Adelaide Literary Magazine No.13, May 2018

INDEPENDENT REVISTA
MONTHLY LITERÁRIA
LITERARY INDEPENDENTE
MAGAZINE
MENSAL

ADELAIDE FOUNDERS / FUNDADORES
Stevan V. Nikolic & Adelaide Franco Nikolic
Independent Monthly Literary Magazine
Revista Literária Independente Mensal EDITOR IN CHIEF / EDITOR-CHEFE
Year III, Number 13, May 2018 Stevan V. Nikolic
Ano III, Número 13, maio de 2018 [email protected]

ISBN-13: 978-1-949180-03-9 ASSOCIATE EDITOR
ISBN-10: 1-949180-03-4 Raymond Fenech

Adelaide Literary Magazine is an independent inter- MANAGING DIRECTOR / DIRECTORA EXECUTIVA
naƟonal monthly publicaƟon, based in New York and Adelaide Franco Nikolic
Lisbon. Founded by Stevan V. Nikolic and Adelaide
Franco Nikolic in 2015, the magazine’s aim is to GRAPHIC & WEB DESIGN
publish quality poetry, ficƟon, nonficƟon, artwork, Adelaide Books DBA, New York
and photography, as well as interviews, arƟcles, and
book reviews, wriƩen in English and Portuguese. We CONTRIBUTING AUTHORS IN THIS ISSUE
seek to publish outstanding literary ficƟon, nonfic-
Ɵon, and poetry, and to promote the writers we Dimitra Tsourou, Jesse Kemmerer,
publish, helping both new, emerging, and
established authors reach a wider literary audience. Malika McCoy, Tom Lakin,

A Revista Literária Adelaide é uma publicação Deanna M. Lehman, Raymond TaƩen,
mensal internacional e independente, localizada em BeƩy J. Sayles, David Massey,
Nova Iorque e Lisboa. Fundada por Stevan V. Nikolic Vanya Suchan, Amada Matei,
e Adelaide Franco Nikolic em 2015, o objecƟvo da Cassie Follman, Barbara BoƩner,
revista é publicar poesia, ficção, não-ficção, arte e Allen Long, Ewa Hanna Mazierska,
fotografia de qualidade assim como entrevistas, Kevin Gillam, Hina Ahmed,
arƟgos e críƟcas literárias, escritas em inglês e por- James K. Zimmerman,
tuguês. Pretendemos publicar ficção, não-ficção e
poesia excepcionais assim como promover os Ross Jackson, Zia Marshall,
escritores que publicamos, ajudando os autores
novos e emergentes a aƟngir uma audiência literária Talon Florig, Annina Lavee,
mais vasta.
Patrick Erickson, Sharon Frame Gay
(hƩp://adelaidemagazine.org)
Daniel Ruefman, Jose Manuel Sánchez,
Published by: Adelaide Books, New York Danielle Hanson, Cassidy Manley,
244 FiŌh Avenue, Suite D27 John Sweet, Edward Lee,
New York NY, 10001 Souzi Gharib, Roger Singer,
e-mail: [email protected] Olga Kawecka,
phone: (917) 727 8907
hƩp://adelaidebooks.org William PruiƩ,

Copyright © 2018 by Adelaide Literary Magazine Stephanie Daich,

All rights reserved. No part of this publicaƟon may Rikki Santer,
be reproduced in any manner whatsoever without
wriƩen permission from the Adelaide Literary Maga- Melanie Ann,
zine Editor-in-chief, except in the case of brief quo-
taƟons embodied in criƟcal arƟcles and reviews. John Richmond,

Michele Sprague Sulkowski,

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Revista Literária Adelaide

CONTENTS / CONTEÚDOS

EDITOR'S NOTES / NOTAS DO EDITOR FAKE PEOPLE ARE THE BEST ONES 93
THOUGHTS & QUOTES by Stevan V. Nikolic 5 by Cassie Follman
DERELICT by Allen Long 95
FICTION / FICÇÃO
THE TROUBLE WITH BOREDOM 7 POETRY / POESIA
by Melanie A. Doan
THAT SWEET YOUNG “THANG” 12 AND THE WIND by Kevin Gillam 100
by John Richmond STRANGERS ON A TRAIN 102
A GIANT by William PruiƩ 16 by James K. Zimmerman
WHITE FLAG by Jesse Kemmerer 21 SUNRISE KID by Ross Jackson 105
OUR BILLY by Tom Lakin 29 AS MEN by Talon Florig 107
DROP OUT by Raymond TaƩen 37 A DUAL PERSPECTIVE by Patrick Erickson 111
THE VISITS by David Massey 38 ANOTHER HOME POEM 115
RESTART by Amada Matei 41 by Daniel Ruefman
THE KIND SOUL HE IS by Barbara BoƩner 44 DEAR HERON by Danielle Hanson 120
THE DAY THE RICHEST POLE DIED 50 SUNWASHED AND WASTED 122
by Ewa Mazierska by John Sweet
FLICKERS OF LIGHT by Hina Ahmed 55 AT HALF-PAST TEN by Souzi Gharib 126
THE CHOICE by Zia Marshall 62 THE INCESSANT PRAYER 130
OUT OF TUNE by Annina Lavee 70 by Olga Kawecka
ABBY’S GOODBYE by Sharon Frame Gay 74 L’ARUME DA LLISBOA 132
por Jose Manuel SÁNCHEZ
NONFICTION / NÃO-FICÇÃO A SONNET TO MY HUSBAND 136
by Cassidy Manley
THE PHILOSOPHY OF IRONY IN NAVEL by Edward Lee 139
GREEK CULTURE by Dimitra Tsourou 78 OPEN UP by Roger Singer 142
HE LOVES ME, HE LOVES ME NOT 80 LUST by Stephanie Daich 145
by Michele Sprague MY PANTRY by Rikki Santer 148
KINDER-WHORE by Deanna M. Lehman 82
THE EIGHTIES by BeƩy J. Sayles 88
THE HOWL OF AN AMERICAN PSYCHO 93
by Vanya Suchan

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Revista Literária Adelaide

Stevan V. Nikolic

THOUGHTS & QUOTES

“Strangely enough, he didn’t feel any guilt for words to come out. Words are important.
separaƟng himself from his past. Five years Words about love. About life.” ― Stevan V.
ago, he clearly heard in his dream a message Nikolic, Truth According to Michael
brought to him by Archangel Michael from the
God Almighty, telling him he should get up and “I don’t know why I am doing this. Everybody is
leave everything behind; that his place was not saying bad things about you. Wherever you go,
there; that it was Ɵme to go in search for his whatever you do, there is a noise aŌer you… In
true self and for his true desƟny. Now, five spite of everything, I respect your courage to
years aŌer, he was siƫng in the Bowery chap- go aŌer your ideals, no maƩer what. Men like
el, a broken and homeless man, sƟll trying to you make this world move. I know that the
find that which he was looking for. But he did- road you go is covered with thorns. But I also
n’t regret anything he had done in those five know that it must be a road to the stars.”
years. In his mind, it wasn’t his doing. He sin- ― Stevan V. Nikolic, Truth According to Mi-
cerely believed that he surrendered his own chael
will to the will of God and that everything that
happened to him, good or bad, had to happen “The truth of the maƩer was that Michael was
for some reason. It was God’s doing. It was his arrogant and selfish. He never had a respect for
desƟny. He just had to figure out why.” anything or anybody. Whatever he was doing
― Stevan V. Nikolic, Truth According to Mi- in his life, he was never happy. There was al-
chael ways something that he missed, that would
make him leave everything and disappear and
“How far we can go with our liberty of con- he didn’t know why.” ― Stevan V. Ni-
science, without offending God, and disturbing kolic, Truth According to Michael
the natural order of things…” ― Stevan V. Ni-
kolic, Truth According to Michael “You know, Michael,” Pastor Charles would
oŌen tell him, “some men get high on drugs
“SomeƟmes, he thought of himself as an ele- and make a mess while they are high; others
phant walking through the china store, break- get drunk and behave like animals while under
ing everything in his path and sƟll expecƟng the influence of alcohol; and you Michael, you
people not to be angry with the damage he fall in love and lose any sense of reality. It is
made, but rather to admire his strength and his the same like geƫng high. You are an addict
endurance.” too. You are addicted to women. But not in the
― Stevan V. Nikolic, Truth According to Mi- perverted pornographic or sexual way. Sex is
chael just a part of it. Your addicƟon is more about
love. You are addicted to falling in love. And
“I was going aŌer a woman believing that the the only remedy for your addicƟon is the ulƟ-
key is in being with her. But the key is in wriƟng mate love; love of God and love for God. Turn
about her. The key is in words and words are in to God Michael. He loves you. Show your love
me. Longing for her is just an impulse for words for him and you will be healed.” ― Stevan V.
to come out. And the whole purpose is for Nikolic, Truth According to Michael

5



THE TROUBLE WITH

BOREDOM

by Melanie A. Doan

Marty looks at me over the rims of his aviators, preƫer, and everyone knew it - so she poi-
which are held together by a piece of Scotch soned her husband with arsenic in his daily
tape in the middle. “So, how exactly do you coffee. The poor ol’ bastard never saw his
expect us to pull this liƩle stunt off, Joe?” he death comin’. Since this was the first Ɵme any-
asks. one had commiƩed murder in our town, Jane
got eight days in lock-up then moved up north
I look at my twin with a smirk on my lips, and I to live with her daughter in Boston.
know he sees the twinkle in my eye. I can feel
it. Just like I always do when I come up with a I don’t know why Marty is so worried about
great plan. “Exactly as we’d planned, bro. Clean what we’re going to do. I mean, it was his car
sweep.” that was stolen, and it’s his car that we’re
stealing back. The law will be on our side.
Marty sighs. “We’re talking about grand theŌ
auto here, not Good Housekeeping.” “Why can’t we just go and ask Tommy for the
car back? It’d make things so much easier. It’s
“Do you want to get your car back or not?” I too darn hot to go runnin’ around and makin’
ask as I look at the sky. Grey clouds are sweep- sure there’s no one on my tail ready to throw
ing in from the southwest, and with the in- me into the cell.”
crease in humidity, I’d bet my leŌ nut that
there will be tornado warnings this evening. I take a swig of booze from the boƩle, and peel
My brother and I are siƫng on the front porch off the sƟcker which is melƟng away from the
of our mother’s house, and even though we glass. This side of Marty annoys me. I’m ready
aren’t moving, sweat is dripping off our fore- to just leave him out of this whole situaƟon
heads and into our water-downed Bud Lights. I and get the car back myself. He’s too much of a
recall the first Ɵme I saw Pops drink it. He used goody-two-shoes for me anyway. We may be
to call it piss water. idenƟcal twins, but when it comes to our per-
sonaliƟes, Marty’s got a pair of white angel
Good ol’ Pops. He’d be proud of the plan I’ve wings sƟckin’ ouƩa his damn back. And me?
devised. My halo’s bein’ held up by my pointy red
horns.
See, Marty and I grew up in this liƩle hick town
in southern Alabama where crime is swept “Marty, you goƩa take some risks in your life.
under the rug because there is only one sheriff No risk, no reward. Tommy took a risk in steal-
in a town of just under five hundred people. ing your car. His reward? He gets to drive
The closest prison is two hours away, so the around in a nice, air condiƟoned Ford Mustang
worst punishment most criminals get is a slap unƟl we go and take it back from him.”
on the wrist and one night in lock-up, depend-
ing on the severity of the crime. The most any- Marty pulls his white Hanes t-shirt off his torso
one has ever stayed in lock-up was eight and tosses it over the banister into the yard.
nights. Everyone knows the story of Old Lady “Joe, you can’t make a livin’ bein’ a thief. It just
Jane. She caught her husband cheaƟng ain’t worth it. Eventually Sheriff Thompson is
on her with her younger sister – who was way goin’ to get Ɵred of seein’ you and send you to

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

the state penitenƟary so he won’t have to deal “You sure you don’t want me to go with you,
with you no mo’. And what will Mama do if Joe? I mean, you don’t have to steal the car
either one of us is taken away? She’ll die of back. We know Tommy; all we’ll have to do is
heartbreak.” ask him,” he explains as he our dad’s old boƩle
of JD from the back of the medicine cabinet
Damn that Marty! He always has to rain on my and pours himself a shot.
parade by bringin’ our innocent Mama into the
mix. Then again, what Mama don’t know won’t “That’s not the point of my operaƟon, liƩle
hurt her… brother,” I say as I grab the boƩle of whiskey
from him and take a sip straight from the
Marty uses the cue of the seƫn’ sun to go in- boƩle. “And besides, this isn’t a typical Robin
side and make sure Mama takes her medica- Hood excursion.” A few drops of liquid jump
Ɵon. I’m in the same wooden rockin’ chair I’ve out from the boƩle as I set it on the counter.
been in all damn day. From sun up Ɵl sun
down, this is where I stay. It’s where I do my Marty turned his head towards me aŌer throw-
best thinkin’ before I run off into the dead of ing back his shot. “It’s not?”
night to do what I do best: steal from those
who have been stolen from. It’s kind of a weird “No. This Ɵme, the thief messed with my fami-
gig. I don’t get paid for it, and I don’t want to ly.” I enjoy another swig of liquor. “So I’m going
get paid. It’s just the right thing to do, ya know to mess with his.”
what I’m sayin’? And now that my own brother
has fell vicƟm to these crimes, I’ve gots to work “No!” Marty yells as I open the screen door and
extra hard to make sure jusƟce is given to the step onto the front porch. “Just go get my car
sorry son of a bitch who decided to mess with back, Joe. Please? I beg you! Don’t make this a
him. bigger deal than it already is.”

