an salt, wild colocynth, and resin on “Yes I know,” the clear eyed women nod-
her kitchen counter. She always started ded cu ng off Old Face while se ng up
her ritual with the salt sprinkled about the the palm leaves and the towels.
floor and frankincense burning in the cor-
ner. She’d fan the women with palm leaves “He has a wife.”
from head to toe. Singing over their bodies
and helping the women to stay s ll. She’d “This would ruin everything.”
pray for safe passage and kept a small vile
of liquid that she called the truth in case “What would others think.”
things went bad. A er a few minutes of
humming and chan ng and holding hands “He is the mayor.”
and crying, she’d insert the mesh bag of
dung and salt and herbs between thick “I waited as long as I could.”
thighs and thin thighs and saggy thighs and
shriveled thighs. She’d shove it up as far as “My mother says I am silly.”
she could and then tell the women to take
a deep breath as she pushed with her lon- Old Faces’ shrill voice punctured ears.
gest finger up just a li le bit further. She’d And then the rou ne. Same as always. The
been told to scrape their inner walls with prayer. The procedure. The procession. Old
her thumb nails for good luck. And wait. Face asked to hold a hand and no sooner
She’d sing hymns as she did. she was done. The clear eyed women used
her cane to walk Old Face to the main road
“I’m gonna lay down my burdens, down even though it was raining. She returned to
by the riverside. Down by the riverside. clean her instruments, put out the incense,
Down by the riverside. I’m gonna lay down burn the blankets and make her way to the
my burdens. Down by the riverside. To riverside. She was wiping down the table
study war no more.” when she heard a faint squill. She ra led her
metal waste basket and stumped her right
That’s where she’d take the bags of foot to scare away what she thought was a
blood and bones a erwards--down by the mouse. But it only squilled louder and with
riverside. Some women required some- more force. She followed the sound to the
thing stronger and faster. She had to be corner near the bed. Leaned over towards
done before dawn. Leaving at daybreak her bag of bones and felt around on the
floor. The squealing got louder and more
erra c. And when she couldn’t make her-
self believe it was a mouse any longer, she

73

Adelaide Literary Magazine

reached into her bag of bones. Ran her fin- Trembling Girl’s mouth. Slipped on her coat
ger across its forehead, down its nose, over and set off down the road with the bundle
its lips. She sat down on the ground with a in one arm and her cane in the other. She
thump. She looked up to the sky. Checked tapped tapped on the road to keep from
for ten fingers and ten toes. Held it to her tripping.
chest. A girl. Trembling. Trembling Girl.
When she could smell the river was
The clear eyed old women searched for close, she dropped her cane. Had to place
a clean towel and blankets, wrapped The the bundle of sheets on the concrete as
Trembling Girl ght and checked twice that she pa ed the ground looking for it. When
she was breathing. It was late. The clear she found finally found it, she pinched the
eyed woman could already hear birds sing- Trembling Girl to see if she’d s ll cry. She did.
ing to the morning. So the clear eyed women turned around.
Backed away from the river and tapped her
Her next reac on was to suffocate it. way down a narrow street. She could hear
Maybe it was best to just throw it outside the early sounds of birds and knew be er
with the trash. But it was a Trembling Girl than to be caught in daylight with a bloody
not some bag of bones. The clear eyed bundle of towels. They’d have her head if
woman stuck her knuckles into Trem- they knew what she did. At the end of the
bling Girl’s mouth. That doesn’t last long. narrow alley she made her way dripping
Thought for a minute about her own son- wet to the door. Pulled the bell. Placed the
-taken too soon. Remembered him at that Trembling Girl with her high pitched shrill
age. How she’d handed him over to her on the porch and hid behind the bushes.
mother soon a er he was born and was
raised with him as her brother. Guess he “Who is it?” the women in the mansion
was her half brother. yelled with long southern drawl. Opened
the door and screamed. “Well I do declare.”
Then she thought of her song…
“Honey it’s not what you think,” the may-
“I am going to lay down my burdens. Down or said walking up behind his wife who had
by the riverside. Down by the riverside.” picked up the clear eyed trembling baby.
“It’s probably not even mine,” he said.
She grabbed the swaddled bundle of
towels and decided to proceed to the riv- “Probably?” his wife ques oned her face
er in the rain. She soaked a rag with her saying it all. She handed him his baby and
tears and water and honey. Stuck that into locked the door.

About the Author

For the last 10 years Jeannine Cook has worked as a trusted
writer for several startups, corpora ons, non-profits, and
influencers. In addi on to a holding a master’s degree
from The University of the Arts, Jeannine is also a Leeway
Art & Transforma on Grantee and a winner of the South
Philly Review Difference Maker Award. Jeannine’s work
has been recognized by several na onal and interna onal

74

Revista Literária Adelaide
news outlets including the New York Times, CNN, Ebony, BET, Barcro TV and Daily Mail.
She is a proud educator and mother with 8 years of teaching crea ve wri ng in alterna ve
schools. She recently returned from Nairobi, Kenya facilita ng social jus ce crea ve
wri ng with youth from 15 countries around the world. Jeannine has shared her “out of
the box” approach to organizing through guerilla crea ve wri ng with over 1000 schools,
neighborhoods, community groups, and organiza ons in Philadelphia. She considers herself
a visual ethnographer because she o en collaborates with hidden communi es to recover
a suppressed history. She writes about the complex intersec ons of single motherhood,
ac vism, and community arts. Her pieces are featured in several publica ons including
Mothering Magazine, Girl God, Good Mother Project, Printworks, and midnight & indigo.
Jeannine is currently producing an art installa on of her wri ngs deconstructed into paper
art sculptures, collages, and calligrams called Conversa ons With Harrie .

75

FIFTIES SCOOP

by John Tavares

There are many gaps and holes in the sto- police, cared about indigenous persons, be-
ry, but my origins in as few words as pos- fore the police even cared that much about
sible must necessarily leave some sense of different ethnic groups or immigrants—the
vagueness and incompleteness. Besides, assump on—somewhat presumptuous—
big parts of the past feel like my mothers’ being they care about these people today,
stories, which remain largely untold. I o en and I’m no longer confident of that belief.
feel on birthdays that the real person who
should be celebra ng your birthday is your My mother was actually Portuguese on
mother, if she is s ll alive; she survived and one side, her mother’s side, and Ojibway
suffered both the agony of your birth and Indian, on her father’s side, at a me when
the pain of your upbringing. Then, how do such ethnic blending wasn’t that common
you feel when you make discoveries about in Canada, or at least in the small town in
your mothers, but no words do them jus- northwestern Ontario, where my mother
was born and raised, since most of the Por-
ce, while your fathers remain in the back- tuguese immigrants, par cularly from the
ground, cold, distant, aloof, indifferent, Azorean islands, didn’t immigrate un l lat-
unsuppor ve? How do you feel when you er—the six es and seven es. In fact, there
finally realize you lack clarity, have no com- were actually not that many immigrants in
plete and u er truth, about your true fami- Sioux Lookout, at that me, at least they
lies and every family member is rela ve, in were not of a varied variety, not as much
different senses of the word, and you there- of the dark or Mediterranean variety. I was
fore ques on and doubt your own iden ty? also told then the na ves tended to stay
Besides, I feel old and my hands and feet on their reserve, unless they needed to
are cold, and my memory, and hence my visit town to conduct business or shop for
life, is fading, but I am s ll strong and alive. dry goods or visit the federal government
hospital for health-care. (I’ve done some
The details are sketchy, vague, and they research, not solid empirical and scien f-
happened in the late fi ies in Toronto be- ic research of the university social science
fore the subway line had closed circuit variety, but of the café, coffee shop, and
video surveillance that scanned pla orms, barroom variety, and I’ve talked to some
passageways, and commuters—in fact, it to some elders and be ers in the town and
happened shortly a er the first subway city, and, when I finally found the nerve,
line in Toronto opened—before the city visited Lac Seul reserve.)
and municipal police, or even the provincial