Marty someƟmes joins me on my excursions I look at my chest when I realize Marty’s fists
around town, but usually he stays with Mama. are grasping onto my shirt collar. His eyes are
She tends to sleep walk and has been known to wide with panic at the thought of anything
escape the house in her white nighƟe that is violent taking place in our peaceful liƩle town. I
way too big for her and falls farther down her am sƟll deciding whether I’m going to listen to
front side than it needs to. I’ve tried giving her him or not when he says,
a new one every year at Christmas for the past
seven years, and each year she says, “What the “I’ll tell Mama.”
hell do I need this for? The one I have on is
perfectly fine!” I shove him against the door frame. “The hell
you will! We made a pact, Marty James. A
Marty has a big mouth – a trait he picked up blood pact which clearly states that Mama is to
from Mama. And that is why I like to do my never know about my hobby as a vigilante.”
own work on my own terms. I promised him I’ll
get his car back from Tommy, and lucky for me “Then I go with you.”
Tommy works nights over at The Salty Pig, the
twenty-four hour BBQ pit and dive bar. A deep groan escaped my chest and I hung my
head, sƟll keeping a grip on Marty’s shoulders.
“Alright Marty. I’m headin’ out,” I say as I pull I don’t want to risk our Mama’s safety by hav-
my John Deere ball cap over my balding head. ing us both out of the house; but on the same
“Mama had her glass of milk with her medi- token, I can’t risk Mama’s sanity if she knew
cine, right?” her firstborn son wasn’t the blessed child she
always makes me out to be. My heart pounds
“Yes, Boss, she did. You act like I don’t know against my rib cage as guilt flows through my
what to do with her,” Marty said, his voice veins. “You sad, son of a bitch.”
clouded with disdain.
“Alright!” Marty yells with a bit too much en-
I ignore the dramaƟcs; that’s another thing thusiasm.
Marty is good for. He is such a passive aggres-
sive brat when he doesn’t get his way. “I’ll be “Shh! Don’t wake Mama!”
home aŌer midnight, like usual.”

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Revista Literária Adelaide

“Oh! Right,” he whispers. “Let me go grab my “Please tell her I say hello. I really should stop
shoes, then we’ll be good to go.” His face is lit over and see her some Ɵme!”
up like a five year old’s on Christmas mornin’.
Jesus Christ. “She would really like that, Ma’am,” Marty
says. I have to sƟfle a laugh because his cheeks
About an hour later, I finally pull into a parking are all pink; he’s had a crush on Mrs. MacBride
spot at the rear of The Salty Pig. It’s one of a since we were teenagers.
handful of restaurants in town, and it’s the
best one. Pops used to own the place back in Wendy extends her elbows to link arms with us
its prime, and the recipes used by the chefs as she takes us to a pair of open seats at the
today are from his own imaginaƟon. It’s a bar. Even though it has been a while since
shame to see the outside of the place looking we’ve seen her, I goƩa admit that she sƟll looks
like it’s gone to shit, but it has. When Tommy’s good for her age. She hasn’t had any cosmeƟc
mother bought the place from Pops when he work done, but she wears a lot of make-up,
was sick, her focus was solely on bringing in the and it’s obvious she uses an anƟ-wrinkle
dough. And the best BBQ in the south is cream. But that smile of hers is infecƟous. Too
cooked up day and night – for the tourists as bad Tommy didn’t inherit any of her looks.
well as for the town drunks.
“So, what can I get you boys?”
The place was built inside two mobile homes
that were seƩled right next to each other; the “I’ll take a barbecue chicken pizza and a Bud
one on the leŌ – with its cracked aluminum Light please, Ma’am.”
siding – is the giant kitchen where the meat’s
cut and smoked. It’s where the magic happens, “Marty, please, call me Wendy! You’re an adult
as Pops used to say. The buildin’ on the right is too now; there’s no need for the formaliƟes,”
the seaƟng area for the guests and it also hous- she said as she paƩed his arm. “And what can I
es the bar at the far end of the trailer. About get for you, sweeƟe?”
thirty people can enjoy some food and booze
at any given Ɵme, which is why it’s kept open “Just an ice water for now. I’m drivin’.”
all day and all night. Let’s just say Wendy is
going to enjoy her reƟrement when she finally Wendy lets out a laugh so obnoxious, I can feel
leaves this place. the eyes of other customers on our backs. I
shiŌ on the barstool and keep my head turned
“Alright Joe, what do we do first?” Marty asks from them. I don’t need more people than nec-
in a whisper as we wait for the hostess to seat essary paying aƩenƟon to me.
us.
“An ice water!? Oh, Joseph. You silly, silly boy.
I put my hand up to shush him. “Hold on a mi- Tell me what you really want.” Wendy’s hands
nute, LiƩle Brother. I’m scopin’ the place out.” are on top of mine. She wants the truth? Well,
then that’s what I’m gonna give her.
Marty smiles, as if he just had a lightbulb mo-
ment – something he doesn’t have very oŌen. I suck in a deep breath of air, and let it out slow
“Ah! You’re doing recon first. That makes before I respond. I want to keep this woman on
sense!” her toes. “Where is Thomas.” It’s not a ques-
Ɵon; more of a demand.
“Howdy, boys! What brings you over to these
parts?” Wendy’s eyes grow to the size of fiŌy-cent
pieces. That means she’s scared. Good. “Now
Marty and I turn around and see Wendy Mac- Joseph, you know Tommy doesn’t want to see
Bride walking towards us, her arms open and a you no more. Not aŌer what happened when
big smile on her face. “I haven’t ya’ll in years! you stole his woman away.”
How is your Mama doing?” she asks as she
gives us each a hug. My eyes roll so far to the back of my head I saw
darkness for a moment. “Wendy, we all know
“Mama is Mama. You know how she is,” I say. that Sarah was leaving Tommy’s dumb ass be-
cause of his drinkin’. She’d wanted me anyway.
From the beginning.” I pause to let her think
about the facts for a moment. “Tommy stole

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

Marty’s car earlier this mornin’, when we were “I don’ know what yer talkin’ about. I ain’t
sƟll asleep. I’m here to get it back. Where is come around to your place since before Sarah
he?” and me split.”

Wendy let out a defeated sigh. “He’s over in I don’t like to be violent. It’s just when I have to
the other buildin’ cuƫn’ up meats.” deal with liƩle pricks like Tommy – who know
they’ve something wrong, yet try to lie about it
I nod my head politely as I get up from my seat. anyway – that my blood just boils. And it had
“Thank you. We really appreciate this.” nothin’ to do with us being in the Roaster, ei-
ther. “Let’s be smart about this, shall we, Tom-
“Do you need me to go with ya, Joe?” Marty my? You tell me the truth, and I won’t hurt ya.
asks as Wendy cracks open a boƩle of Bud Got it?”
Light for him.
“Honest to God, Joey. I ain’t touched yer broth-
“No.” I look at our old friend’s mother. “Make er’s piece of shit Ford!”
sure he stays right there,” I say as I point to my
brother.” At that moment, Ron came running in through
the door, poinƟng to the parking lot. Red and
“I’ll do my best.” The enthusiasm was gone blue lights were flashing. “Tom, the cops are
from her voice. here. They want to talk to ya.”

It may have been close to midnight, but that “Aw shit. What did Mother do now?” Tommy
did nothing to save me from turning into a said as he pushed me away from him and ran
sweaty pig as I crossed the paƟo that connect- outside.
ed the restaurant to the kitchen. Before I
stepped into the Roaster (that’s what all the “Wendy?” I asked out loud. Why would the
chefs called it, because the temperature in cops be here for her? She’s the sweetest wom-
there was probably close to one hundred damn an in the world. But not sweeter than Mama,
degrees), I took my cap off and rubbed the ex- of course.
cess moisture from my head. I let out a breath I
didn’t realize I was holding, and charged When I walked into the humid night, I saw
through the door to make sure I got Tommy’s Marty standing next to Officer Tompkins, who
aƩenƟon right quick. was in the process of cuffing him. “What the
hell, Marty!? I was gone not even ten minutes
“Hey now, you can’t be in here!” Ron, the and you bring the cops here?”
kitchen manager, stormed up to me and tried
to push me back out the door. I grabbed his Tears flooded my brother’s cheeks. “I’m sorry,
wrists and held him in place. Joe. I had to do somethin’! You were takin’ too
long with Tommy and I just wanted to get my
“Where is Tommy?” I asked as my eyes bore damn car back.”
into his.
Officer Wade helped Marty protect his head as
The poor idiot realized who I was and stam- he got him into the backseat of the cruiser and
mered through his rebuƩal. “He-he’s-he’s, n-n- slammed the door. “A patron over in the res-
not here right. Now.” taurant saw your brother hotwiring the car.
They thought it was suspicious so they called
A belly laugh followed suit. “Oh, come on now, us.”
Ronnie. I’m a big boy! I can handle Mighty Joe
all by myself.” Tommie’s southern drawl was “Yea but, it’s his car! Tommy stole it yesterday
heavier than everyone else’s. Even his laughing mornin’ and we was here tryin’ to get it back.
carried an accent with it. He took of his plasƟc C’mon, Wade. You know Marty’s a good guy!
gloves as he approached us. “How ya doin’, Old He wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
Timer?” He gave me a strong pat on the back.
The cop shrugged. “Show’s how liƩle you know
I let go of Ron and turned my aƩenƟon to Tom- about your brother.”
my. “Whaddaya doin’ with my baby brother’s
car, ya dirtbag?” I hadn’t intended to spit in his
face as I spoke, but I was so damn mad I fig-
ured it was a nice special effect.

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Revista Literária Adelaide

What? Okay, now I’m confused. “What do you About the Author:
mean?”
Melanie A. Doan is an adjunct faculty member
“He’s admiƩed to being the town’s Robin Hood at South University in Cleveland, Ohio where
guy we’ve been tracking down the last six she teaches English composiƟon. Melanie
months. While his intenƟons were noble, steal- achieved her MA from Southern New Hamp-
in’ is stealin’. So he’s gonna do some Ɵme in shire University in May 2015, and earned BFA
lock-up.” from Bowling Green State University in Decem-
ber 2011. Her work has appeared in Prairie
I had to keep myself from laughin’. That son of Margins, where it won the Howard McCord
a bitch! For once in my life, he actually listened Poetry Award. Mrs. Doan lives in the Cleveland
to me! No risk, no reward. Well, he took a risk, area with her husband and their two cats,
and this isn’t the reward that most people Pique and Ember.
would be proud of. But let’s be honest: in a
town like this, you’re a celebrity if you spend
even one night in lock-up. It’ll also give me a
break from all the vigilante shit.

And liƩle does Marty know that this stunt he
pulled will put me back on the pedestal of be-
ing Mama’s favorite son. And that’s all the re-
ward that I’ll ever need.

11

THAT SWEET YOUNG
“THANG”

by John Richmond

They didn’t go looking for anything, no, they “Hmm,” he uƩered soŌ and low and looked
just wanted to listen to some good music, but over at David. “What do you think?”
the moment she walked in the door- every-
thing changed. “About her?” David replied.

Their decision to go was one of those last mi- Steve laughed, ever so slightly. “No, not about
nute things, borne out of the need to do some- her- we know about her- she’s a sweet young
thing- besides nothing and stay in the condo- thang,” he drawled in a suggesƟve way. “I’m
but at the same Ɵme their minds kept coming asking, what about that?” he conƟnued, ges-
up blank when they tried to think of what it turing toward the two of them with a slight
was they could do. move of his head.

The two of them- Steve and David- paced the David watched her help the old man along with
rooms, throwing possibiliƟes back and forth - he noƟced clearly- considerable care and em-
unƟl they landed on something that was of pathy.
interest to both of them- music. And, what
cemented the decision was their remembering “Ah, man,” David finally managed in an uncer-
that some good friends were opening at a club, tain tone, “maybe it’s her grandfather. Or once
a liƩle further out on West End. upon a Ɵme he was a big shit in Nashville, and
we either don’t know who he is or because
So, with that seƩled, they made their way to he’s so old that we just don’t recognize him.”
the strip mall, parked, went in, sat down and
ordered a couple of Budweisers. “Right- maybe,” Steve replied with a definite
touch of skepƟcism.
They drank and listened through the first set,
decided that they’d leave aŌer the second- but She stood there, scouƟng for a table and then-
that was unƟl they saw her walk through the while making more than passing eye-contact
door. with Steve- she decided on one on the far side
of the room.
She was young- but sƟll old enough- smartly
dressed in a brown leather coat, designer jeans Yet, instead of taking the most direct- and obvi-
and heels, with a great body and shoulder- ously shortest- path to it, she led, guided, if you
length red hair. Alongside of her was what will, her partner on a way that would take
could easily be described as an- at least- octo- them right past Steve and David’s table.
genarian, managing along with a walker and an
oxygen tank. Steve watched her as she navigated her part-
ner ahead of her through a near-like maze of
At first, Steve didn’t think of them as being tables and chair legs.
together. No, it wasn’t unƟl she stopped to
help him along- while puƫng her hand on top “I guess it’s easier to push him ahead of her
of his- that it dawned on him. than drag him from behind,” Steve thought to
himself.

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Revista Literária Adelaide

It wasn’t unƟl the old man passed him and she Yet, although he looked as if he was taking in
was right next to his chair, did she make seri- the music- and the scene- every now and then,
ous and prolonged eye contact with Steve be- the man would glance away and stare off into
fore moving on. the distance with a far-away look in his eyes.

AŌer she passed, he took serious note of how “Boy,” Steve conƟnued to himself, “talk about
well she fit into her skin-Ɵght jeans. the walking dead.”

“Very nice,” he said in an approving tone and a Steve now turned his aƩenƟon back on her;
touch of an appreciaƟve sigh. how she talked, touched, helped- and even
laughed with- the old man. And, as much as
Once they were at their table and just before they were obviously mismatched, Steve per-
she was completely seated- but aŌer she had ceived something warm and personal occurring
helped her partner negoƟate the move from between them.
the walker to the chair- at that last moment,
she looked up and over at Steve and shot him Oh, there were no obvious and demonstraƟve
an ever-so-secret smile. acts of inƟmacy, no kiss on the cheek, no strok-
ing of hair, no gentle touch of the face- but,
Steve nodded slowly, then turned some por- from what Steve saw, he could easily imagine.
Ɵon- but not all- of his aƩenƟon to what was
going on on-stage. As the night of music progressed, the iniƟal
reason for being the club conƟnued to recede
It was aŌer they had finished their second into the background. It preƩy much accelerat-
round of drinks, and the waitress was asking if ed away when Steve decided to reposiƟon his
they wanted a third, that Steve decided to up chair, ever so slightly, so that all he had to do
the ante. was shiŌ his eyes- instead of turning his head-
in order to see the band or look at her.
“Sure, we’ll both have another, and,” he
paused to look over at the redhead across the He especially watched each Ɵme the waitress
room and then back at the waitress, “why served them two more drinks; both the woman
don’t you give them over there,” he moƟoned and the old man- aŌer being prompted by the
with his head, “whatever they’re drinking.” woman- raised their glasses in thanks.

“Will do,” the waitress said, with a knowing Steve and David gestured in kind, aŌer which
inflecƟon in her tone, aŌer glancing over at the Steve wondered about how to get to the next
woman and back at Steve. step- finding out who she is.

Steve watched the waitress walk over to the Suddenly, the man began to struggle in his
other table to inform them of Steve’s intent. seat. At first, Steve thought that the man was
Both of them, she with a nod of her head and experiencing the beginning of some sort of
her partner with a slightly raised, trembling medical emergency.
hand in acknowledgement, sent their respec-
Ɵve “thank-yous.” Quickly- yet discreetly- he reached over and
tapped David on his upper arm. Once he got
Now, Steve shiŌed his focus to the woman’s his aƩenƟon, he gave him the head-nod in the
partner. He was old, much older than he direcƟon of the other table.
looked at first glance when they walked in the
door. They were both about to get up and go over to
help, when they saw the woman stand up and
“The guy’s got to be in- at least- his late help the man into a standing posiƟon behind
eighƟes- if not nineƟes,” Steve apprised him- his walker. Next, she pointed in the direcƟon
self. of the restrooms, said something to him, gently
squeezed his forearm, then watched him make
He conƟnued to observe the man breathe in a his way across the club and around the corner
labored manner, taking sips of his drink- it to the men’s room.
seemed- whenever he was up for it. Occasion-
ally, he reached over and touched the walker
and the oxygen tank, almost in a reassuring
and comforƟng way.

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

Once he was out of sight, she sat back down “H-m-m,” Steve uƩered thoughƞully, “if he’s
for a moment before she glanced up at Steve not your grandfather and if he’s not your fa-
and smiled. ther, then-“ -he paused to take in the moment
and allow the obvious to dangle amongst the
Steve kept his eyes on her as she stood, again, three of them, before he finished his sentence-
and pull at the cuffs of her leather coat, before
heading toward their table. She walked pur- “- who is he?”
posefully, confidently- even inviƟngly- exuding
a sense that she had more than enough Ɵme to With that said, Steve picked up his boƩle of
do what she intended to do. The three of them beer, took a sip, leaned back and made himself
greeted each other with smiles aŌer which she comfortable in his chair.
began.
The woman took a deep breath, puckered her
“You know, I came over to thank you guys for lips, then released a slow and controlled sigh,
buying us drinks,” she offered as an opening before she said as simply as possible, “He’s my
gambit. date.”

David nodded, accepƟngly, knowing that her “Ah!” Steve exclaimed as he brought his boƩle
“thank-you” was almost exclusively directed at back down on the table and brought himself up
Steve. to a forward siƫng posiƟon.

“Our pleasure,” David replied. “Well, that explains everything,” he said, as he
reached into his pocket, took out his wallet and
“Definitely, definitely,” Steve concurred, “no removed a business card.
problem.”
“Here,” he said offering the card to the woman,
There was an infinitely short pause, but it was “in case your date doesn’t make it back from
enough Ɵme to give the three of them enough the bathroom, call me and we’ll go out to din-
Ɵme to size each other up. ner.”

It was Steve who conƟnued. She took the card, read it and asked, “Is it Ste-
ven or is it Steve?”
“Sure, I mean, in today’s day and age, I think
that it’s outstanding that you would take your Steve looked from the woman to David and
grandfather out for an evening of music.” back, again. “Steve would be good.”

The woman looked from Steve to David and “Okay, Steve” she affirmed, then quickly
back again at Steve, with a smile. glanced back toward her table before opening
her purse.
“That’s very nice of you to say that, but, he’s
not my grandfather,” she said with a slightly- “I’ve got just the place for this-“ she began
and almost impercepƟbly- larger, more know- while she put his card in her wallet, “-and, I
ing smile. will take you up on that dinner invitaƟon, but
in the meanƟme- here.”
“Oh,” Steve said, now straightening up in his
chair as if he had heard the incredible. With a smooth and fluid moƟon, she took her
own business card out of her purse and handed
“All right,” he conƟnued in a sort of self- it to him.
correcƟng tone, “your father. I think it’s great
that you took your father out.” “That’s me and that’s where I work. I take
lunch starƟng at twelve-thirty. Can you be
This Ɵme, she flashed a sheepish smile at Ste- there, tomorrow?”
ve.
Steve looked at the card, read it, looked up at
“Well,” she sighed, “he’s not my father.” her and said, “Pamela, twelve-thirty it is,” and
proceeded to put the card in his coat pocket.
Steve Ɵlted his head in feigned, confused un-
certainty, looked over at David before looking
back at the woman.

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Revista Literária Adelaide

Again, she looked back at her table- and be- About the Author:
yond toward the bathroom.

“I’d beƩer get back,” she told them.

David nodded while Steve simply said, “Sure,
sure thing.”

She turned, stopped, turned back and asked,
“You will be there- won’t you?”

Steve smiled and said, “Absolutely. I’ll proba-
bly even be there a few minutes early.”

“See you tomorrow,” she replied, turned,
walked back to her table, sat down- and wait-
ed.

John Richmond has “wandered” parts of North
America for a good porƟon of his life. These
“wanderings” have taken him from a city on
the Great Lakes to a small fishing village
(populaƟon 200), before heading to Tennessee,
Georgia, North Carolina and then on to a bigger
city on the Great Lakes- Chicago- then, eventu-
ally, New York City. Since then, John Richmond
has made his way to a small upstate New York
town and has sequestered himself in his office
where he divides his Ɵme between wriƟng and
discussing the state of the world with his coon-
hound buddy- Roma. Recently, he has ap-
peared in Ygdrasil (Canada) (2), Oddball Maga-
zine, LipsƟck Party Magazine, Hackwriters
(U.K.), Quail Bell Magazine, StepAway Maga-
zine (U.K.), The Potomac (2), Peacock Journal,
Embodied Effigies (2), Streetcake Magazine
(U.K.), Former People Journal (2), The Other
Story, Nazar-Look (Romania) (2), Lavender
Wolves, Indiana Voice Journal, Fuck FicƟon,
The Greensilk Journal, The Corner Club Press,
Danse Macabre du Jour, The Tower Journal,
Stone Path Review, Meat for Tea: The Valley
Review, Rogue ParƟcles Magazine, From the
Depths, Flash FronƟer (N. Z.), The Birmingham
Arts Journal, riverbabble (2), The WriƟng Disor-
der, Lalitamba, PoeƟc Diversity, Marco Polo
Arts Magazine, ken*again (2), Black & White,
SNReview, Voices de Luna, The Round, Syndic
Literary Journal, Slow Trains, Forge Journal,
and is forthcoming in Birmingham Arts Journal,
Voices de la Luna, and Pudding Magazine.

15

A GIANT

by William PruiƩ

A boy looked at himself in the mirror. He made afar, their brilliance would have blinded you.
a face to scare himself. They journeyed into the great world.

He went out into the woods. He shouted a Boots stayed with his father. They waited for
made-up word. He ran back to his house, fear the boys to return, the brothers, the sons, the
overwhelming him. anƟcipated men, the hoped-for women. But
the longer they waited, the more the brothers
In church, the pastor warned the Devil was didn’t come. The old man worried and cried,
everywhere. The pews were hard and shiny. cried and worried. Finally, Boots said, “Father,
The songbooks in their bins were closed and let me go find them.”
distant. The boy thought of Bela Lugosi. He
imagined a face, a stare, that held him. He was “Oh no, my boy, I could never do that. What if I
in that story and was not able to see the story, lost you too? My dearest son, that would be
siƫng on the pew, the preacher’s words like too painful. I could not go on living if that hap-
flies, annoying but not as powerful as the im- pened.”
age of the stare. He could not think of what the
people siƫng around him imagined. Their “But I’ll come back.”
minds felt blunt, impregnable, dead. He was
siƫng in a graveyard. “Besides, I’ve given my good horses. There’s
only Old Groaner.”
The boy grew up and freed himself. He looked
around and noƟced everybody was behind the Boots bade his father goodbye and set out. “I’ll
eight ball unƟl they stepped aside (or didn’t). bring them home,” he said. Old Groaner was
He saw the Devil was useful if you didn’t look not as fancy a horse as his brothers had rode
at him. away on, but Boots was glad to have a horse.

#### Boots journeyed near and far, seeing the world
from a different perspecƟve from that of his
Once there was an old man who had seven brothers. His clothes and gear were as motley
sons he loved very much. They grew up and the and tumbledown as his horse, and people paid
oldest said, “Father, it’s Ɵme for us to marry. liƩle aƩenƟon. As he rode old Groaner down
Give us our horses and provisions so we may the dry and dusty road, he chanced to see a
go out into the world and seek our fortune.” fish which somehow had flipped itself out of a
lake. Boots was tempted to build a fire right
“Oh,” said their father. “I couldn’t bear for you there and eat it— it would extend his food ra-
all to go. I couldn’t stand that. If you must go, Ɵons, which consisted of a small roast beef
let the youngest, Boots, stay here with me.” sandwich-- one more day; but he saw it was
sƟll breathing, and he decided his desire to see
It was agreed. Their father suited up the boys it keep living was greater than his hunger at
with his best horses, clothes and gear. that parƟcular moment. So he got off his horse.
The fish seemed to say, “Throw me back in the
Didn’t they look a sight with their tack and water, please.” And that’s what he did. He got
provisions! If you had seen them coming from back on Old Groaner and moved on.

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Revista Literária Adelaide

They rode some more at a slow pace, seeing Not at all sure he was doing the right thing,
what there was to see, which was a great deal, Boots liŌed the bridle and saddle and blanket
even if it did not include what Boots was look- off his faithful horse, and led him over to the
ing for. They were well past the reservoir and wolf, who promptly leaped on him and ate
coming into the woods when Boots saw a black him. Boots didn’t watch the gruesome carnage,
shape by a tree stump. As they came closer, he but looked around for material to build a fire,
saw what he thought was a dead raven— an for he imagined that was where he would
odd sight, he thought, you don’t usually see spend the night, before conƟnuing on foot in
ravens die out in the open. To his surprise, the the morning. But when he came back, the wolf
raven uƩered a deep croak. If you have ever was waiƟng for him.
heard a raven uƩer, you know they are very
expressive. This raven may as well have said She looked much bigger than she had before,
straight out, “I’m hungry,” because that’s clear- now nourished and sated. She seemed to have
ly what he intended. Boots was moved and got actually doubled in size, beckoning for Boots to
off his horse. He took his sandwich out of his climb on. For the second Ɵme, Boots did a
satchel. thing which went against everything he
thought or believed, because it felt right: he
“I don’t have much,” he said. “But I’ll split this climbed onto the back of a wolf. When the
with you.” He broke the sandwich in two and animal beneath him took off running, it all
gave half to the raven. The bird took some of seemed natural.
the sandwich in his beak and stood upright. He
ate some more and his feathers grew lustrous. They were covering ground. It almost felt like
When he finished his part of the sandwich he they were flying. Boots couldn’t guess how far
seemed to have grown in size, opening his they had gone, but it was dusk when they
wings to prepare for flight. came to a hillside, and the wolf stopped as if to
say, Look. There were figures on an otherwise
Boots felt stronger just watching him fly away. bare hillside. Boots approached, thinking, Are
these statues? It seemed a strange place for an
That day was a long one, partly because Boots open air exhibiƟon. What’s more, the statues
was sƟll hungry aŌer eaƟng half the sandwich, were remarkably lifelike. It was as if they had
but also because every town he stopped in, no been captured in the moment of movement, so
one had seen his brothers, nor heard a thing real did they look. For a second, he thought of
about them. The sun was low in the sky when his brothers, but there were too many of them.
he saw something in the middle of the road. Then he came closer and saw that they were
Approaching, he saw a wolf stretched across his brothers, and with them, women— and one
the path, even more withered and shrunken man— on the hillside, frozen solid in varying
than Old Groaner, looking at him imploringly. expressions of fear and panic, a demonic side-
show that would have made him insane were it
Boots got off his horse. “I’m very sorry for your not for the steadying, calming influence he felt
situaƟon, but there’s really nothing to be done. coming from the wolf, who stood and watched
I shared the only food I had with a raven a it all.
while back. I have nothing for myself even. I’m
sorry.” Boots saw a door eight feet high built into the
hillside. He knocked on the door, no response;
The wolf’s eyes shiŌed to Old Groaner. “No! it wasn’t locked so he opened it. There was a
I’m not giving you my horse! He’s all I have. young woman sewing by candlelight in the rear
Absolutely not!” of a windowless room. When she saw him, she
gave a deep sigh and said, “Who are you?”
And a palpable intelligence from the wolf’s
eyes glowed as if to say, There is a world you Boots said, “I am brother to those outside on
need to master. your lawn.”

Some people would have thought the wolf was “I’m sorry to hear that. You’ll be joining them
trying to save her own skin. But Boots had a as soon as the Giant who lives here comes
different hunger, and a promise to keep. back.”

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

“Well, I’m here to recover them aŌer all.” “Wait five minutes,” she said. When he came
out she had already pulled the carpet away.
“You can’t kill him. He has no heart in his body. She handed him a shovel and a sharp-pointed
There’s nothing there.” spade and he was digging.

“He has it somewhere. Would you help me?” It wasn’t easy— the hillside was more rock
They were silent. “Maybe you would like to be than soil— and Boots dug unƟl his calluses
free of him too.” bled. Then she said, “He was lying. We’ll have
to put everything back.” Boots filled the dirt
Her expression changed from one of pity to back in, and the young woman went out and
amusement. “Well, I guess if you must, you picked flowers, cut garlands, Ɵed ribbons and
must.” Her voice changed as her eyes looked wound vines around the doorway.
away. “Get under my bed fast!”
When the Giant came back aŌer dark, Boots
Boots scrambled to get under a long sturdy bed was under the bed. “Has there a ChrisƟan man
in the corner. It wasn’t long before he heard been here by any chance?”
the door open and a voice heavy with the
weight of the world say, “What’s that smell?” “Oh, hello Dear, are you hungry? Man? What
makes you think such a thing?”
“Oh, hello, Dear. How was your day? What
smell?” “I can smell him.”