76

Revista Literária Adelaide

My mother originally moved to the city Union Sta on with its bustling, busy Sat-
because of me, in search of a be er life, a urday crowd, visitors, shoppers, travellers,
safer, and more prosperous life, but the revellers. People ignored her every me
move from Sioux Lookout to the city of To- she asked for direc ons to the ferry docks
ronto represented an a empt to follow the because she was an excitable woman, she
right path, the route of the sober. looked indigenous, even though she had
parts of the Mediterranean and Europe in
Amalia took her daughter to Toronto and her gene c background, and she had been
managed to find a job as a needle worker, drinking. She bought a long brown bag of
sewing and s tching together rugged den- bu ered popcorn, candy apples, and ice
im and leather, workwear, at a sweatshop cream cones for the day trip from a food
and tex le factory in the garment district, truck and candy vendor. When she re-
around Spadina and Queen Street West, turned to the stairs and cement ledge, to
not far from where she lived in a basement the wagon, she discovered her daughter
apartment in a small bungalow near China- Lara had disappeared.
town.
So, the fran c search began. But no-one
She heard about some of the a rac ons heeded her or paid a en on to her; it was
on Centre Island from co-workers at the literally as if she was invisible. Finally, the
garment factory, where she sewed on but- Toronto police were summoned for the ex-
tons, rivets, and zippers. So, she decided citable, agitated woman. By then not only
to take her li le daughter for a stroll down had her daughter disappeared; in the fran-
Yonge Street in the morning a er she rode
the streetcar along Dundas Street West. c search that ensued her wagon was sto-
They could take a short leisurely stroll down len as well, containing her bag of food and
Yonge Street, with its showy a rac ons, to snacks for the weekend excursion with her
the ferry terminal on the waterfront with daughter, me, to Toronto’s Centre Island.
Lake Ontario and then ride the ferry across This crucial piece of missing evidence may
the harbour to the islands. On Centre Is- have helped undermine her credibility.
land she would show her daughter the fes-
The police officer was skep cal of her
vi es, the carnivalesque, the Ferris wheel, claim and allega ons, possibly because she
the rollercoaster, the carousel, and the oth- had been drinking and it was not yet noon,
er rides she would find in the amusement and the wagon was stolen as well, with
park along the main walkways, aside from the baby dolls, toys, and clothes. In her
the beaches. She packed a swimsuit for the emo onal state, trauma zed, Amalia was
beaches, if she decided to explore the is- brought to the police division headquarters
land shoreline. for ques oning. The staff sergeant ques-

As some mes happens in life, par cu- oned her and garnered li le bits and piec-
larly in the life of Amalia, she took a wrong es of details about her iden ty and home-
turn, on the route to the ferry docks. In- town. He had been to Sioux Lookout on a
stead of walking straight down Yonge Street hun ng expedi on years ago. He decided
to the harbour front and Lake Ontario, she to make some long-distance telephone
turned on Front Street to Union Sta on, calls to the provincial police detachment in
but didn’t con nue walking south to Lake Sioux Lookout, to help untangle this mess,
Ontario. She wandered around the front of determine the details, inves gate the un-

77

Adelaide Literary Magazine

substan ated allega ons. He called the spring, he found gainful employment as a
Sioux Lookout detachment. From the call school bus driver, and the criminal charges
the sergeant learned from a constable, on were dropped.
the other end of the long-distance line, in
Sioux Lookout, Amalia had been arrested The sergeant said he simply couldn’t
previously for public intoxica on and mis- abide by unjust and unfair criminal charges
chief. Remember: this was the late fi ies, against up and comers, promising bright
and a long-distance telephone call was young men, strapping, handsome, athle c,
not cheap, even for a Toronto police offi- prospec ve pillars of the community. Then,
cer calling a provincial police detachment on another weekend night, the sergeant re-
in a remote town in Northwestern Ontario, membered, Amalia even accused a rookie
and the inquiry had the poten al to ck off police officer of making advances towards
and irk superior commanding officer since her a er she was picked up on Front Street
it crossed jurisdic onal and territorial lines. for public intoxica on and disorderly con-
A corporal transferred the call to a staff ser- duct. Although she was charged with mis-
geant. The staff sergeant told the Toronto chief for making these accusa ons, she was
officer he knew the woman in ques on. never convicted.

Amalia did not have a child, he said. I don’t think the police officer seriously
entertained the no on or idea that what
The sergeant added, though, she had she described was true or even worse. He
accused several men of “roughhousing her,” couldn’t conceive that an intoxicated wom-
a er she resisted their “advances.” The po- an could legi mately sustain an assault of a
lice inves gated, but the son of the local car sexual nature.
dealer and the son of grocery store owner,
were named, involved, and implicated, and The sergeant stared at the large com-
became suspects. These young men were mercial clock cking above the booking
hockey coaches, members of the Rotary officer’s desk. Now he had crimes to inves-
Club and even exchange students. The po-
lice decided not to pursue charges against gate, laws to enforce, and, although he
these young men, because they came from enjoyed talking to a brother in the fraternal
good and important families, who had pric- order of police from the north, a member
ey lawyers from Thunder Bay and Winnipeg, of the provincial police force, which he ac-
and owned local businesses and because of tually held low in esteem, he looked for a
their “exemplary moral character, volunteer way to politely end the long-distance tele-
service, and community leadership,” par c- phone conversa on. He couldn’t believe
ularly in the areas of baseball and ice hock- he had spent forty-five minutes discussing
ey coaching. Their friend, the unemployed a na ve woman, who drank heavily, from
mill worker, on the other hand, was rowdy northwestern Ontario, which he once de-
and disrespec ul towards his officers, and scribed as a nightmare, during a moose
could not even skate. He was charged with hun ng expedi on that went haywire,
drunk and disorderly conduct. A er he when a conserva on officer tried to charge
spent a night in the drunk tank at the jail, his hun ng party for abandoning a moose
he was released. A erwards, since the saw- cow carcass and then, to add insult to inju-
mill wasn’t due to open un l the following ry, his ou i er refused to provide furnace
oil to heat his cabin and insisted he burn
chopped birch in the woodstove, and he

78

Revista Literária Adelaide

vowed never to return to Northwestern onal pleas and scenes, but the fact that she
Ontario again. had become my mother was supposed to
have been a secret. She con nued to work
As soon as the Toronto sergeant heard at the garment factory, sewing and s tch-
about these accusa ons against the rookie ing together heavy-duty leather and den-
provincial police officer, he seethed, spilled im work clothes for labourers, on Spadina
his coffee, broke his favorite mug, and sput- Avenue, near Chinatown. As she searched
tered with fury. He had a son in the provin- for me week nights and weekends in parks
cial police force, at a detachment in the and playgrounds and department stores, as
Muskokas, at Bracebridge, where his broth- she learned about the seamier underside
er-in-law owned a motel. of the city, the massage parlors, the strip
clubs, the exo c dancers, the street pros-
When he finished the telephone call, his
face was suffused with redness. He could tutes, and the inner city neighbourhoods,
barely control the trembling, dizziness, and including downtown, where street pros-
chest pain from his anger and agita on,
since he ignored the doctor’s advice about tutes, dressed gaudily and provoca vely,
sugar, coffee, doughnuts, fried food, cho- congregated on corners in doorways and
lesterol, and his high blood pressure. walked the streets, flaun ng their bodies,
peddling their wares, she arrived at the
“Get her out of my sight,” he command- conclusion I had been abducted by a Yonge
ed the corporal, who rarely saw his superior Street sex pervert.
that angry and worried about his health.
Amalia gave up, surrendered, to fate,
At least my mother wasn’t charged with providence, she did not know, or under-
mischief or obstruc on of jus ce or assault- stand, but she was in despair, defeated,
ing a peace officer, but, if there was further again.
inves ga on, her life and fate might have
taken a different course. And so began my Meanwhile, sixty miles away, in anoth-
mother’s fran c, desperate search. er city, gri er, industrial, working class, my
real parents, or the couple I came to con-
I am convinced, if she told the complete sider my real parents were by the standards
truth about me, and our own personal his- of the middle class decent and respectable
tory, events and the situa on might have and—to my benefit—white. Tucker and As-
possibly turned out differently. My life trid were both bank clerks and tellers at the
might have turned out en rely different— main branch of the Commonwealth Bank
perhaps not as prosperous—but reward- on John Street in Hamilton. To help further
ing in other respects. When I am in a more their careers in banking, they travelled to
skep cal mood, and I dwell and obsess on Hamilton’s largest neighbouring city to ex-
the past, I think if she told the complete plore the prospects of moving to Toronto.
and total truth she might have been ar- They considered buying a house in the For-
rested and faced even worse consequenc- est Hills neighbourhood specifically. When
es and punishment, but, s ll, I would have they found me alone on a wagon in a crowd
been reported as missing. at Union Sta on it was a no brainer for
them. They tried to have a baby for the past
For a year she searched for me through- ten years, a full decade. The moral equiva-
out Toronto, and ini ally she made emo- lency for them was if a customer had le