“I smell a man. A ChrisƟan man. Was there one “Oh, you know how powerful your sense of
here?” smell is. That was a bone a raven dropped
down the chimney. I tried to fumigate the
“There’s been no man here. It’s probably house, but you have a such a powerful olfacto-
some bones a buzzard dropped down the ry sense.”
chimney. Are you hungry?”
“Hm. Yesterday you said it was a buzzard.”
Everything became quiet for a while. Boots
heard the clink of dishes and utensils and pic- “Buzzard, vulture, raven, I don’t know. One of
tured them eaƟng. That is, he pictured her those birds that eats dead things.”
eaƟng. He didn’t want to think of what the
Giant looked like. Although he hadn’t eaten AŌer they had gone to bed, the Giant said,
much that day, he didn’t think about food. He “Why did you fancy up the door?”
put all his mind and intenƟon into staying qui-
et. AŌer a while he felt the maƩress above “Well, that’s where your heart is, you know. It’s
him sink, and was glad it was firm. There was a special place to me now.”
some movement and then sƟllness, and Boots
thought they were going to sleep when he “Huh. It’s not there. You think I’d tell you
heard her say, “You know, sweetheart, there’s where it was?”
one thing I would like to know.”
“Oh. But I would really like to know.” There
“What?” was a long silence.

“Oh, where you keep your heart.” “Okay. I’ll tell you. It’s under the pantry.”

“Why do you want to know that?” We’ll see about that, thought Boots. And as
great as the Giant’s raw force seemed to fill the
“It would be a special place to me.” house embedded in the hill, he wondered at
the bravery and the cunning of the young
“Huh! I keep it under the doorway, if you must woman, and he hoped she wasn’t married.
know,” he said as he turned over.
The Giant leŌ the next morning and they
We’ll see about that, thought Boots. pulled out all the pots and pans, skillets, iron-
ware, griddles, grates, trays, and forks, and
The next morning, the Giant got up early and they started to dig. They dug Ɵll noon, and she
was gone. As soon as Boots heard the door said, “He’s told another one.” So they spent all
close, he said, “Is it all right?”

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Revista Literária Adelaide

aŌernoon puƫng everything back and deco- egg. In that egg... in that egg is my heart, my
raƟng with wreathes, ribbon, spangles, pine- darling!”
cones and garlands, Ɵnsel and gliƩer and glitz.
It was pleasant doing that with her, Boots for- We’ll see about that, thought Boots.
got it was geƫng late and had to hustle when
he heard the Giant coming back. The Giant leŌ slowly the next morning, and
Boots grew anxious, waiƟng. He had to break
There wasn’t much Ɵme between Boots geƫng away from that house he’d spent three nights
under the bed and the Giant saying, “Hmm, I in, and from the young woman.
smell something.”
“I’ll be back,” he said aŌer the Giant had finally
“What do you smell, Dear?” leŌ. She looked as if she did not see the
sources of his confidence.
“There’s a man been here.”
As soon as Boots stepped out the door, the
“No. I wouldn’t let a man in here. You smell a wolf was waiƟng. It was a strange mission they
man’s bones. Some carrion-eaƟng bird proba- were on: looking for someone’s heart whom he
bly dropped a bone through the chimney. I’ve had never seen. He did not ask the wolf what
told you before you need to put a hood on it. the Giant looked like because he didn’t want to
You can smell the way an eagle can see.” know.

“Oh. Why all the finery, frills and frippery over It didn’t take long, such was the speed at which
the pantry?” they almost flew, skimming the trees like a
squirrel. Soon they were through the woods
“Well, you know, you told me that’s where and at the edge of a lake, at the center of
your heart is. So I wanted to honor that place.” which they could see the island. The wolf
stopped at the water’s edge. Boots swam. Up-
AŌer they had dinner, they went to bed. on reaching land, he clambered up massive
blocks of granite strewn with firethorn. The
“Fool. I would never tell a woman where my ground at the top was level. The island was
heart is. You will never know that.” small, the church in the center, its windows
boarded up. Two wooden doors were closed
There were low murmurings and rustlings of and locked. Over them was a key on a nail
sheets and covers and many indecipherable twenty feet off the ground. He turned to look
sounds, like waves rolling back upon them- at the wolf and held his palms up. The wolf just
selves, or leaves caught in a gentle whirlwind. looked at him. Oh, yes. The raven.
Boots listened as intently as he could. Finally
he heard her say, “I just can’t help wondering. “Raven, I need you!” There he was, liŌing the
It’s the one thing I would so like to know.” key in his beak, then dropping it into Boots’
cupped hands.
Boots heard the Giant give a long sigh, and
when he spoke his tone had changed. His voice He fiƩed it into the door and pulled it open.
was calm and steady and slow and grave, as if Inside was a musty smell. He approached a well
he spoke of something both inevitable and in the center of the nave, and looked into it.
inexplicable. His sentences came with long There was a duck swimming around in a circle.
pauses in between. How long have you been here, he wondered.
He held out his hands and she came to him. As
He spoke as if in response to the silence she he liŌed her out of the well, she laid an egg,
had brought him. which promptly sank. The duck flew out the
door. This Ɵme, he didn’t have to look at the
“Far, far from here, there is a thick woods with wolf. As he thought fish, the fish he had seen
no path in between the trees. Not even a blue- on the road appeared, dove and resurfaced
bird could fly through. In those woods there is with the egg in his mouth.
a lake with an island in the middle of it. An is-
land that is connected to nothing, yet goes Boots took the egg and the leŌ the
nowhere. Sheer stone slabs surround it. On dark church. The island was all rock, the sun
that island is a church. In that church is a well.
In that well swims a duck. In that duck is an

19

Adelaide Literary Magazine

warmed it. Boots held the egg up so the wolf About the Author:
could see it. What to do? The wolf slowly shook
her head. Boots closed his hand around the Bill PruiƩ is a ficƟon writer, storyteller, poet,
egg. He could feel a pulsing. He gave it a gentle and Assistant Editor with NarraƟve Magazine.
squeeze. His short stories appear in recent issues
of Crack of the Spine Literary Magazine, Indi-
A cry of agony from the other side of the world ana Voice Journal, Midway Crack of the Spine
filled the air. Set my brothers and their sweet- Literary Magazine, Indiana Voice Journal, Mid-
hearts free, Boots said to his hand that had the way and Hypertext. He has published poems in
egg in its grasp. Boots looked up at the wolf, such places as Ploughshares, Anderbo.com, Off
who was nodding her head. “And every living Course, Stone Boat, OƟs Nebula, Literary Juice,
thing you’ve turned to stone,” he said quietly, Visitant and CoƩonwood. He has two chap-
and counted to four. Then Boots squeezed books with White Pine and FootHills; and the
quickly with all his strength. self-published Walking Home from the East-
man House. He has performed his original sto-
It was then that day turned night and back to ry, “Two Kinds of Fear,” a documented telling
day, and to night again. The earth shook. A of the lives of Susan B. Anthony and Frederick
searing scream cut across Ɵme and space, a Douglass at various venues in Rochester. He
jagged rusty blade of movement that sounded taught English to non-naƟve speakers for 26
like the undercarriage of the firmament, caus- years. He and his wife Pam live in Rochester
ing everything to flash and shake three Ɵmes and have a daughter, a son and two grandchil-
and ring, as if all creaƟon were a glass bell in dren.
pain.

Then everything was gone: egg, church, island,
wolf. He was back on the hillside, a brilliant sun
shining down, and his brothers were walking
toward him, and the others; and the young
woman coming out of the hill. And there was a
laying on of hands, and a grand feast.

20

WHITE FLAG

by Jesse Kemmerer

Bootsie had been washing dishes in the kitchen Bootsie took her by one bony hand, guiding her
when he first saw it – a white piece of some- to the sink. She seemed to shrink into herself
thing Ɵed to a tree in the woods behind the at his touch. He pointed at the white some-
house. It had been an unseasonably long win- thing flapping through the tree line. “See?” he
ter for Blacktop, West Virginia standards, and said. “It’s the trees – they’s given up.” He
though they were now venturing further into squeezed his momma’s shoulders and smiled
spring, the trees were sƟll bleak and dead- at her.
looking, standing sƟffly in a sea of brown
leaves. Except for the white something flapping For a moment, she didn’t say anything. It was if
in the wind, sƟcking out like snow in summer- her son were some foreigner on the other end
Ɵme, nothing in that barren expanse of wood of the telephone line when you called about
moved. your credit card or hospital bill – she couldn’t
understand a word he was saying. “What are
“Hey Momma!” he called, scrubbing the last bit ya flappin your gums about?” she asked.
of muck off a frying pan.
Bootsie felt his cheeks get hot. “They’s flyin the
“Huh? What’d ya say?” she called back. She white flag,” he said, by way of explanaƟon. He
was in the living room, not twenty feet away. again pointed at the white something flapping
in the wind, as if that would clear everything
Bootsie sighed and turned off the water. He up.
leaned his elbows on the countertop and bur-
ied his face in his hands. “Momma!” he yelled, She was awe-struck. Her mouth hung open, the
the word coming out muffled but loud all the shade of her lipsƟck making a perfectly red O
same. like a bullet-hole where her mouth should be.
“Are you dumb or something?” she asked. She
She’d heard him this Ɵme. Her cane clicked shook her head as if she already knew the an-
against the linoleum as she hobbled into the swer. Before her son could respond, she
kitchen, signifying her arrival. Bootsie wiped reached up and slapped a fragile hand across
the exasperaƟon from his face. his face. It landed like a ghost from beaƟngs’
past – all the shame but none of the sƟng. She
“What? What are ya yellin for?” she asked. She shouldered him away and hobbled back into
was a small woman, and hard. She looked to be the living room, muƩering under her breath
all bone underneath her sweater. Her short about stupid sons and their stupid noƟons, her
black hair stuck to her scalp as if it were a hair cane clacking along the linoleum, punctuaƟng
net. each word.

“I think the trees is givin up,” Bootsie said, Bootsie watched her go, feeling his cheeks red-
poinƟng out the window. den as if he were ten years old again. He
turned the water back on and finished washing
She didn’t say anything, only stood there look- and drying the dishes, looking up at the white
ing at her son with a wild expression.

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

something blowing in the trees every so oŌen eye on Momma, help her up the stairs, make
just to make sure it was sƟll there. sure she’s takin all her pills and washing them
down with more than just licker.”
###
Bootsie wasn’t thrilled about the idea, but at
Though he was 46 at the Ɵme, Bootsie didn’t the Ɵme, he couldn’t think of a reason to say
have much say when the decision was made no. He was living in Irene’s aƫc on a futon that
for him to move back in with his momma, who was roughly half the size of his body. He would-
was edging into her mid-sevenƟes and re- n’t mind being able to spread out in a real bed
quired in-home care. He was the most likely at night. And besides, someone had to look
candidate to look aŌer her. aŌer Momma, who was currently in the hospi-
tal aŌer having her second fall in three weeks.
She’d chased the last three day-nurses out of Luckily, her nosy neighbor, Mrs. Kinneson, had
her house with a broom, if Mrs. Kinneson, the dropped by and found her lying moƟonless on
nosy neighbor from next door, was to be be- the floor. If she hadn’t been there to call 9-1-1,
lieved. Stowing her away in a nursing home Momma might never have woken up. Bootsie
was out of the quesƟon. Big Jim, the eldest didn’t know if that was necessarily a bad thing
brother of the family and the only one moder- – he had no warm and fuzzy feelings for his
ately well-off, certainly wasn’t going to foot the momma, who was collecƟvely despised
bill, not when the rest of his family – his young- throughout the family – but he thought she
er brother Kurt, who fixed transmissions at deserved a beƩer end than seizing and foaming
Dale’s Auto when he wasn’t fixing himself with at the mouth on her living room floor. “I s’pose
moonshine the night before; his younger sister I could,” he said finally. “For a while, at least.”
Irene, who was living off food stamps with her
deadbeat boyfriend; and baby of the family, Their father had died ten years earlier of renal
Bootsie, who’d lived on couches and futons for cancer, and Momma had been living on her
the beƩer part of his life – weren’t able to chip own ever since, save the three failed experi-
in. “Besides,” Big Jim said the night they were ments of hiring day nurses to look aŌer her.
all gathered around his dinner table, discussing The house never seemed to have leŌ the
what to do with their momma when she was mourning stage aŌer his death – the blinds
released – or thrown out – from the hospital, were perpetually closed, every room shrouded
“Momma wouldn’t last two weeks in a home. in a heavy darkness that was further punctuat-
She’d sneak whiskey in somehow and get on ed by brown carpeƟng, wood-paneled walls
one of her mean streaks, biƟn other paƟents – and plasƟc-covered furniture. Momma, on the
er, residents, I guess – and smackin nurses’ other hand, seemed to thrive in the role of
ankles with her cane. She’d get the boot and bereaved widow; she was seen in bars and
then we’d all be right back where we are now, thriŌ stores around town for years aŌer wear-
only a couple thousand bucks lighter.” ing all black, telling anyone who’d listen what a
fine man her husband had been. “He went out
Bootsie smirked. Not at the thought of all 97 with his boots on,” she’d say, wiping an imagi-
frail pounds of his Momma stone-drunk, terror- nary tear from the corner of her eye. That was
izing a nursing home with her oak cane; he a lie, of course - her husband had gone out on
smirked because he knew Big Jim was about to his back in a hospital bed, his skin so yellow
make a decision for the family. That’s the only and jaundiced that he looked more like a
Ɵme his accent ever came out. roƩen zucchini than a human being – but it
racked up enough sympathy points to get her
“So I was thinkin, Boot,” Big Jim said, crossing an extra five or ten bucks as she hawked his
his legs and resƟng his hands on his knee as if baseball card collecƟon or commendaƟon
he were about to give one of his employees medals from the Navy.
some bad news – Sorry, bub, but I’m gonna
need you to come in at 6AM every weekend Everyone in the family expected her to put the
for the rest of your life. “Why don’t you move house on the market aŌer the funeral, though
back in, take up your old room? You’ll have they didn’t expect to see one red cent of the
a hell of a lot more space, and you can keep an