79

Adelaide Literary Magazine

a wallet of cash on the counter beside the Nordic looks of my parents, Astrid and Tuck-
wicket, and they helped themselves, but, of er, who could have easily passed as twins.
course, that was forbidden, verboten, and Was I Greek? Syrian? Na ve American?
with puni ve consequences. Yes, my par-
ents had been trying desperately for the My parents lived in Hamilton for anoth-
past decade to conceive—they desperately er year un l their promo ons in the Com-
wanted a child. Their despair blinded them monwealth Bank came through; then they
morally. I am making excuses for them be- moved to Toronto for my father to assume
cause thy were my parents, albeit adop ve. a middle management execu ve posi on
Now a solu on was delivered straight to in small business and commercial loans.
them as they emerged from the train sta- My mother was promoted to work in the
accoun ng and audi ng department. The
on into the city for a brighter future. bank paid for both to take night courses in
economics, corporate finance, securi es,
They scooped me, picked me up in their and accoun ng in the business school at
arms, bundled me in my mother’s shawl, the downtown campus of the University of
and took me on the next passenger train to Toronto. So, I lived a very Toronto life. The
Hamilton from Union sta on. visible differences between myself and my
parents was explained away by the fact
Time passed slowly and painfully for that my mother assumed responsibility and
Amalia. Shortly a erwards, her sister Be- took care of me, her niece, a er my moth-
atriz died from an overdose of alcohol er died. My mother, Astrid said, was Italian,
and pills, barbiturates. When my mother’s and my biological father, her brother, was
mother was seriously ill, Amalia grudging- killed in the same fatal traffic accident, a
ly answered a summons to care for Maria head-on collision between a police cruiser
Jose and look a er her house and house- and a civilian motor vehicle, my parents’
hold. Buick Roadmaster Skylark, on Woodbine
Avenue. When I later conducted some
Flash forward decades, half a long life- genealogical and ancestral research, I dis-
me, when my mother Astrid was dying in covered the details of her brother’s death
a private Toronto nursing home on Bayview was par ally correct, but the ar cle made
Avenue. She finally confessed to me her no men on of a passenger, a girlfriend, or
and Tucker’s sin and my genesis and ori- wife, in his motor vehicle. Meanwhile, I was
gins. I had been essen ally taken, scooped, distracted and amazed by the number of
from a baby stroller, a wagon actually, on traffic accident fatali es, par cularly those
the busy boulevard in front of Union Sta- involving police officers, in the north end of
on on a bright sunny Saturday at noon in Woodbine Avenue in the Greater Toronto
the fi ies. I was shocked and appalled, but Area around that me. I do digress, but this
it made sense. My parents were very ra o- explana on proved plausible; in this con-
nal and driven by an economic mentality of text in the late fi ies and early six es no
the social scien fic construct of the ra onal ques ons were asked.
man. My adop ve parents were also very
white—I thought they were lily white and Many years later, my mothers’ true sto-
stereotypical WASPs. Meddlesome neigh- ries required deeper research; a ny ar cle
bours and nosey family friends described in the back pages of The Toronto Telegram,
my appearance as exo c, Middle Eastern,
Mediterranean, which did not jive with the

80

Revista Literária Adelaide

which I found scanning through pages of mi- if Morris was my father or not. S ll, I was
crofiche and spools of microfilm, indicated her biological niece. Meanwhile, my own
“an Indian woman” from an Ojibway reserve brother, my younger sibling, died in the
in Northwestern Ontario, was searching for back seat, possibly from heat and suffo-
her lost daughter, born in Sioux Lookout, ca on, possibly from Sudden Infant Death
a er the police abandoned their inves - Syndrome, while I bounced in the front
ga on for undisclosed reasons. This single seat, in the locked Ford Crestline, scribbling
but crucial key clue unraveled pieces of the and coloring in the pages of the storybook
puzzle a er long silent hours of archival re- with crayon, parked in the parking lot on
search in the Toronto Reference Library, a the alley that ran behind the Hudson’s Bay
few kilometres north on Yonge Street from Store and the Sioux Hotel on Front Street,
where I originally disappeared in front of streets and alleys I walked five decades
Union Sta on fi y years ago, several blocks later to get a sense of the town, my own
from the high school where I worked as an connec on to my birthplace, and my own
economics and history teacher. niche in the grand scheme of things. My
mother and her boyfriend, who may have
So, I took the passenger train to Sioux been my father, but who was the father of
Lookout. By this me, I had re red from my younger sibling, le us with a storybook
my career as a teacher. I recently re red in the locked car, in the parking lot of the
from my school teaching posi on at Jarvis Hudson’s Bay store, while they were drink-
Collegiate Ins tute. I was s ll afraid of fly- ing in the downstairs bar of the Sioux Hotel,
ing; consequently, I looked forward to my which then had separate entrances for men
epic journey on a train, with a suitcase full and women. So, my Aunt decided to take
of hardcover and paperback books, to the me on a journey to a new start in life in the
north in the summer. big city of Toronto, where, she hoped, life
would be be er and she would eventually
Then I learned my own aged mother stop drinking.
was gravely and chronically ill, shuffling
back and forth between the hospital and My mother and the man who may have
her senior’s apartment, the Patricia Pla- been my father did and said nothing; Morris
za in Sioux Lookout. Although Amalia was con nued to paint bright canvases, symbolic,
on oxygen and tube fed, she gradually and imagina ve, mys cal, but eventually he le
in incoherent bits and pieces told me the my mother and moved to Vancouver, living
truth: She took me from my own biologi- in the parks and on the streets, as he paint-
cal parents, including her sister, when she ed in his own indigenous style, the Wood-
believed Beatriz and her partner could no lands school, on sketch paper, cardboard,
longer care for me a er my brother died. and canvas. Morris sold his works and can-
Her boyfriend, who was a visual ar st, may vases on the street to whomever would buy,
have been my father and he may not have but he also made the rounds of shop keep-
been my father. Amalia didn’t think Morris ers and store owners, who, if they leapt at
was my father, and believed Beatriz’s boy- the opportunity, managed to purchase orig-
friend immediately preceding Morris may inal indigenous artwork at a bargain base-
have been my father, but she never had ment price. My possible or probable father
the courage to ask Beatriz again. Beatriz intrigued me, and I took a trip to Vancou-
told Amalia it was none of her business ver on the train during that first summer I

81

Adelaide Literary Magazine

spent in Sioux Lookout. I found samples of my bank, cashed in a guaranteed invest-
his artwork and his biography in a gallery on ment cer ficate, and paid for her funeral.
campus at the University of Bri sh Colum-
bia. In the a ernoon of sunny hot days, I sun Then I spent seven days in the library,
tanned in the nude at the nearby clothing going through back issues of community
op onal beach. If anybody in my past life as newspapers and local and regional govern-
a public high school teacher knew I was sun ment documents, searching for more evi-
tanning in the nude they would have been in dence of my family in the town. I enjoyed
a state of shocked disbelief. my library research. The librarians said
nothing when I brought in a takeout coffee
While I sun bathed and read, I made from the highway motel or a fine down-
long distance phone calls on a cellphone, town café. I found the ar cle I was search-
a handy inven on I finally embraced, call- ing for finally—a brief story, in an old yel-
ing over distance and me to whomever lowing clipping, about my brother’s death,
remembered and knew my true parents in the basement, the storeroom, of the mu-
in Sioux Lookout. Most people didn’t want nicipal library. When I proudly showed the
to talk about my biological mother. They librarian my discovery, she told me back
were disappointed Amalia never lived up to issues of the weekly community newspa-
what they considered her poten al. They per from that era had been scanned and
remembered how her own mother, my bi- digi zed, converted to portable document
ological grandmother, Maria Jose, worked format on library’s new photocopier. Orga-
hard as a cook at the Zone Hospital, which nized chronically, the library then posted
served the indigenous people from re- these digital files on their computer server
serves up north, and cul vated possibly and posted them online in the archive sec-
Sioux Lookout’s largest vegetable garden
in her backyard. She was also an excellent on of the library’s website. If I had simply
seamstress, par cularly for the nuns, who entered the correct terms in the search en-
depended on her fashion skills. gine the results would have popped up.