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Revista Literária Adelaide

profits (they’d been told as much before their had grown lush and jungle-like around the
father even passed). It was an old house, built house, swallowing it up. Every window was
someƟme in the early fiŌies. It sat on a consid- closed, curtained, and possibly even boarded
erable chunk of land – there was grass to be up, or so it had looked to Bootsie as he stood in
mowed and trees to be trimmed and other the driveway with his bags in his hands. The
general maintenance needed done to keep up house showed no sign of life; not even a
the property. It was clearly no home for a wid- memory of one.
ow in the last years of her life, and the family
told her as much. Big Jim even offered to pay The new living arrangement took some ad-
the deposit on a small, one-story apartment for jusƟng to, but Bootsie and his momma got
her, figuring it would be cheaper than paying a along about as well as they could throughout
landscaping crew to come out once a week for the years. It was a fairly large house – three
the next however many years unƟl she finally bedrooms, two baths, with an aƫc and dirt
croaked, but Momma held on to the house like floor basement – and they used the space well,
a miser. “I’ll die here ‘fore I sell one square avoiding one another as a snake avoids a mon-
inch,” she said when her son broached the sub- goose. They were rarely in the same room to-
ject, poinƟng a bony finger at him. “And don’t gether, dinner being the one excepƟon, which
you forget it.” Momma always had on the table at 5PM sharp.
If there was any redeeming quality about her,
The family kept up with their visits and the it was that she made a mean supper, always
yard work for a while, but as the seasons rolled home-cooked and greasy and filling.
by, they found it easier and easier to come up
with excuses. Big Jim had to work. Kurt was too Bootsie helped her up the stairs, into the show-
sick (in Kurt-parlance, that meant hungover). er, even off the commode, on a handful of mu-
Irene once made the mistake of having her tually embarrassing occasions. He set her pills
new boyfriend of the month, Trayvon, a six- out for her every morning, noon and night.
foot-five black man with hands that could There was no speaking between them during
probably palm a fully inflated beach ball, drop these Ɵmes, and aŌerwards, there was no
her off one Saturday morning. Momma had acknowledgement that any help had been ei-
been on the porch, rocking in her chair with ther given or received; it was a simple nurse-
her morning coffee, which she took black with paƟent relaƟonship.
two dashes of Jack. When she saw the Cadillac
pull up and saw that Nubian Adonis kiss her He tried to keep up with things around the
one and only daughter on the lips, she threw house by himself, but eventually figured them
her mug at the windshield. It landed in the a lost cause. He found that no maƩer how
grass well short of its target, but then she many weeds he rooted, more grew back within
grabbed the shotgun from the house, aimed at the week. They’d been allowed to fester too
the car with two shaky arms, and fired. The gun long, he decided one day, and gave up alto-
didn’t go off – she’d never thought to check if it gether.
was loaded when she’d grabbed it from her
late-husband’s bureau – but the intended As for money, the social security checks Mom-
effect was achieved; the Cadillac sped down ma received were enough to get by on. Bootsie
the road, and Irene never came back. worked odd jobs a few Ɵmes a week as he’d
done his whole adult life – a liƩle carpentry
Bootsie stopped by the least, and by the Ɵme here, some auto work there. He would splurge
he moved in, he hadn’t seen the house or his someƟmes on nice cuts of steak or chicken
momma in nearly two years. He found that from the butcher. Momma always fried them
both had grown markedly older and more de- up special, and they would both enjoy the meal
crepit; his momma wobbled more heavily on silently.
her cane, shaking it as if it were a magic eight
ball every Ɵme she put it down (Bootsie secret- Life rolled by that way for a long Ɵme – silently.
ly hoped for the Ɵme it showed up BETTER
LUCK NEXT TIME), and the grass and weeds Now, five years later, a week aŌer Bootsie saw
the white something flapping in the wind, he
stood in front of the sink, washing and drying

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

dishes. The window was open, a hint of spring His uncle said, “Put your mask on, son.” A gust
whispering its way into the small kitchen. of wind blew and the house groaned, taking
the senƟment right out of Jimmy’s mouth.
He was fiŌy-one years old, now. The top of his
head was bald, the sides lined with stubborn AŌer an hour, they hadn’t made much pro-
clumps of thin, graying hair. He wore the same gress. Boxes and decoraƟons and newspapers
pair of overalls he’d been wearing for thirty and furniture - all the junk that seems to live
years, with a t-shirt underneath that held three exclusively in rickety aƫcs across America –
days’ worth of stank and stench. He’d inherited liƩered the small space, everything old and
his daddy’s potbelly in his old age, and he musty, coated in a thin layer of dust, grimy to
couldn’t remember the last Ɵme he saw his the touch. For a while, Jimmy lugged trash bag
prick. Hell, he couldn’t remember the last Ɵme aŌer trash bag down the steps and out to the
it had been touched by more than his hand. curb, trudging back up to the aƫc a few
SƟll, that hint of spring – of life – permeated minutes later red in the face and huffing
through the kitchen for the first Ɵme in years, through the dust mask around his nose and
it seemed, and Bootsie thought it was a damn mouth, clumps of sweaty hair sƟcking to his
fine night to be alive. forehead. Then, Bootsie had an idea. He
opened the window at the far end of the aƫc
He looked out at the trees in the woods, and punched the screen out. “Hand me a bag,”
searching for the white something he’d seen he said, then tossed it straight out the window.
flapping in the wind a week ago. It was hard to It landed on the lawn with a crash. They wait-
tell if it was there or not - so many of the trees ed, silent as the bats that were sƟll hiding un-
already had white blossoms of their own. He disturbed in whatever corners of the aƫc they
didn’t think it was. had not yet reached, then Bootsie said with a
sly smile, “Hand me another one.”
“Hey Momma!” he called.
Subsequent trash vacated the aƫc much quick-
He wanted to tell her about the trees, how er. Boosie saw his nephew’s face light up every
they’d decided not to give up aŌer all. Then he Ɵme he threw something two stories down and
remembered that she wouldn’t be able to hear watched it crash and break apart on the lawn.
him upstairs in her bedroom. AŌer another hour and two-dozen more tosses
out the window, they went outside to arrange
And besides, she was dead. the trash pile for pickup.

### Bootsie watched from the porch sipping from a
mug of sweat tea while his nephew duƟfully
Bootsie’s nephew, Jimmy, stood at the top of swept the trash from the lawn and piled it onto
the aƫc steps with his hands shoved deep in a growing heap by the curb. It was a beauƟful
his pockets. His shoulders were slumped, his spring day – the first warm one of the season –
head lowered in a posture of uƩer defeat, part- and it had come in like a lion; yesterday morn-
ly because the cross-beams at the top of the ing, you could feel winter in your bones, but
aƫc stairs were less than an inch above his today was spring, by-God, and you could feel it
head but mostly due to the sheer volume of in your heart. Birds were chirping in trees al-
junk that surrounded him on all sides. “We’re ready starƟng to bloom, a noon-day sun pro-
never gonna finish,” he told his uncle. vided warmth and light to everything beneath
it, and the smell of life was in the air, fragrant
Bootsie sighed and sat on one of the many box- the way it can only be in those first days of
es lining the walls. It sank under his considera- spring, before your nose becomes accustomed
ble weight. “Aw, hell. We’ll make a dent, won’t to its scent, forgets its even there. As Bootsie
we?” sat on the porch sipping his tea, watching his
nephew muscle trash bags and boxes into piles
Jimmy kicked around some dust. “Not a big that kept toppling over, he thought that it was
one,” he said, looking more downtrodden than a damn fine day to be alive.
ever. He hoped his uncle would just agree with
him. The aƫc looked to be a makeshiŌ dump -
there was no way they’d be able to clean it all
up in one day.

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Revista Literária Adelaide

“You got it, son,” he said when the last of the Big Jim seemed to consider this, perhaps think-
trash was squared away on the curb. “Come ing if history were any indicaƟon, that second
take a rest.” or third pass would never come. “Let’s go say
‘bye’ to Grandma,” he said to his son.
Jimmy walked up to the porch wiping the
sweat from his forehead. His white t shirt was “She’s takin a nap,” Bootsie said. He made a
dirt- and muck-stained, clinging to his body in drinking gesture, holding his thumb out and
wet patches of sweat. He sat heavily in a rock- ƟlƟng it towards his lips. Then he reached into
ing chair beside his uncle. his back pocket for his bill fold.

“You done good today,” Bootsie said. “That’s not necessary,” Big Jim said, but Boot-
sie plucked a twenty out anyway and handed it
“Thanks Uncle Bootsie,” Jimmy replied. He to his nephew. “Good work today,” he said.
cheery now, happy that the day’s work was
done before lunchƟme. Big Jim gave him a look. “Really, Boot, we don’t
need your money.”
“Are you hungry?” Bootsie asked.
“Aint no we about it,” Bootsie said, ruffling his
“No,” Jimmy lied. His stomach grumbled and nephew’s hair. “You got yourself a good worker
they both had a laugh. here.”

Bootsie knew why his nephew didn’t want to Big Jim nodded.
have lunch, and frankly, he didn’t blame him.
As if reading his thoughts, Jimmy asked, “Why “What do you say, son? Same Ɵme next
is she so mean?” week?” Bootsie asked.

It took courage for him to ask something like Jimmy’s eyes flicked over to his father, who
that, Bootsie knew. He watched his nephew’s was looking perhaps more intently at Bootsie
face redden, saw his eyes drop in embarrass- than he should have been. Aint no son a yours,
ment. “That’s just the way she is,” he said. those eyes said, in the same accent Big Jim had
had for twenty years or more, before he
“But why? What did anyone ever do to her?” moved to the city and got a job slinging papers
instead of asphalt. He nodded, and Jimmy nod-
Bootsie clapped him on the back. “No tellin,” ded, too, sƟcking his hand out to his uncle.
he said, and that was the end of it. When Bootsie shook it, he pretended his hand
was being crushed by his nephew’s grip, yelp-
Jimmy’s father pulled into the driveway a few ing and slapping his knee, begging him to light-
minutes later. He’d recently bought a new en up. Jimmy giggled, then gave him a hug.
truck – a ford F-150 with chrome rims and a
slick blue paint job. He climbed out of the cab Big Jim took his son by the shoulder and they
in his suit and Ɵe, traced his fingers across the got in the truck and drove away. Bootsie
hood, pausing for a second to lick his thumb watched the dust billow out from behind the
and wipe away a smudge or stain that was truck’s big back Ɵres, hoping at least a liƩle bit
most certainly not there. of it managed to sƟck to the paintjob.

“Hiya Big Jim,” Bootsie said when he walked up ###
the porch steps.
A week later, Big Jim dropped his son off at the
“Hey Boot,” Big Jim said absently, then turned house. Bootsie met his nephew at the door.
to his son. “Get some work done today?”
“Hey Uncle Bootsie,” Jimmy said, wiping sleep
“Yessir,” Jimmy replied. from his eyes. “Yard looks good. What’s with all
the open wi – “ He scrunched his face into a
Big Jim eyed his younger brother siƫng in his ball and dry heaved, his tongue sƟcking out
rocking chair. He asked him the same quesƟon. and his eyes bugging from their sockets.

“Aw, we did all right. Another pass or two and
we’ll have it licked,” Bootsie said.

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

Bootsie placed a dust mask around his nose the story and they both knew there were
and mouth, the same kind he was currently countless more to tell.
wearing. “Sewer line busted,” he said, explain-
ing why every window in the house was open. “I just don’t get it,” Jimmy blurted out. “Why
That was a lie, of course; the source of the don’t we just let her… I mean, why does any-
stench was his momma’s decomposing body. one even come around to help anymore? Why
do you have to live with her?”
“Gramma’s probably havin a cow,” Jimmy said.
Bootsie considered this for a while. Then he
Bootsie laughed. “I’m sure she is,” he said, and said, “Do you remember your Grandpappy?”
led his nephew up to the aƫc.
“Not really. I know he got sick.”
Jimmy couldn’t believe his eyes – or his luck.
The aƫc had already been cleaned, for the “Uh huh, he did,” Bootsie said. “But before he
most part; all the trash and various odds and was sick – before you were even thought of,
ends had been put into trash bags, anything youngin – he bought this house for your gram-
heavy had been lugged downstairs, and even ma. He was twenty-five or so then, and he’d
the floorboards were free of dust, the yellow- squirreled away enough take-home pay from
ish brown of the wood shining in the morning the Navy and from workin odd jobs when he
sunlight coming through the window. got back stateside to put half down on it, cash.
He paid the rest off over a ten-year span, not a
Bootsie saw the smile on his nephew’s face. single nickel coming from nobody else.”
“We got ‘er licked, now,” he said.
Bootsie could tell the weight of what he’d just
It didn’t take long for them to finish up. Bootsie said was lost on his nephew, who was all of
had already done most of the legwork, and by eleven years old, but he went on regardless:
the Ɵme the last of the trash was thrown out “This was their – your gramma and grandpap-
the aƫc window, it was only 10 o’ clock. Jimmy py’s – home, and it was mine, too, same as
sat indian-style in the empty room, looking your Daddy and your Ant ‘Rene and your Uncle
around in awe. A week ago, the space had Kurt.”
been nothing more than a trash heap, and to-
day all that was leŌ was a cumbersome vanity Jimmy eyes darted around the room, unsure
mirror and a bag of his Gramma’s old hats. what to seƩle on.
“We did good, Uncle Bootsie,” he said. His un-
cle sat down beside him. “Yessir, we did,” he “Now, your daddy might wonder why your
said. Gramma decided to hold on to in her old age –
you mighta heard him sayin as much to your
They were silent for a Ɵme, both of them momma around the dinner table. He mighta
siƫng cross-legged on the bare aƫc floor. Jim- thought she’d take the money and move into a
my started scratching one of the floorboards home or an apartment, but he’s not seein
with his fingernail. “About last week, what I things from her point of view. Our daddy
said about Gramma,” he started. Bootsie let bought this house for us, not nobody else, and
him find the words himself, looking at him your Gramma wasn’t about to spit on that. She
blankly. “I didn’t mean to call her mean,” Jim- wasn’t about to let go of it Ɵl she was dead in
my conƟnued. “I know that’s not a nice thing to the ground beside him.”
say, specially about your elders.”
Jimmy nodded his head duƟfully, and Bootsie
“She scares you a liƩle, don’t she?” Bootsie nodded back.
asked.
“Point I’m tryin to make,” Bootsie said, “Is ain’t
Jimmy looked at his uncle wide-eyed, shaking nobody all-good or all-bad, ain’t nobody all-
his head. “One Ɵme, I was standing a liƩle too right or all-wrong. You ask why your Gramma is
close to the fan, so she – “ so mean all the Ɵme – and she is mean, I know
it as well as anybody – but you forget she’s
Bootsie put his hand up and his nephew lived seven lifeƟmes more than you. You forget
spuƩered off, red in the face. They both knew she’s old and cranky and alone.” He sighed.