The confusion con nued. One woman So, I Googled my baby brother’s death
said my biological mother died from drink and the same ar cle from the communi-
and pills, overdosing on the same medica- ty newspaper popped up faster than the
twitching and blinking of my aging eyes as
on that killed Marilyn Monroe; another well as a Winnipeg Free press ar cle that
said that she was dead from a rare blood provided details about the parking lot, the
disorder or possibly leukemia. suffoca ng, s fling heat, the locked car,
the unanswered ques ons. Awestruck, I
While I was in Vancouver researching decided to blindly search online to try to
my possible or probable father’s life, my find where he might be buried. That online
other mother, my aunt, Amalia, a life long search proved fu le.
smoker and drinker, finally succumbed to
liver cirrhosis and lung cancer. I returned Then I inquired at the town hall, asking
to Sioux Lookout and a ended her funeral. the municipal clerk if there was any way
And I cried when I saw nobody a ended the possible to find my brother’s burial site.
funeral. The pallbearers were funeral home The municipal clerk, my age, with empa-
employees. A erwards, I met with the fu- thy but without an Ontario school teachers’
neral director, went to the local branch of pension, took me out from her busy day,

82

Revista Literária Adelaide

peering over counters and desktops at irate As we talked in the August sun, bil-
taxpayers with her stylish half-moon glass- lowed by the gus ng breeze, buffeted by
es. She drove me in a municipal service the greenery, the municipal clerk told me
vehicle to the northern cemetery, beside the residen al school near Sioux Lookout
the Catholic school, on the side of a gently was in desperate need of qualified school
sloping hill, with tall jack pines and black teachers. The residen al school paid their
spruce trees, interspersed with birch and teachers and teachers’ assistant well. When
aspen saplings, and sca ered tombstones I said I thought the government and na ve
and crosses, at the edge of a rock outcrop organiza ons had go en rid of residen al
and ride. She said guiding me was not in schools, the town clerk said Pelican Falls
her job descrip on, but she showed me school was run and managed by the indige-
where she believed my infant brother was nous organiza on. I later learned the start-
buried, alongside several other indigenous ing salary was iden cal to what I earned at
children and youth who died around the the public high school in downtown Toron-
same me. But there were no grave mark- to, during my last year of teaching before I
ers or tombstones. When I made that ob- re red.
serva on, she apologized. Waving her arms
about in resigna on, she said this was the I was hired without an interview, al-
best she could do. And what of my biologi- though I think administra on they did their
cal mother, Beatriz? due diligence. In a year the road to the
school, bumpy, with a washboard dirt sur-
“You’re confusing me,” she joked. face, winding through the Canadian Shield,
near scenic falls and rapids, ruined my car’s
But I could not see how this woman could suspension. I sold my house in East York,
be confused; having been born, raised, and and bought a larger house, with a yard
lived her en re life in Sioux Lookout, she more than double the size, at a frac on of
seemed to know everyone and everything the Toronto price, in Sioux Lookout. With
in the town. S ll, she apologized and said my teacher’s pension, and a second salary,
my Aunt Beatriz was buried in a grave in the money became the least of my concerns
cemetery in the Lac Seul reserva on. She and worries. I needed to escape the feel-
told me Morris’s ashes had been sca ered ing my life was winding down, meaningless.
alone the shoreline of Lac Seul where elders My existence may indeed have become
said he received divine inspira on to pursue without purpose or consequence, and this
his artwork. Then, without promp ng, she may have been truer par cularly in the
showed me the gravesite of my mother’s larger scheme of things, but I needed the
mother, Maria Jose, whom she remembered percep on or self-percep on, this belief
in her backyard, gardening. We stood beside was false. In moving and learning about my
my grandmother’s tombstone, in that sce- past and star ng my life afresh in the place
nic Northwestern Ontario cemetery was the where I originated nearly six decades ago, I
only tombstone inscribed in a La n language, was star ng afresh again.
which, I assumed, was Portuguese.

83

Adelaide Literary Magazine

About the Author

Born and raised in Sioux Lookout, Ontario, John Tavares is the son of Portuguese immigrants
from Sao Miguel, Azores. He graduated from the arts and science program at Humber College
and journalism at Centennial College, but, more recently, earned a Specialized Honors BA
in English from York University. His short fic on has been published in a wide variety of
print and online journals and magazines in the USA, Canada, and interna onally. His many
passions include journalism, literature, photography, wri ng, and coffee.

84

THE ANNIVERSARY

by Renato Barucco

He lies immobile under the sheets, arms at under his hoodie. That circus became un-
his sides and legs straight, like a corpse in a bearable months ago.
coffin but with eyes wide open, staring at
the ceiling. He woke up as if someone had The coffee burns his palate, bi er on
whispered his name, an eerie illusion, his his tongue, and he shakes his head ever
mind telling him he can’t sleep through the so slightly at the realiza on that even the
anniversary. He moves, at last, le ng his smallest of things have changed. He used
legs dangle over the edge of the bed, hold- to take his coffee light and sweet, had one
ing on to the ma ress, eyes like marbles in his hand a year ago.
about to pop out of their sockets, heavy
and glassy like that, fixed on the cream-car- He was in a funk the day of, pissed at the
peted floor of the bedroom as if it were a kid from the coffee shop who, too preoc-
precipice. His lips stretch in a lazy yawn. cupied with his newsfeeds, had given him
He grabs his jaw and jerks it side to side. a poppy seed bagel he hadn’t ordered, the
There was a me when irony did the magic, last drop in a cup of minor nuances of an
handling absurdi es in life one amusing re- easier life. He contemplated sucking it up
mark at a me. Pain killers take care of that and ea ng the damn thing, but at the me,
now, the bad kind. He drags himself to the addressing the disservice had seemed like
kitchen and swallows a pill, then another, a ma er of principle. So, he rewrapped the
be er safe than languishing. The experts bagel in the aluminum foil already wrinkled
asked him to watch all that—the drinking, and cracked, good for nothing. Poppy seeds
the pill-popping, the holing up in his glass fell onto his desk and keyboard, irrita ng
apartment. He listened and nodded. him even more. He marched down the cor-
ridor of the administra ve wing rehearsing
The phone rings, an unknown caller. He a pointed rant under his breath.
doesn’t pick up but listens to the message,
staring at the imperfect white of the Car- “I’ve been ordering a plain bagel with
rara countertop as the coffee brews. It’s non-fat cream cheese and a light and sweet
a reporter seeking a comment about the coffee every morning for three years, bud-
anniversary. All he can think of is how she dy,” he whispered, emphasis on all the b’s.
managed to find him despite his best at- “Is this the way you treat customers? The
tempts to vanish. As a response, he unplugs place isn’t even busy.”
the landline, turns off his cell phone, hide
He never made it to the cafeteria. The
noise stopped him in his tracks halfway

85

Adelaide Literary Magazine

down the corridor, steps from the main repercussions are common, something to
hallway. He’d never heard that dis nct do with his physical proximity to the mas-
sound before, but somehow, he recognized sacre and direct exposure to the tragedy.
it at once. Bullets, dozens of them, from an
assault rifle. Rat-a-tat-tat-tat. Enough. He takes a bo le of vodka from
the cabinet, orange juice from the refriger-
He squeezes his eyes and swallows a ator and fixes himself a s ff screwdriver. He
mouthful of scorching hot coffee, a punish- sips it by the window. The Verrazano Bridge
ment for le ng his mind trip like that. The looks sharp out in the bay. There’s no haze
experts told him this would happen, that above the water, no clouds in the sky, only
the anniversary would be tough, but prone a warm late summer sun and a saturated
to denial, he gave li le weight to their con- blue sky, one of those 9/11 days.
cerns. How vulnerable can a man be?
All things transformed, and the memory of
His finger ps draw circles around his how things used to be before that morning is
temples as he thinks about the first person opaque. The leave of absence from the hos-
who ran into the hallway that day, the elec- pital wasn’t enough. He had to quit the job
tric terror in her movements as she stomped altogether and work from home. He moved
furiously in his direc on, hair covering her to a different neighborhood in February, into
glasses and ankles shaking above her san- a new apartment in a high-rise, as far from
dals. She tried a door and another and an- the street as possible. The place has large
other un l she found one open. It shut be- windows shoo ng daylight on the white walls.
hind her, overlapping with a scream in the The brightness feels oppressive at mes. Oth-
distance, throaty, desperate, full of blood. er changes are subtle, hard to point out. Emo-
He stood there in a daze, round-eyed and in- ons, for instance. They overfly his percep-
credulous, the fucking poppy seed bagel s ll ons and get stuck somewhere within.
in his hand. One of the guys from the front
desk showed up, his badge bouncing up and He puts on a pair of gym shorts and a
down his chest like a jackhammer, and then t-shirt and takes the elevator to the roof. He
even more people, confused and terrified pushes the door to the outside with a cer-
like hunted lambs, all seeking refuge in the tain force. It slams behind him like his office
administra ve wing and disappearing be- door did a year ago, precisely a year ago, be-
hind unlocked doors. But he stood there, a fore he hid under the desk, eyes shut, face
mannequin unable to trust his own ins ncts. smashed against the computer cables. He
He didn’t know what to do because, like a remembers the brutal intervals of imperfect
normal person, he’d never paid a en on silence, interrupted periodically by noises of
to the por on of the annual safety training violence and fear, shots fired progressively
about an ac ve shooter situa on. It wasn’t closer, ringing into his ears to this day.
supposed to happen in the city. It wasn’t
supposed to happen in a hospital. It wasn’t He leans against the wall at the outer
supposed to happen to him. A er another edge of the roo op and looks down. On the
round of bullets, someone fell, cracking on sidewalk, people bounce around like tar-
the floor like a bag of ice. gets in a video game, innocuous, minuscule
things from afar. How many of them own
The experts warned him about this kind guns? And how many carry them tucked in
of invasive memories. They said long-term their waistbands or concealed in their Mi-
chael Kors bags?

86

Revista Literária Adelaide

His father and brothers were hunters. ficial statements of celebri es, the insults
They used to keep their rifles in the living of conspiracy Twi er trolls. But ul mately,
room, locked in a corner cabinet with three they all forgot about it, even family and
glass displays. The weapons were part of friends, who carefully avoid the subject on
the décor, heavy and severe and cold. He purpose because life has to go on. People
never liked them, never got used to them. have to move the fuck on.
Their presence alone changed the energy
in the space. He would take a glimpse at The experts were the last to go, some six
the displays, and dismal images would pop- months a er the carnage, and even if he
ulate his mind—a dead deer, a masked in- didn’t take part in most of their therapeu c
truder, his brothers shoo ng their dad right ini a ves, their absence registered. There
in the heart by mistake. weren’t counseling booths in the hallways
and mindfulness reunions in the confer-
He’s on the wall now and turns around ence rooms and greeters with service pups
on his bu , le ng his legs hang loosely in the morning. Some trauma guru told him
from the edge, the same posi on he as- about disaster-related suicidal thoughts,
sumed in bed earlier, except now there’s an which he never had, even if the possibility
actual void below. A shiver ngles his spine, doesn’t seem far-fetched now that his legs
waking up his senses, a relief for a man who dangle over the edge of the fi ieth floor of
no longer knows how to feel. a building. The suspension of all feelings
is within reach, a way out more defini ve
The poli cians were the first to leave, than drugs and booze and solitude.
a few days a er the shoo ng. They shook
his hand, held him by the elbow, stroked He bites down on his teeth and closes his
his shoulders. They offered thoughts and eyes. His eyelashes are wet. It took the anni-
prayers and promised to change things versary for him to realize he’s s ll hiding under
once and for all. The news crews followed, that desk, breathing in dust, holding onto his
a departure he welcomed. He was never a poppy seed bagel. Something crystallized in
model survivor, so to speak, with his short place then, sha ering a sense of safety. Thir-
answers and droopy eyes. The messages on teen people died, seven in the main hallway
social media, on the other hand, persisted and six in the administra ve wing. He sur-
for months, suppor ng and consuming— vived, but under the skin, the massacre s ll
the voices of concerned strangers, the of- haunts him, grief that follows its own rules.

About the Author

Renato (he/him/his) earned an MA from UCSC in Milan.
His work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Daily Beast,
Storyscape Literary Journal, Literally Stories, The Magazine
of History and Fic on, and The New York Times, among
others. He lives in Brooklyn. For more informa on visit
www.renatobarucco.com

87

A LIFE IN A DAY

by Brighid Moret

The screen door swung shut, slamming its breakfast. She let the last bits of hope for
frame as it did every day. Eventually they a good day slip out as she sighed under the
are going to sha er the glass, Margaret weight of stress and the kind of depression
thought as she assumed her daily posi on that festers in the minds of those who be-
at the door. Cold air seeped in at the seams lieve they are was ng their lives on things
and through the thin pane of glass tempo- less important than their own.
rarily in place to offer meager insula on
from winter’s chill. She picked up an oatmeal-coated spoon
that le a pasty residue on the table. Emp-
She shivered under the summer silk of tying the uneaten cereal down the drain,
the old kimono she wore - her feet much she realizing they were out again and she
warmer in the thick slippers. Margaret would have to buy more so that there
watched with an impassive face as the chil- would be an easy breakfast for tomorrow’s
dren piled into the carpool sta on wagon, mad dash out the door.
the characters on their backpacks the only
things watching her. “What a waste,” she said under her
breath as she ran the garbage disposal and
The wagon door closed. She unwrapped thought of the store. The kimono hung
her best have-a-good-day smile and raised open, the e having long since vanished,
one hand high in an enthusias c salute to lost to the gremlins that lived in closets and
a new day while she clutched the ta ered at dry cleaners. It was probably keeping
top of the kimono around her neck in an company with all the children’s odd socks
effort to fight off shivering. and the characters that peopled their foot-
wear world.
The sta on wagon, the same color as
the frosted winter sky, backed out of the Water splashed out of the full sink and
driveway and zipped down the street. The spla ered the front of her nightshirt. The
happiness sloughed from her face before
the vehicle was even out of sight, and she ps of the long wide silk sleeves dipped
closed the door on the children in prefer- into the water as she rinsed the morning’s
ence of comfort. mess away before loading the prewashed
dishes into the machine that was a failure
Margaret walked back to the kitchen in its job.
and the remnants of the kids’ has ly pre-
pared, barely eaten, and par ally spilled Creates twice as much work, Margaret
thought as she closed the washer door.

88

Revista Literária Adelaide

Prewash, load, hand wash any pieces with hanging in places from where the s tches
soap residue, dry, unload. I should just do had surrendered, and the fractured design
them by hand. Some modern convenience. on the back. She couldn’t see all of it in the
But despite the extra steps, she felt com- mirror, which suited her just fine. She knew
pelled to use it. that the embroidered dragon and bird, a
phoenix maybe, were unraveling like the
“Worthless,” she said out loud. dream they were pulled out of, now just a
mass of loose threads dangling haphazard-
All that extra me… ly from her back.