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Revista Literária Adelaide

“We didn’t have much love for her as kids, your “Hard worker, that son a yours,” Bootsie said,
daddy least of all, and we don’t have much love beaming at his nephew. “Fine young man you
for her now. But I think we all have a liƩle. She got there.”
raised us, aŌer all, she’s our Momma. And just
‘cause you don’t like someone, that doesn’t “I’ll tell you, Boot,” Big Jim said just as the last
mean you shouldn’t try to do right by em.” of the grass was being picked up, “Place looks
good. Damn good. I didn’t know you’d planned
“Uncle Bootsie, you’re, uh…,” Jimmy stuƩered. on cleanin up, else I woulda stayed and helped.
He looked plainly uncomfortable, sƟll chewing Hell, it looks like it did when we was kids.”
away at the floorboard with his fingernail,
avoiding eye-contact with his uncle altogether. “Like I said,” Boosie replied, ruffling his neph-
“Do you want me to get you a Ɵssue or some- ew’s hair. “You raised yourself a hard worker.”
thing?”
Big Jim nodded. “I got some papers for Mom-
Bootsie reached up and found wetness in the ma to sign,” he said, going to his truck. He han-
corner of his eye. He wiped it away. “Come dled all her finances, big city man that he was.
on,” he said, “there’s some work yet to be
done outside.” “She’s nappin,” Bootsie said weakly, but Big Jim
was already making his way inside. Bootsie
### shoved his hands in his overall pockets and
followed, telling his nephew to stay outside
When Big Jim pulled his truck into the driveway and keep an eye on his daddy’s truck.
a few hours later, Bootsie and Jimmy were rak-
ing up freshly mown grass, piling it into big Big Jim almost ran right back out the front
contractor bags and dumping them into the door, but Bootsie was there blocking it. “What
woods behind the house. Big Jim lent a hand. the hell is that smell?” he asked, coughing.
Bootsie pointed upstairs. “In her bedroom,”
“How’d he do today?” he asked his brother. he said, pulling a dust mask from his pocket.

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

You’re gonna wanna wear this.” He handed it ###
over.
Bootsie hadn’t killed his momma, of course,
The look on Big Jim’s face was a mixture of but he was charged with Failure to Report her
confusion, horror and revulsion. By the Ɵme he death, which carried a $500 fine. He had to
opened the door to his momma’s bedroom, it borrow the money from Big Jim.
had leveled out into cold understanding.
“Christ, Boot,” he said, closing the door just as Death had taken Momma peacefully in her
quickly as he’d opened it. “How long’s she sleep, he later learned from the coroner’s re-
been in there?” port. Respiratory failure. She’d simply stopped
breathing at some point in the night, and never
“Week or so,” Bootsie said. He’d hung a dozen started back up again. Bootsie accepted that
car air fresheners – the evergreen scented fact, though he didn’t much believe it; he
ones – around the room trying to mask the couldn’t imagine his momma being taken
smell. He’d pulled the covers over her face. peacefully by anything.

“And you didn’t think to call nobody?” Big Jim He stood on the other side of the street with
asked. Mrs. Kinneson, the nosy neighbor, as they
rolled her body out. He thought he’d done
Bootsie shrugged his shoulders. “Weren’t about the best he could. The paint was sƟll
ready yet,” he said, unsure if he was talking chipped in places – it needed a fresh coat
about himself, his momma, or the house. about ten years ago - and the bones of the old
house sƟll sagged onto its foundaƟon, but the
Big Jim pulled out his cell phone and dialed the lawn was cut and the weeds plucked and the
only numbers he could think to dial: 9-1-1. windows open, leƫng light shine through.
Standing there looking at it, Bootsie thought
the house might even harbor some life be-
tween the floorboards.

Or at the very least, a memory of it.

28

OUR BILLY

by Tom Lakin

First, we found out what had happened. “Did And yet there we were, receiving this news on
you hear?” we asked, across marble counter- playing fields and in church, outside coffee
tops and in oak-paneled studies and through shops and in line at Brown’s SporƟng Goods,
the open windows of cars, morning cold pour- sneakers and brand new footballs in paper
ing in and turning our breath to steam. “Can bags at our sides. We heard it from neighbors
you believe it?” we said as we pushed piled hurrying uneasily up our long, curving drives.
carts across the grocery store parking lot, voic- Some of us were out of town when we heard it,
es raised to be heard over the Ɵnny jangling of and the distance— the miles of unfamiliar road
the small black wheels. “How awful,” we whis- or the roar of the city or all that sky beneath
pered into telephones, lips wet, our breath hot the steel belly of the plane— dulled the news
on the mouthpiece. and made it feel somehow less than real, vague
and disembodied, and yet all the more horrible
At the dry cleaners, our pressed, plasƟc- for being so plainly, so coldly, a maƩer, now, of
wrapped suits swaying like headless ghosts on permanent town record: that young Billy Wil-
the conveyor, we shook when we heard and son was dead.
coughed into nervous hands. Passing beneath
the fluƩering awnings of Main Street, we THAT EVENING, we held a vigil at the football
clutched arms and traded soŌ, sorrowful looks. field. It was cold, and we huddled in Ɵght clus-
In the dens and living rooms of our fine cher- ters by the goalposts, blowing into our hands
ished homes— Victorians and Tudors, Dutch and stamping our feet in the snowcrust. Be-
Colonials with broad gambrel roofs— we won- neath our boots the frost crunched and
dered how such a thing could happen, could popped, and our breath was like steam in the
possibly have come to pass, in a good town like darkness. Nearby, a streetlamp gave off an
ours. This is a bright, pleasant place— a family eerie glow, and the air was clear and bright
town. Our children ride bicycles down safe, with the smell of snow. Behind the old wooden
shaded streets; most mornings they walk to bleachers thin threads of ice Ɵnseled the heavy
school. To pass through our town is to hear the branches of the trees. Someone had brought
whirr of polished cars, shouted greeƟngs, col- candles, and we lit them and passed them
lars jingling around the glossy necks of Labra- carefully along rows of shaking hands. Their
dor retrievers: happy sounds, safe sounds. In flames danced and threw strange shadows on
spring, handsome flags snap from porches and our reddened cheeks.
we wash our cars in the drive. Holidays are
taken seriously here: on Halloween, jack-o- When the silence became too much to bear,
lanterns guard our doorways and cardboard we began to talk— about the cold, about Billy.
skeletons dance from the branches of our “I remember last fall, against Oldham, when
trees, thrilling costumed children and startling Billy scored five touchdowns in the game’s first
neighborhood dogs. At Christmas, we gather half,” we said. “We’ll never see anything like
before bay windows and watch the snow fall that again.” “And the Landry scrimmage!”
like bits of torn paper onto the lawn. we whooped. “Billy threw that damn ball fiŌy

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

yards in the air and the Landry kids were look- in the paper that week showed Whiz standing
ing up as it sailed past like it was some kind of there with his mouth wrenched open and his
UFO, and then down it came, gentle as a bal- eyes aimed at the sky, and Billy just a streaking
loon, into Harper’s outstretched hands. Touch- gray blur at the edge of the frame. The photo
down, game won. Boy, that was some kind of hung on the wall at Center Deli, by the register,
pass.” No one menƟoned what we all knew: its corners going curled and yellow with humid-
that they’d found Billy’s body in the high school ity, and its image is the one we carried of him
locker room, hanging from a ceiling pipe near in our minds: a comet-tail flashing unknowably
the showers. Being a captain he’d been given a through our town.
key to the gym, and we were told he’d snuck in
aŌer hours and done it, but not before return- It was strange then, we thought, that photos of
ing his helmet to the equipment closet and his familiar, inscrutable face should now deco-
hanging his uniform neatly in his locker. An rate the snow at our feet, where we’d placed
assistant coach, come to collect a late student them at the base of the goalpost among other
acƟviƟes fee, had discovered him swinging tokens of Billy: flowers and footballs and piano-
there in the dark. shaped key chains and a Ɵny peewee football
jersey, number nineteen— Billy’s number.
We all knew Billy— we’d watched him soar Someone had fashioned a cross out of branch-
down the field, our cheerleaders had designed es and stuck it in the snow, and a piled shrine
special dances for him, the paper had ac- had grown around it. There were candles and
claimed his name— but few had spent much balloons, flags and small football figurines. A
Ɵme with him, it seemed. He was seventeen framed picture of Billy— his senior photo, a
but appeared much older in uniform, his face posed shot in which he grinned at the camera
slim and unlined beneath his helmet, the cloth with his broad chin resƟng on folded hands—
chinstrap biƟng into the dimpled flesh of his lay at the base of the cross, and beside it a pair
chin. Off the field he wore glasses and played of white sneakers glowed like unblinking eyes
classical piano. He did well in school, though he amid the snow-light and the brilliant gliƩer of
sat in the back of the classroom and hardly crushed ice. As we stood there, surrounded by
ever raised his hand. It was said that he en- these Billy-things, our hands joined and our
joyed woodcarving, would spend hours at it skin scorched with cold, already we could feel
long into the night aŌer pracƟce and games, the face in the pictures hardening into some-
and that his bedroom, which few had seen, thing symbolic. From the snow Billy stared back
was doƩed with liƩle figurines: soldiers and at us, and behind the glasses we saw the stone
cowboys and Ɵny fisherman casƟng matchsƟck eyes of a statue, and on his face a monument’s
poles. He lived in a small brick house on the frozen grin.
north side of town, facing a busy street, and he
had a younger brother named Mike. His father AŌer a while, someone began to sing: a hushed
worked as a football coach at a local college “Amazing Grace” that seemed to emerge out
and his mother, a tall, cheerful woman with of the cold itself, out of the wind and the hard-
long reddish hair, stayed home. packed snow. Quickly we took up the song, the
words rising like smoke from our mouths be-
On weekends, though Billy would appear now fore vanishing above the pointed tops of the
and again at parƟes, floaƟng quietly among pines. For what felt like hours we stood there
pockets of indulgent classmates, he was never singing, the candles flickering in our hands,
wild, and nobody ever saw him drink much though probably it only lasted a minute or two,
more than a beer. He existed for us, then, pri- or even just a handful of seconds— it was im-
marily in box scores and in the block text of possible to tell. At some point in the night, Ɵme
headlined feats: the Lincoln game— three rush- had excused itself, had disappeared into the
ing touchdowns and two more in the air— or darkness and the cold, and there was no way
the Ɵme he intercepted a pass thrown by the to know how long we’d been standing there or
legendary Whiz Ellington and ran it ninety- when it would be Ɵme to leave. Finally, aŌer
three yards for a score. Whiz threw his helmet the song’s last note had been sung, the first of
to the ground as Billy sped past, and the photo

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Revista Literária Adelaide

us driŌed quietly away, and, taking that as a winterƟme air, and shop owners shoveled
kind of permission, the rest soon followed. We crusted snow from brick sidewalks and wiped
blew out our candles and took a last hard look ice from their tall glass doors. Lights were com-
at the boyish face in the pictures, and then we ing on at Center Deli, and the mailman could
moved in a line past the goalpost and up the be seen hurrying in and out of his small square
small rise of a hill, away from the trees and the truck. Overhead, the sky was scribbled with
sƟll-burning candles, back toward the lights of gray clouds. Along the roadside, wind shook ice
town. from heavy pine branches and scaƩered it like
diamonds across the hoods of our cars.
THAT NIGHT we dreamt about Billy. We saw
him barking out commands in the backfield, Sluggishly we went about our errands, fum-
eyes wide behind his facemask. We felt the bling change and dropping leƩers into the
slap of the snapped ball. We saw him flash past wrong mail slots, so fervent were our thoughts
the line of scrimmage, dart around a tackle and about Billy. There was fear in our voices now, a
hurdle a fallen linebacker, his feet throwing up sinister quality that seemed to have crept in
chunks of sod. We saw the painted white lines overnight. Had Billy been depressed? we won-
of the field strobing by beneath his cleats. Then dered in low tones. Was he on some kind of
we saw Billy in a blazer and slacks up on the drugs? It didn’t fit with our image of him, but
broad high school stage, seated behind a shin- neither did his suicide fit with the safe, solid
ing black piano, his head bowed over the in- idea we had of our town. At first we’d accepted
strument and those long fingers spidery on the it as a freak, unexplainable thing, but now, in
keys and his pant cuffs rising now and again to line at Chip’s Bakery, we theorized that maybe
reveal a seam of white sock. We saw him at his he had been fighƟng with his girlfriend recent-
desk in an imagined bedroom, bent over a ly— hadn’t there been a girl there, last night at
wooden figurine, his knife sending crescents of the vigil? A slim blonde in a pea coat crying
shaved wood into the half-light. Then abruptly loudly into her miƩens? Or maybe he’d been
those scenes vanished, the Ɵnkling piano re- rejected from a favorite college, Middlebury,
placed by dark and cold, and we saw Billy sway- perhaps, or TuŌs, somewhere the coach had
ing from a damp pipe in the locker room, a assured him he’d get in. We knew how horrible
folding chair toppled beneath him, no helmet that could be, such a blow. Our town took such
or blazer now and his neck bent at an unnatu- care with our children’s applicaƟons. We hired
ral angle and his arms hanging limp at his sides, essay consultants and SAT tutors, paid slim
the life gone out of him and on his face not the men in spectacles hundreds of dollars to coach
glasses or the old familiar grin but rather the our kids through algebra and analogies. To be
faces of our own sons and daughters, the kept from a college of one’s choice was a
bright open faces of our children who we real- shameful, inƟmate thing, rarely talked about
ized then were no longer safe here, in town, on directly, though of course there were always
the bus, behind their desks at school. They rumors. SƟll, though, Billy was a smart kid, we
could be taken from us, run down by a mad- knew, and moreover he was talented. We’d all
man in a speeding car, yanked sleeping from seen him out there on the field, flashing past
their beds. They were vulnerable here, now, tacklers and somersaulƟng into the end zone
because of Billy, because of what he’d done. for a score. We’d sung his praises, cheered his
We woke then, sheets soaked through with young name! His picture hung on shop walls;
sweat, to the knowledge that our lives, our we saw his face each Ɵme we ordered sand-
town, our very idea of ourselves had been al- wiches at the deli. Old men sat in shirtsleeves
tered in some vital, unrecoverable way. at Demos Diner and told stories about his feats,
their sour breath like a gas in the brown half-lit
THE NEXT MORNING, a Monday, arrived list- gloom. He’d been somebody here, Billy had, a
lessly and cold— normal enough for the season, great gliƩering fixture of the town. His great-
but with the sense that something had been ness reflected our own, and for that we loved
knocked askew. In town, cars crept along Main him, and he us. Hadn’t that been enough?
Street toward the high school, their exhaust
like the foggy breath of horses in the cold