“What a waste.” The image might otherwise have been
ruined by the slippers.
She wiped the spots of milk off the
kitchen table with the once-yellow sponge She le the reflec on for the peace of
that had taken on a gray-brown hue and her shower; it could wash away anything,
smelled slightly of wet leaves. Turning on even denial. Hang the ta ered silk robe
the hot water, she squeezed it under the on the brass hooks on the bathroom door,
flow and watched ny yellow bits run down Margaret wondered if it counted if you re-
the drain a er the discarded breakfast, alized you were in denial.
then absently dropped the sponge into the
basin. She gingerly touched the border on the
sleeve and thought of what it had looked
Margaret le the kitchen and headed like when it was new. Crisp ivory silk that
upstairs to the shower. Nothing could wake had a sheen in any light, brilliant colors that
popped out of the designs that wrapped
her up like coffee, and nothing could from sleeve to sleeve and told a story across
relax her like showering. The water was her body. The bird had seemed to be tak-
cleansing, it carried away a poor night’s ing flight as she walked. Jack, her husband,
sleep, stress of upcoming parent-teacher had said that the dragon looked like he was
conferences, and somehow made all the in a Chinese New Year parade the way it
housework look distant, and from that dis- jumped when she moved. His statement
tance it didn’t seem so overwhelming. made sense at the me, they did buy it at
the China Pavilion at Epcot. Was that trip to
She took each stair in stride. The first Disney World, so many years ago, the last
trip up of the day, with many more to follow trip together without the kids? They had
- nothing spectacular and nothing remark- been barely more than kids.
able. Stopping at the top step, she gazed
at herself in the full-length mirror, which The water would help.
reflected both her and the deep stairwell
from which she had just risen. The knob was turned and the water re-
leased. Margaret let it run, me to warm,
Margaret took her hand off the banister. the pipes were cold. She took her me get-
She used to see Venus staring back at her in
this mirror, now…. She drew herself up and ng undressed, wai ng for the steam to rise.
held the kimono closed with a hand strik- Standing under the warm droplets, she felt
ingly posed on her hip then did a slow turn the morning chill fade and her mind start to
in place. Her eyes instantly picked out the loosen, then expand. Margaret moved past
flaws: the li le stains and discolora ons on the memory and into the present.
the silk from years of wear, the bo om hem

89

Adelaide Literary Magazine

Time to plan the day. She shampooed really worth this trial of endurance. By the
and scheduled, condi oned and coordinat- me she had convinced herself the conse-
ed: groceries first, cereal in par cular, laun-
dry second, carpool, then homework, dinner, quences would be worse otherwise, she was
indoor soccer prac ce for one, piano lessons inside the door, reaching for the plas c push
for the other, baths and bed for the kids, din- handle of a metal cart; all had the mandatory
ner dishes, then maybe a minute to read. wobbly wheel that made steering a challenge.

I need a chauffeur, she thought, and a You ought to be licensed to drive one of
maid. But she had heard that people spent these things she thought, sidestepping a
more me cleaning for the maid to come carton of broken eggs and dodging a young
clean then they would have normally. Mar- mother who cut across the aisle to pick up
garet chuckled to herself as she pulled back a forgo en item while her toddler put back
the shower curtain, just like the dishwasher. the things he didn’t think they would need.

She pulled one of the many faded pairs Margaret passed the meat case as she
of jeans out of her dresser and found a made her way to the cereal aisle. Rows of
black turtleneck to go with it. On her way beau ful fish and meat. Deep red, nicely
back downstairs she stopped in front of the marbled tenderloins that she imagined dis-
mirror again. She didn’t know if black real- solving on her tongue and bright pink salm-
ly made you look slimmer, she couldn’t tell. on that she imagined flaky under her fork
Then again, maybe it was the jeans - they tempted her from under their plas c wrap.
were blue. She needed narrower shoes too. She stopped and picked up a salmon filet,
The elusive “they” of magazines and tele- then thought be er of it and put it back. If
vision fashion shows were saying pointy it wasn’t breaded and in s ck form the kids
toes make your feet look longer, and her would never eat it.
normal foot ware, tennis shoes, made her
feet look stubby. Not that Margaret would When was the last me she had a steak?
ever have the me, or money, to spend on Most of her meals have been one-pot won-
herself. Both were precious commodi es ders and casseroles whose recipes were
in a house where every penny that wasn’t probably devised in the 1950’s and origi-
budgeted for necessi es was invested. nally baked in lime green cookware. She
stared at the prime rib and filet mignon.
She backed the minivan out of the Again, something wasted on the tastes of
driveway and headed for the perpetually children. Margaret briefly considered a ro-
crowded grocery store. A er circling the lot man c dinner for two, but the thought had
several mes she opted for the me sav- barely entered her mind before it was ban-
ing tac c of parking at the back of the lot ished as some fanciful dream. Jack never
and walking. The alarm beep-set, and the got home before ten, and if they were go-
doors clicked as the electronic locks ac vat- ing to have a roman c dinner it would have
ed, then she started the hike across the ice to be shoehorned into his schedule. Even
patched asphalt using SUVs and minivans then, he would suggest the last restaurant
as urban windbreaks. he had taken business associates. It was
not really what she had in mind.
Her eyes watered as the cold wind stung
them. Margaret asked herself if oatmeal was She had plenty of meat in the freezer at
home, but she had forgo en to take any

90

Revista Literária Adelaide

out to thaw. Ground beef it was. Hamburg- was searching for the perfect indulgence
ers and fish s cks, what a selec on. This and wanted the fruit to be as ripe and juicy
can’t be good for me, she thought eyeing as she imagined it to be. The skin felt slight-
the salmon once more before moving to ly waxy under her finger ps, and the points
the next aisle. of the star was star ng to become brown
lines that outlined the shape. There was
Loca ng the cereal, Margaret picked up a lingering sweetness when handling the
two boxes of assorted flavor oatmeal and fruit, and it brought to mind sunny days
two boxes of the latest kid favorite, sugar- and warm breezes.
coated, a en on-deficit forming cereal on
the shelf. Realizing they would probably Zipped through the self-scan line, she
need milk soon, she doubled back to the smiled to herself, glad she wasn’t as terri-
dairy aisle and picked up two gallons. The fied of technology as the old biddies who
one healthy habit the children had formed would spend the next half hour or so lean-
was a love for milk. They went through a ing on their carts, wai ng for a cashier to
gallon a day. This would save a trip later. process their items for them. Margaret
placed the star fruit in its own bag so it
Her last stop before the self-scan check wouldn’t be bruised.
out was the produce sec on where a large
bunch of grapes, a cluster of bananas, and a The cart was le behind at the door, and
dozen red delicious apples made their way Margaret made her way across the parking
into the cart. She didn’t look at the vegeta- lot with the thin plas c bag handles, pulled
bles; the children didn’t eat anything that taught from the weight of their contents,
hadn’t come from a box or a can. Except for bi ng painfully into her hands. She was re-
fruit, she added to herself, thank God for lieved when she was able to load the bags
natural sugars. into the back of her minivan. In the driver’s
seat, she rubbed her hands together gen-
Margaret looked at her cart, did a quick tly. They were sore from the bags and stung
calcula on of cost, then decided she could from the raw cold that had gnawed at her
afford a splurge today. Something for her- fingers the en re way across the parking
self. She picked up one of the yellow star lot. By the me she got home, the heat
fruit si ng in a small basket with the other vents were star ng to put out tepid air.
tropical treats. At almost two dollars apiece,
she felt rather decadent ea ng one, and Margaret was inside unpacking the gro-
ea ng one for breakfast while s ll wearing ceries before the car heater could have
the silk kimono made her feel exo c. She made a difference to her comfort.
hadn’t a clue where star fruit came from,
but she didn’t care, it transported her to The cereal went in the pantry. A er she
dreams of luxury and simplicity - somehow solved the puzzle of kitchen condiments to
the two went together rather nicely in her make space, the fruit went into the fridge
mind. None of the hec c running around with the milk. The apples went into the
she did now, just me to enjoy the good crisper, the grapes and the star fruit went
things in life. on a shelf together, both having delicate
skins.
Margaret weighed the fruit in her hand,
replaced it and reached for another. She Margaret closed the refrigerator, then
looked out the window over the sink at the

91

Adelaide Literary Magazine

seamless gray-white ceiling of the frozen For lunch, Margaret fixed herself a pea-
sky. The cold seemed to wrap around her in nut bu er and jelly sandwich - the same
the warmth of the kitchen, causing her to school lunch she had packed in brown pa-
remain fixed at the window for an indeter- per bags the night before - and sat down
minate amount of me. at the table wondering if the children had
traded por ons of their meal for more ex-
Suddenly, a crack in the clouds brought ci ng foods or treats. Soup might be a nice
a momentary ray of sunlight, interrup ng accompaniment on such a bi er day, but
the lost wonderings of Margaret’s mind. the only thing in the pantry was chicken
and stars when she was craving a nice min-
Laundry. estrone. The coffee le in the pot was cold
and overly bi er. She poured herself a glass
She made her second trip up the stairs of milk to wash down the dry sandwich,
and started the dance, the choreography grateful she wasn’t drinking hers out of a
she knew so well. Waltz into the room of cardboard container.
child one, pick up laundry basket, piroue e
around the nightstand while picking up the The washer buzzed its comple on, and
dirty socks that hung from the lampshade she set about switching loads from wash-
and the bedpost. Repeat in room of child er to dryer and star ng the cycle all over
number two. again. An hour later she would be folding
mini-tee-shirts and balling ny socks, then
Once all the clothes were collected, she se ng up the ironing board to make sure
began the task of sor ng. A child’s task. all the angles were perfectly pressed on her
husband’s shirts so that he had something
This had been one of the ways she had appropriate to wear in the morning when
taught them their colors, now she was do- he le her.
ing the work of toddlers. Light, dark, light,
white, white, dark. Her deadline came sooner than Marga-
ret thought it should have, and she found
The piles grew un l there was a ham- herself driving to the school on autopilot,
per’s worth of each grouping. Margaret her mind chasing a er dreams of warmer,
loaded shirts, pants, underwear, and socks sunnier days, and tropical beaches where
into the wicker baskets and took the first she didn’t have to be responsible for any-
load down two flights of stairs to the base- one else. Hadn’t Jack promised a trip to Ha-
ment. She liked having the laundry room waii last year? She blinked back to herself
out of sight, but she didn’t like the stairs. At when the bell announcing the end of the
least I don’t have to invest in a Stairmaster, school day leaked from the building out to
she thought as she let the lid to the washer the parking lot where she and a horde of
shut and cranked the knob to start the cycle. other mothers waited impa ently for the
oncoming swarm of personified excitement
Back upstairs she looked at the clock and in uniforms.
realized that her day was already half gone.
She didn’t get the full nine-to-five workday A second bell sounded. It would only
to complete her menial tasks like the rest be a ma er of minutes before she was ex-
of the world did. Her day was amputated pected to step out of the less-than-warm
at two o’clock when she had to leave the mini-van and wave her hand high as a land-
house to pick up the neighborhood kids
from school.

92

Revista Literária Adelaide

mark for her charges. Margaret stared at “There’s fruit in the fridge,” Margaret
the impassive building, then saw the doors said, moving the shoes out of the walkway,
cast open. The children at the head of the
line ran past the teachers into the rela ve “I’m going to lie down for a while. I have
freedom the parking lot offered. She took a headache.”
a deep breath to for fy herself. Stretching
the skin of her face ght into a smile very Margaret le the children with the tele-
similar to the one she had modeled that vision for company, confident that they
morning, Margaret started to raise her would get their homework done before
hand, but found no need as the first of half dinner, just in me for her to cart them
a dozen children ran up to her. around town some more.

“Hi Miss Margaret,” he said with the es She stopped and peered at the reflec-
to his stocking cap hanging loosely and on at the top of the stairs. Were those
swinging as he ran. “It’s really cold, can I get dark circles there this morning? Margaret
inside, please?” It was then that she realized leaned closer to examine her face. She
she hadn’t unlocked or opened the doors hadn’t realized she was so red, so worn
like normal. Margaret clicked the bu on on out. Pushing herself to her room, she col-
her key chain and pulled the door open. By lapsed upon her bed, then shut her eyes
that me, three more were turning the last and let the darkness fill her mind.
corner in the minivan labyrinth, and they ea-
gerly piled into the vehicle cha ering about The noise of a plate breaking was
the day and what Miss Science Teacher had enough to make her open her eyes again.
said about frogs. One of the girls squealed. She supposed she should see what had bro-
Margaret could feel the pulsing dull pain ken, make sure everything was all right. She
forming behind her eyes that would be stared at the ceiling. She just didn’t have
blinding by the me she had completed her the energy. The arguing downstairs made
route. her move. They should know be er, she
couldn’t rest with them figh ng like that.
Child a er child, the noise in the back
of the vehicle lessened, un l it was just her “What’s all the fuss about?” Margaret
two bickering with each other. She did her asked as she rounded the corner into the
best to ignore them. The doors were being kitchen catching the last bits of pushing
opened before she had even go en the and slapping before the kids froze. Her eyes
van into park, and the children were in the found the broken plate. Next to it, on the
house before she pulled her door handle floor, lay the half-eaten star fruit, her exo c
for escape. Margaret shoved the front door escape, covered in broken glass.
open, effec vely dislodging the backpacks
that had been dropped just inside, but she “Take your backpacks, and go to your
tripped over a pair of shoes shed in the rooms, both of you.”
hallway.
“But, I didn’t…” protested the daughter.
“I’m hungry,” said the son as he stared
into the cupboard, mouth hanging open “Now.” She turned her back on the sulk-
like a black hole ready to swallow anything ing children and set to work cleaning up the
that got too close. mess they had made.

A er the floor was clean, she clicked on
the TV and set herself in front of the images

93

Adelaide Literary Magazine

of lab created gems that were being offered “Forget the buns again?”
on a home shopping channel. Margaret let
the images flash on the screen, while oth- They saw right through her. Dinner was
ers danced through her head. She imagined a failure.
herself wearing a sparkling necklace and
matching earrings to one of Jack’s business “Why do we have to have the same thing
func ons, being introduced as a trophy wife all the me?” the son asked, examining
- something to be proud of. A er awhile she a soggy French fry that flopped over be-
grew red of trying to fool herself that any- tween his fingers.
thing grand could ever happen to her, and
blinking back from her fantasy, she scru - “Just eat your dinner, then go back to your
nized the piece being shown. Fake. rooms.”

Dinner was calling, and she had to cook. “But ma!” said the daughter, “what about
Margaret opened the refrigerator and found piano?”
herself staring inside much the same way
the son had. The new pack of ground beef “And prac ce? I’m supposed to be goalie
sat on the shelf ready to be cooked in its own tonight.”
grease, which would sizzle and spit malig-
nantly the en re me. The door shut behind “Just forget it,” Margaret said, trying to
her, and she peeled the clingy plas c off the savor an undercooked French fry.
meat, then set to work making pa es.
“I don’t see why….”
The molded meat was dropped into
a fry pan. The hot metal hissed. Marga- “I said no.”
ret donned her husband’s “Kiss the Cook”
apron as if it would protect her from the The meal did not so much finish, as
scorching spray leaping from the stove top, trudge on wordlessly un l both children
but her hand and face were s ll singed and decided they could swallow no more and
her hair slick with grease. it was safe to leave the table. Their plates
were le barely touched. At least the gar-
A bag of heat and serve French fries bage disposal does its job right, thought
was offered as the only side dish. Li ing Margaret washing away the last bits of evi-
the breadbox door, she realized she had dence of a meal gone awry.
forgo en hamburger buns. They could al-
ways use regular bread, but she knew the Leaving the dishes in the sink, she res-
kids would turn their nose up at the idea. cued a small cardboard container from the
Margaret slapped the slightly burnt meat back of the freezer. Margaret sank a spoon
rounds on plates heaped with French fries, into the ice cream as she sank into the sofa.
then sounded the dinner call up the stairs. Vanilla, not quite an exo c escape, more
The son thundered down the stairs. like the freezing days there.

“What’s for dinner?” She should do the dishes, or finish the
ironing; there had to be something on the
“Salisbury steak,” Margaret answered television. But Margaret just sat there hold-
suavely. He looked at the casual meal on ing the ice cream.
the table just as his sister entered the room.
She stared at the ceiling in the darkened
room.

Her hand went numb from the frost on
the li le container.