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Revista Literária Adelaide

IN THE AFTERNOON, we drove furƟvely past friend of Billy’s would driŌ past our line, and
Billy’s house, slowing down as we approached we regarded them with a kind of wonder, their
the small brick colonial with its black shuƩers nearness to tragedy having elevated them in
and gabled roof. The blinds were drawn over our eyes to an almost supernatural esteem.
the windows, and there were several unfamil- There was something thrilling about their
iar cars in the driveway. We saw no sign of the wretchedness, something aƩracƟve and singu-
parents or of Billy’s brother Mike, but we could lar, and quietly, standing there in our neckƟes
imagine them huddled inside, dressed in black, and heels, we envied it. They had been
rocking in armchairs or crying soŌly into balled touched by this monumental thing that had
Ɵssues. We wondered about Billy’s father, Bri- dealt us only a glancing blow, and we wished
an, a large, stoic man with broad hairy arms that we too could parƟcipate in the glamor of
and his son’s dimpled chin. We remembered their grief.
him pacing the sidelines at football games, a
rolled program stuffed into the back pocket of Inside, the funeral home resembled a series of
his jeans and his hands pounding like gunfire Victorian siƫng rooms. Flowered armchairs
when Billy dropped back to pass. “Good play,” lined the walls, interspersed with poster-sized
he would bark aŌer first downs. “Good play photos of Billy that had been backed with foam
now. Okay, here we go.” It was all we ever and mounted on plasƟc easels. His smiling eyes
heard him say. Did a man like that cry? Did he appraised us as we shuffled past. The windows
weep, there in the darkened house? We tried, were hung with heavy cream drapes, their tops
but couldn’t picture it. curved and pleated like bunƟng, and hunƟng
scenes in gilt frames loomed above the fire-
And what about Maryanne, his wife? How had place. Light blazed from table lamps and from
she goƩen the news? We imagined a young fine brass sconces perched at intervals along
police officer coming Ɵmidly up the drive, hat the walls, all of it washing the room in a hot,
in hand, his legs heavy with what felt like sand. overbright gleam. Passing through the foyer
At the door he’d collect himself before giving it and into the large main room, we could feel
a firm knock. “Mrs. Wilson?” he’d say when it sweat beginning to gather in our collars and in
swung open, and the small robed woman be- the creases behind our knees.
hind the door would look at him with sleepy,
fearful eyes and say, in a soŌ voice, “Yes? I’m The Wilsons stood in a line along one wall, Mr.
Mrs. Wilson,” and when the young man spoke Wilson wearing a blocky black suit and his wife
again her face would go gray with shock. What beside him in a small cap with a fluƩery mesh
had she done then? we wondered, driving past veil. Mike stood to their leŌ, browned wrists
the shuƩered house with its drawn windows visible below his sport coat sleeves, and next to
and snow-covered hedge. What would we have him was a row of unfamiliar black-clad rela-
done, given the same terrible news? We could- Ɵves, clasping hands and snuffling into hand-
n’t fathom it, and so we drove on, sped up and kerchiefs. Beyond them all, at the head of the
turned onto Route 9 and joined the course of room, hard against the wall and between two
our town’s other fine cars toward home. enormous bouquets of red and white roses, we
saw the coffin, a black shining box with silver
THE WHOLE TOWN turned out that night for struts laid upon a broad wooden pedestal. Its
Billy’s wake. The line to get in snaked all the lid had been opened halfway to reveal a silk-
way down the block, past the police staƟon lined underside and another row of roses along
and St. John’s school and right up to the en- its hinge, their faces like bright fists of blood
trance of our old town hall, the last of us cast against the field of sparkling white. Inside,
in shadow beneath its spired, gothic frame. The propped against a silk pillow, lay Billy, his head
weather had warmed during the day, and we back and his arms crossed at the waist.
stood coatless in blazers and black dresses,
chaƫng soŌly and kicking slush from the toes They’d dressed him in a crisp white shirt and
of uncomfortable shoes. Snowmelt fell from blazer, and around his neck was a Ɵe doƩed
the leaves of trees lining the sidewalk and glis- with liƩle pianos. A small silver cross on a
tened in our hair. From Ɵme to Ɵme a good beaded chain had been laid over his shoulder,

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

and a wooden ornament— a Ɵny, unpainted well-liked leper, kept at arm’s length by the
solider— nestled at his side. His face was not sƟnk of his tragedy, and soon, quietly, almost
the one we’d just seen on the posters. It was a impercepƟbly, he would be cast from the eve-
waxen thing, pale and strangely smooth, his ryday life of the town. Knowing this, and be-
skin the texture of crayon. His eyes were closed lieving in its rightness, in the naturalness of its
and his hair had been neatly combed, and truth, we paƩed Mike on his slender shoulder,
where it parted the skin of his scalp was per- bade Mr. Wilson goodbye, and hurried down
fectly white. He wore a high collar and you the sidewalk to our cars.
couldn’t see much of his neck. We had trouble
looking at him: the sickly sweet smell of the WE ARRIVED EARLY the next morning for Billy’s
flowers was overwhelming, and the glare of funeral, the ladies in long dresses and the men
the lamps brought beads of sweat to the soŌ in trim black suits. The high school had offered
skin above our lips. Quickly, we coughed into to hold the service in the gymnasium because
our hands and moved along, joining the line of the expected turnout, and our fooƞalls rang
waiƟng to speak with the Wilsons. like small explosions as we tracked across the
court’s parquet floor. Neat rows of folding
“Thank you so much for coming,” Mr. Wilson chairs stretched from baseline to baseline, and
muƩered in a flat voice, his eyes aimed at the wooden bleachers had been pulled from the
empty wall. “It means so much to all of us to walls and raised to provide seaƟng for the
have you here.” His hand was clammy and overflow. There was a makeshiŌ altar on a
cold. Mrs. Wilson had vanished, leaving behind portable stage beneath one basket, with a po-
her hat and a liƩer of Ɵssues, and Mike filled dium for speakers and an enormous video
her place beside his father. He was somber but screen hanging from the ceiling behind it. A
composed— dignified, we thought, as we large white cloth lay on the floor in front of the
watched him give firm handshakes and offer stage, and atop it was Billy’s closed coffin, its
thanks for supporƟng his family. We knew him black sides gleaming like the painted hull of a
primarily as Billy’s liƩle brother, a freshman to fine sloop. Light streamed from high windows
Billy’s senior, and we never envied him the task and made brilliant white squares on the hard-
of following his brother in school— certainly wood. Everywhere was the smell of talcum
not now, aŌer what had happened. Mike was a powder and perfume.
good football player in his own right, perhaps
even faster than Billy, but small in stature and We took our seats beside neighbors and
possessing none of Billy’s strangely adult ele- friends, dabbing our faces with Ɵssues and
gance. They were different people, we knew. sweaƟng into the waistbands of our under-
Mike was a fixture in houses across town, and wear. Soon the Wilsons appeared and pro-
for three years running he’d sold the most Ɵck- cessed in a long black line toward the altar. We
ets for our town’s famed pancake breakfast, strained forward to watch their faces as they
held each spring on behalf of the rotary club. came. Mr. Wilson’s was pale and dry; Mike’s
You could count on seeing him behind a card long lashes were pearled with tears. Mrs. Wil-
table outside Fred’s Grocery on Saturday morn- son came last, and we held our breath as she
ings, calling out greeƟngs and waving fisƞuls of moved up the row of chairs, for it was her we
red stubs like a fine ladies’ fan. Mothers were most wanted to see. She wore a floor-length
fond of him. He was a nice kid, we all said, and coat, belted at the waist, and her eyes were
as we shook his offered palm there beneath hidden by large black sunglasses. Her face—
the glare of the funeral home lamps, we won- strangely, we thought— was uƩerly void of ex-
dered what would become of him now that his pression. She seemed to glide across the hard-
brother was gone. It was the kind of thing that wood floor, touching nothing, making no audi-
could send a boy’s train off the rails, we knew, ble sound. It was as if she had resolved not to
and, even now we realized we’d begun viewing offer us the saƟsfacƟon of her visible grief, and,
him differently, tracking his grief from a safe, disappointed, we sagged back in our seats and
kindly remove. This year we would buy too turned our eyes to the altar, where the pastor,
many Ɵckets at his table and laugh too hearƟly a silver-haired man in a heavy black robe, was
at his jokes. He would move among us like a clearing his throat to speak.

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Revista Literária Adelaide

“As we gather here today,” he began, “we are steps were firm, her heels clacking loudly on
shocked and angered by the senselessness— the gleaming floor. A gasp rose from our seats:
the unfairness— of our beloved Billy’s death. we hadn’t expected her to speak. She stopped
Why has this happened, we wonder? What before she reached the stage steps, turned,
possible reason could there be for such an aw- and went to stand beside the coffin.
ful thing as this?”
“None of you knew my Billy,” she said, hands
In a lilƟng voice he went on, imploring us to curled into fists at her sides. We snapped back
remember Billy not with fury or rage, but with in our chairs, faces flushed with disbelief. She
empathy for his struggles and wonder at the used no microphone, yet her voice rang like a
magnificent burst of his short life. The pastor struck gong clear to the top rows of the stands.
closed with the Lord’s Prayer, then he gently “Not one of you knew him. Not really. You
shut his Bible and swept down from the stage. clipped his photos from the paper and shouted
his name, but you didn’t know him. He hated
In the brief silence, the gym rang with the football. I bet you didn’t know that, did you?
sounds of sniffling and sharp echoing coughs. He was sick of it— football this, football that,
Near the front a blonde— the one we’d taken my husband’s football playbooks all over the
to be Billy’s girlfriend— sobbed loudly, nearly house. He hated it, but he played it for all of
pornographic in her grief, her keening like the you. Every day he wanted to quit, but how
gliƩering screech of an out-of-tune trombone. could he? How could he stop?” The words
Only when Mr. Wilson stepped to the podium rushed out of her in a tumbling stream, each
did she quiet down. one a Ɵny detonaƟon in the silent gym.

His Ɵe was loose at the neck, and he gripped “He liked to read,” she went on, crying now,
the altar with two large hands. Flanking him on black streaks on her face. “He wrote stories
the stage were the same easled photos from and funny liƩle poems. He was good to his
Billy’s wake: Billy in his football jersey, smiling brother, he was Mikey’s best friend. Isn’t that
up at something just outside the frame; a right, honey? He loved Mike. He loved playing
plump toddler Billy dressed as an astronaut on his piano and carving those liƩle wooden figu-
Halloween; Billy at prom, arms wrapped rines. He loved school, and he loved watching
around the gowned waist of the blonde. “I look the seasons change, how the snow looked in
at these pictures, the recent ones,” Mr. Wilson winter and all the new smells in spring. He
began in a hoarse voice, gesturing at the ea- loved this town. He truly did.”
sels, “and when Billy should have been smiling I
see only a half-smile. I wish I had noƟced it She paused then, and her face grew hard.
sooner. I wish he had told me that something She’d stopped crying. “He loved it,” she said,
was wrong. I wish— ” He broke down then, his her eyes passing over the bleachers and the
voice dissolving into sobs, and Mike rushed to folded metal seats, “but this town took him
the podium and held out an arm and guided from me. It stole him. You stole my precious
him down from the stage. boy.”

We heard liƩle of Mike’s speech, for the podi- With that she turned and laid a soŌ hand upon
um’s microphone started sparking with staƟc the coffin, then she gathered herself to full
and someone scurried up to switch it off. He height, strode down the court’s baseline,
seemed solemn and serene, collected— the pushed through the double doors, and van-
Mike we remembered from the Ɵcket booth ished out into the day.
and the wake. He said he looked forward to
playing in Billy’s honor the following season— IN THE DAYS and weeks aŌer the funeral, we
he would wear his brother’s number nineteen. hardly saw the Wilsons around town. When we
When he said this, his mother shiŌed in her did encounter them, at the grocery store or
seat and coughed into a black-gloved hand. coming out of church, we lowered our eyes
and hurried quickly past. Forced to speak
AFTER a piano-led hymn, Mrs. Wilson stood to them, we did so in soŌ, distant tones. Their
and walked deliberately toward the stage. Her

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

tragedy seemed to trail them like a fog, and we About the Author:
did our best to stay clear of it. Nobody had any
idea what to make of Mrs. Wilson’s wild Tom Lakin is a graduate of Emerson College’s
speech. She’d gone mad with grief, it was said; MFA program, where he was a full-tuiƟon fel-
Billy’s death had sunk her. The gist of it we low. His ficƟon has appeared or is forthcoming
ignored— she hadn’t made any sense, aŌer all. in Noble / Gas Quarterly, Lunch Ticket, Pleia-
Billy hated football? Impossible. He was a hero, des, Pembroke Magazine, and The Adroit Jour-
an idol. We’d loved him, and in turn he’d loved nal. He is the recipient of the 2018 G.B. Crump
us. They buried him in a cemetery in town, Prize in Experimental FicƟon, and was a finalist
beneath a maple tree at the crest of a gentle in NarraƟve Magazine’s Spring 2014 Story Con-
hill. From Ɵme to Ɵme we visited, and placed test. He lives with his wife, daughter, and Bos-
toy footballs at the base of his stone. ton terrier in Boston’s South End.

In Ɵme, our town healed itself like the sea aŌer
a storm. By summer, people once again smiled
and waved from porches, and hydrangeas dec-
orated our lawns. In the fall, new stars
emerged to race downfield for touchdowns,
and at Center Deli, new photos were taped up
on the walls. The high school band played loud
as ever on the sidelines, and our old men found
other things to talk about in their red booth at
Demos Diner.

At some point we heard that the Wilsons had
moved. Nobody saw them go; one day their
house was simply empty, the curtains drawn
and a For Sale sign posted in the yard. A few
weeks later another family moved in, a young
couple with shiny new cars and their own small
children, two towheaded boys, who were soon
seen scampering across the grass.