94

Revista Literária Adelaide

Finally she li ed the spoon, full of va- said, placing the suit jacket on a hanger and
nilla flavored liquid. Maybe she had fallen loosening his e. He turned and looked at
asleep and not realized it. Margaret pushed her si ng propped against the headboard,
herself from the couch, and dropping the then cocked his head with a look of confu-
melted ice cream in the trash, headed for sion.
the stairs.
“I don’t understand why you are s ll
There was a flurry of movement from wearing that ra y old robe.” He sat down
the bathroom; water running, toilet flush- on the edge of his bed to pull off his shoes.
ing, doors closing, and opening, and closing.
The kids were ge ng ready for bed, 9:30 “I like it.”
already! Where did the evening go? She
made it half way up the stairs before she “We can get you a new one. That one’s
was greeted by the boy. falling apart. I was no cing Sunday morn-
ing how the dragon looks like he has holes
“Just coming to say goodnight.” in his armor and the phoenix is losing her
feathers.”
“Homework done?”
“I know, but we bought this one on our
“Yeah.” There was an uneasy pause, “Mom? honeymoon.” Margaret found herself trac-
Are you okay?” ing the hem with her hand, no ng another
loose thread. “We’ve replaced everything
“I just have a headache,” she convinced else, this is all I have le to remember.”
herself. “I’m going to bed too.”
“You can keep that one then, but let’s
“But dad’s s ll not home.” buy you a new one to wear.” Margaret felt
defeated. She couldn’t see any logical point
“No. He’s not.” to argue, and he wouldn’t understand her
need to go on wearing the old. She nodded
Margaret finished her ascent and stopped s ffly.
before the mirror. The hallway was too dark
to see anything more than a shadow. “There now, it’s all se led.” Jack climbed
into bed. “Why don’t we take a trip, maybe
She changed into her nightshirt, and
wrapped herself in the silk sheath of the Japan? Buy you an authen c one? That
kimono. Climbing into bed, she li ed her would be an adventure. Tomorrow I’ll check
book off the nightstand - Margaret would my schedule, I think I have a conference in
escape into someone else’s problems for Kyoto coming up, you can fly over with me
a while and forget her own. The bedroom and go shopping during the day while I’m in
door opened as she turned the page. mee ngs. I’ll be out of your hair during the
day, and we can join the others for dinner
“Hey Maggie, how was your day, sweet- at night.”
ie?” Jack asked, coming over to kiss her on
the forehead. Margaret’s lips pressed into a thin smile,
figh ng back the tears coming to her eyes.
“Same old, same old,” she said, marking Japan, exo c, miles away from ordinary, but
her spot and closing the book. “The kids s ll the same old loneliness. She walked to
broke a plate.” the closet and placed the ta ered silk on a
hook on the back of the door, then spread
“Well, if that was the worst thing that
happen, it had to have been a good day,” he

95

Adelaide Literary Magazine

the back so she could see the brilliant col- in a day, or would it take longer before she
ors of the unraveling design. Jack was right, faded? Margaret wasn’t sure.
it did look like the phoenix had lost her
feathers. What if the phoenix didn’t rise Another day gone by, another por on of
from its ashes this me? What if she was her life gone with nothing to show for it ex-
too red of the rou ne? Did she live a life cept unraveling threads and a broken piece
of paradise.

About the Author

Brighid Moret has a M.A. in Wri ng from Johns Hopkins University. Her short story “Monsoon
Season” appears in the fic on anthology Defying Gravity, published by Paycock Press. She
writes children’s book reviews for Communi es Digital News, and her non-fic on has
appeared in na onal and interna onal print publica ons such as SageWoman, Renaissance
Magazine, The Interna onal Examiner, and The Interna onal Indian among others.

96

A MILLION MARIAS

by Gene Goldfarb

Jack lived on a busy tongue of land that In every person, there was a special
pointed out on the Atlan c Ocean east to a tune to their soul, a song that played in-
European con nent. His home turf was filled side them throughout their lives. At least
with people and en es hungry for money Jack believed it. Actually, it was more than
and for power. And they enjoyed pouncing a song, it was a purpose, a truth to which
on the unwary in an endless gotcha game. they were inexorably headed. It did not
O en these predators were local poli cians, have to make any sense, it just was there.
unionized cops and teachers, water district For him, it was a Neopolitan tune, known
administrators, school district administra- as Maria, Mari!
tors, boards of educa on, zoning boards,
and real estate developers and agents. Any- When he arrived in Denver, he drove
one who was organized or connected. You down to a B&B in Colorado Springs to first
needed a tree permit just to plant one lone spend a few days there. He stayed with mis-
small tree on your mowing strip. sionaries who seemed very curious about
his religious background. Prosely zing was
And this was called Long Island. a way of life for them. They had come to
Colorado Springs to do good, and had, in
If you made enough money, you could stay fact, done very well. This couple had a
or build yourself a MacMansion. If not, you house that could easily have made it into
could move out or east to a parcel that con- Architectural Digest, but it was more like a
tained li le more than a modest bungalow. museum than a home. Though Jack would
admit it felt warm and lived in.
Jack was a traveler who hadn’t gone on
a trip for several years. Now he was eye- On his first day there, he toured Gar-
ing a brief vaca on in the Rockies, where den of the Gods, a strange rocky preserve
there were rapids on the Arkansas River. He where huge granite stones poked upward
thought he needed such a trip, even though out of the red clay, looking like prehistor-
his wife was oblivious to that need, or at ic flying saucers that had crashed perpen-
least shared no such desire. He loved white- dicular into the earth. On his second day
water ra ing, although he had only done there he le the B&B and toured Manitou
it a few mes before. He learned he could Springs, skipping the li le railroad that
go to CañonCity and Buena Vista and catch took you up Pike’s Peak, a pricey short ride.
some white water with the local ou i ers. Besides, there was an announcement that
And so he booked his trip to Colorado.

97

Adelaide Literary Magazine

due to some condi on the train was only A few of the rapids were really scary.
going half way up. Of all places in Manitou Jack was in the front le of their inflatable
Springs, on the main street there was an ice boat with a crew of six plus the guide, a
cream parlor combined with a Middle East- hardened young westerner who had done
ern restaurant. Suffice it to say, Jack had his this for at least several seasons. She would
first and best shawarma there. forecast each rapid to come and advise you
what to expect from the bad ones. When
In CañonCity, he found a burger joint that you got to a bad one the rush of the water
looked out of the ’50s where the accommo- would become thunderous and the water
da ons seemed plas cky and the food was on the way down would fulminate and toss
fried to the gills. S ll, food’s food, and when you a bit to the right or le . It was like a
you’re hungry there’s nothing be er. There stairway going down with steps missing
was an old-fashioned wide main street, a here and there. As you encountered rocks
single old movie house, and the Territorial and turbulence, she’d yell out, “high side
Prison on the west end, actually the state right” or “high side le ,” telling you which
prison. You could buy an inmate’s uniform way to lean.
cheap, but you would have to find one that
fit you and wasn’t itchy. So no suit. Each me they got past a bad rapid Jack
could feel the knot in his stomach ease and
Outside Cañon City there was Golden hear the retrea ng roar. He had been having
Gorge, a truly dangerous sec on of white- trouble reaching the water with his paddle
water at one point on the Arkansas that rat- on these rapids if his side of the boat was
ed a 5 on a difficulty scale when the water
was high. Jack had spent the night before lted to the other side up over the water,
in town at a B&B where the bed was short- so the turbulent surface was almost three
er than him. He had recovered well on a feet below the outside of the gunnels. As
sumptuous breakfast his host had favored long as the rapid in ques on went straight
him with. You might say he came out even down or straight into a swirling white caul-
on that one. dron, it looked and sounded threa ng. But
the real problem was the zigzags for which
He checked in at the Golden Gorge out- Jack was never fully ready.
fi ers around noon. There were three in-
flatable boats. All the ra ers, including Jack, Before he knew it they were past all the
changed into black rubber wet suits and major rapids, and traveling subsided into a
wet shoes. They really needed them. The semi-float-semi-glide. Several vans await-
suits had a faint s nk to them that washing ed them beyond the bank where they had
didn’t get out. pulled their inflatables ashore. In about
twenty minutes all the ra ers were back at
Going down Golden Gorge was slow at the star ng point. Ge ng out of the wet
the beginning, but picked up several miles suits and wet shoes was almost as hard as
downriver. This was late May and the water ge ng into them.
had risen each day with snowmelt, which
made the river faster and colder than the He then drove to Buena Vista, a town
day before. Also, the higher water hid the with a backdrop of mountains named a er
rocks, which made the ride more dicey, Ivy League colleges. They were all snow-
bumpy and fast. capped even though this was late May. He
couldn’t understand why Coloradans would

98