SomeƟmes now, on fragrant fall days, when
the air is clear and a breeze sends leaves sailing
from the trees, we’ll think of the Wilsons and
wonder where they’ve gone. To the city per-
haps, or to the sea. Are they happy there? we’ll
ask ourselves. Have they found something we
lack? But of course this cannot be, and so we’ll
shake our heads, bemused, and driŌ back
down the streets of our fine, treasured town,
its windows incandescent, our lawns like quilts
of finest silk, all of it shining and unblemished
and washed in golden light.

36

DROP OUT

by Raymond TaƩen

A lazy ceiling fan coaxed May morning air past I said I was sorry, but I wasn’t. He had asked to
a wall portrait of President LBJ and through the see me, and I’d come. But I didn’t give a damn
crowded room as two marines looked up from about his perfect recruitment record.
clerk-sized desks. “All right,” he said, “I think we’re done. See
Sargent Wright for the paperwork.”
“TaƩen? Major Williams is expecƟng you. Go I did not know, could not know, I would not
right in.” speak of the meeƟng for fiŌy years – leaving a
dream behind is private.
The major was tall, a middle-aged, athleƟc- But when regret comes for me, I’m armed, re-
looking man with hair burned close to his scalp, calling the image of a liƩle Vietnamese girl run-
commanding a large wooden desk – clean of ning naked, her clothes burned away by na-
paper, as if no more than an affectaƟon. palm, protected with knowing horror had nev-
er rained from a plane I had flown.
He leaned, reaching into the desk drawer for
my leƩer. About the Author:
Raymond TaƩen is a life-long New Englander
“Help me understand; what’s going on here?” whose work includes numerous personal es-
says and arƟcles published in The Bolton Inde-
“I’ve decided to drop out; I’m not going back.” pendent, MeeƟnghouse News, Harvard Press,
The Landmark, MUSED Literary Review and The
“You’re six weeks from flight school. I thought Worcester Telegram. Current projects include
you wanted to be a pilot?” an historical ficton account primarily for the YA
reader, as well as a memorisƟc novel for the
“I did. But everything’s different.” middle-school reader. Raymond parƟcipates in
classes, workshops and criƟque groups with
The major pushed forward on his elbows. the Seven Bridge Writers´ CollaboraƟve in Lan-
caster, MA. and GrubStreet in Boston, MA.
“You’re a top recruit, TaƩen. QuanƟco said
sixth in 600 – perfect fitness score.”

The room stayed quiet with much unsaid.

“You know we need you, TaƩen. The country
needs you. Why don’t you give this a liƩle
more thought?”

“I have…I’ve thought about it a lot.”

The major held my eyes for long moments unƟl
the tension finally broke when he dropped his
gaze and leaned back a bit as if comforƟng
himself while preparing another aƩempt.

“You know, son… in thirty years, I’ve never lost
a candidate to an opt-out. You’d be the first to
quit.”

37

THE VISITS

by David Massey

They drove deeper into the country, up and homes of his friends). Lee got out and walked
down hills, through pine and scrub forests on around the car to open the door for Dorothy.
both sides of the highway, unƟl they came to She liked this chivalry. As they turned to walk
the dirt road that leŌ the highway across from toward the side door into the kitchen, she
the country general store. As always, they passed her right hand lightly onto his arm. She
talked but liƩle, although he told Dorothy how had taught him this eƟqueƩe.
much he liked Paul, his favorite uncle. She lis-
tened quietly, but in her manner was the re- When Sarah opened the door to them, her face
serve and calm thrill of anƟcipaƟon that always flushed. “Lee!” she said. “And this is your
came over her when she was embarking on wife!”
anything new with him. By the side of the road
rose clay hillsides; the road had been cut out of “Sarah, my wife Dorothy. Dorothy, this is my
this clay. He wondered what his wife was Aunt Sarah.”
thinking as they conƟnued along in the midst
of hardscrabble farms. He wondered what she The two women greeted one another cordially.
thought of the countryside and of the probable They seemed to like one another. Sarah, who
life that people lived here; what she was anƟci- was cooking, invited Lee and Dorothy to seat
paƟng was in his wonder, yet he knew she themselves at the kitchen table. Lee held Dor-
would not tell him. Other than explanaƟons of othy’s chair for her, then sat on the opposite
what they ought to do in pracƟcal affairs, she side of the table.
never told him her thoughts except as terse
enlightenment. These moments came in social “Paul is in the bedroom,” Sarah said. “He’ll be
situaƟons, usually in a single sentence, as if she right out. Would you like anything to drink?”
begrudged him the words; though but seven-
teen, she always knew the meaning of people’s “Only some water, thank you,” Dorothy said.
conduct, while he would stroll blithely through
social landmines unƟl they exploded. He “Yes,” Lee said.
thought he had a more catholic understanding
than Dorothy, but her reserve gave him the Sarah poured two glasses of ice water from a
uneasy feeling that she believed herself his pitcher. At that moment, the door at the end
superior. He wished she would be more forth- of the room swung open and Paul appeared.
coming with him. His young wife seemed to Something came over Dorothy – rigidness,
him one of the most insular of people fright, anger. Paul, who beamed upon seeing
(although he had oŌen heard her talking unre- Lee, gazed at Dorothy in wonderment. “Hello!”
servedly with others, even men she hardly he said. “Lee and his young wife! I’m so de-
knew; taking candy from strangers, as it were). lighted to see you!” He came quickly toward
them holding out his hand to shake Dorothy’s,
They were not expected; Lee had just decided but she held her hands close to her body on
to drop in on his uncle as he had done a num- the edge of the tabletop, leaning away from
ber of Ɵmes before (and as he oŌen did at the him, at once livid and frightened. Paul recov-
ered from his brief discomfiture and sat at the
end of the table.

38

Revista Literária Adelaide

“Well, this is wonderful,” he said. “Where are “You’re not leaving already?” he said. “You’ve
you from, darling?” got to stay for dinner. We’re having pork
chops and mashed potatoes.”
“Roperville.”
“They have to go,” Sarah said.
“Roperville. Yes. I went to Roperville once. I
was looking for used farm equipment. I went “We’re in a hurry,” Lee said.
to a farmhouse where some had been adver-
Ɵsed, but when I knocked on the front door, As Paul protested, Lee put his hand on his
nobody answered. I thought the people might wife’s back and streered her out the door and
be in the back yard, so I walked around the toward the car. Paul followed, objecƟng. At
house, and there was this liƩle girl. – She was that moment, crying, “Oh!” Dorothy put her
dancing.” He paused and looked hard at Doro- hand to her ear.
thy. She leaned away, face frozen. “Anyway, I
enjoyed myself tremendously that day.” “What’s the maƩer, baby?” Lee said.

He waited but Dorothy said nothing. “Well, “It stung me,” she said.
that’s my story about Roperville,” he said,
geƫng up. “I’ll be back in a minute. I’ve got to “Did you get stung by a yellow jacket?” Paul
take care of some things.” He leŌ through the said. “There’s a yellow jacket nest in that tree
door he had come in through. – I’ve been meaning to get rid of it, I should
have goƩen rid of it. Let me see that, dear.”
Dorothy immediately leaned toward Lee and
hissed in a whisper that he could hear but Sa- “It’s all right,” Dorothy said, sorely vexed. “It’s
rah probably could not, “I want to go!” nothing.”

He resisted. Turning toward Sarah, he said, “Is “Where did it get you?” Paul said.
Paul farming full Ɵme now? I noƟce all his
fields look culƟvated.” “It’s nothing.”

“Yes, he loves it.” She turned her back on her “I think it got her behind her ear,” Lee said.
guests to take care of her cooking. Dorothy
kicked Lee under the table. “I want to leave,” “Let me put some tobacco on that,” Paul said.
she hissed. “That will draw the poison out.”

“Why?” he whispered. “That’s not necessary,” Dorothy said.

“I don’t like him.” She bit off each word, her “You can’t go running off like this,” Paul insist-
whole person rigid, fury in her eyes and the ed. “Just wait here for a second while I get
pallor of her face. some tobacco.”

“Why?” She resigned herself. He came back with to-
bacco and put it on the sƟng wound and put
She kicked him again. “I want to go now!” adhesive tape over the tobacco to hold it in
place. She endured his ministraƟons, Lee felt,
It would be fuƟle to resist. He raised his voice with an ill grace. He glanced at Paul anxiously
and said, “Sarah, we’ve got to go.” to see if he was offended.

“Now? You just got here,” Sarah said. “Don’t “There. That will draw out the poison,” Paul
go. Stay and eat with us.” said.

“We can’t. We’re in a hurry. We just dropped Lee thanked him and he and Dorothy said their
by for a minute.” goodbyes. In the car, in what he knew was a
wounded voice, he said, “Why didn’t you like
Dorothy was already on her feet. “Yes, we’ve him?”
got to go,” she said.
“I just don’t,” she said through a clenched jaw.
The door at the end of the room swung open They said nothing of moment the rest of the
and Paul reappeared. He saw they were leav- way home. They passed an unquiet evening
ing. and went to bed dissaƟsfied with one another.

39

Adelaide Literary Magazine

Next morning at 7:30 Dorothy went off to work that he might come back. Dorothy exploded in
and Lee was leŌ to ponder the visit to Uncle fury, “He’d beƩer not show up at this door. I’ll
Paul. He got ready for work and at about noon call the police!”
sauntered out of the apartment. When he was
a few paces from his car, he was amazed to see Lee looked at her in bafflement. Her acƟons
Uncle Paul crossing the street toward him. appeared unaccountable. What had Paul ever
Paul seemed disappointed to see him but cov- done to her? But she oŌen did things he did
ered his feelings in a show of bonhomie. not understand and would not explain herself
to him. Once when he complained that she did
“Where are you going?” Lee said. not try to understand him, she said, “I believe I
do understand you. And don’t you think a mar-
“I was coming to see you.” riage should be a two-way street?” When he
asked what she meant, she said, “Never mind.
“I’m leaving for work.” You wouldn’t comprehend.” He was stung, but
could get nothing else out of her. Now he saw
“Is Dorothy home?” he could not be Paul’s nephew as long as he
was married to Dorothy. But why can’t I? he
“No, she’s at work.” thought. Then there came knocking at the
back door of his mind an awful connecƟon be-
“That’s too bad. I did hope we could get over tween his uncle and his wife. He drew back in
our liƩle misunderstanding of yesterday. Well, horror. He did not want to see what such a
maybe I’ll come back.” thing had to do with Dorothy and Paul. He
decided the best thing for his peace of mind
He did not know how to respond. He could not was to forget he had ever thought of it.
say Dorothy would be glad to see Paul because
she clearly would not. They exchanged a few He did not know if Paul ever came back.
more words and Paul leŌ.

Lee was distressed by Paul’s visit but decided
to suppress thoughts of it. He went to work
and had a hard day at the factory. That even-
ing he told Dorothy of Paul’s visit and the hint

About the Author:

David Massey has a Masters Degree in English
Literature AŌer 1660 from The University of
South Carolina and, while there, took creaƟve
wriƟng classes under George GarreƩ and
James Dickey. He turned rather belatedly to an
earnest engagement with the craŌ of ficƟon
but has made progress of late. In 2017 he had
two short stories published and so far in 2018
has had a blog post on the craŌ of ficƟon pub-
lished in Black Fox Literary Magazine.

40

RESTART

by Amada Matei

Restart. Reboot. Refresh. New day. Fresh start. My first stop is the drive-thru for a caffeine
Forget regrets. My therapist told me I needed buzz. “Three seventy-five,” says the girl with
to find a ritual to remind my inner demons that the nose ring.
the past is gone and today I can start anew.
Beat down the beast that gnaws at my past “That’s a quarter more than usual,” I say.
digressions, vexing regrets and silences my
foreboding predicƟons of moral failures, all by “Sorry. I don’t set the prices.”
lighƟng a candle, siƫng cross-legged on the
floor, eyes closed, and singing my mantra. With my overpriced laƩe in one hand, I veer
What is done is done; it is what it is; let the back into traffic and jerk forward and back,
past stay in the past. I think of every axiom that forward and back, slamming on my brakes for
conveys self-forgiveness and hope and perhaps the nitwit in front of me. Forward and back. I
if I hum the incantaƟon long enough and loud hit the brakes again, this Ɵme a dollop of hot
enough, the morose images in my mind’s eye coffee stains my lap as I curse the nitwit and
will pop like a pus-infested pimple. All my er- the coffee and the traffic. I glance at my watch
rors will ooze out and I will feel cleansed as if every two minutes as I crawl through the muck
nothing ever happened. I will be reborn. Five that is my life.
minutes of humming and breathing and visuali-
zaƟon turns into a laundry list of meeƟngs, Thirty-five minutes later, I’m in my parking lot
memos to write, dinner parƟes, and some ass gripping the steering wheel like I’m wringing
kissing at the CEO’s luncheon. It’s a lukewarm out a wet towel and breathing myself back to
aƩempt at Nirvana, but I got to start some- Earth. Restart. New day. Breath in and out.
where. New day. New chapter. Restart. All is Count to four.
forgoƩen.
My boss visits my desk as soon as I sit down
I shave my face, remembering half way reminding me of our meeƟng, the one that’s a
through that my work wife likes it when I’m regurgitaƟon of our weekly flimflam, except
scruffy, giving off a rogue vibe, yet sƟll fashion- this Ɵme I have to present to the big wigs. I
ably hip. Now it’s too late. I shave the rest of head to the bathroom to dab and dry my pants
me and jolt at the Ɵny dagger laceraƟng my while I recap my speech in my head. My
chin. Blood cascades past my jowl and a wad of monolog is perfect, everyone is fixated on my
toilet paper is my only medical device. I stop impeccable delivery, and verbose gobbledy-
the bleeding and get dressed in a crisp blue gook. My boss is awestruck, he shakes my hand
shirt, purple striped Ɵe, and the rest of my un- at saving the company lots of moola, and in-
derling uniform. I rub my hands together as if sists I accept a raise and the corner office.
I’m washing them and take a deep breath.
Count to four. Exhale. The ritual of soul cleans- My reverie is shaƩered by my near collision
ing is eaƟng up my Ɵme. I grab my briefcase with Margo as I step out into the hallway. We
and start my day. smile and do the tango to get out of each oth-
er’s way. “Hey John. Aren’t you in a hurry?” she
says.

41

Adelaide Literary Magazine

“Sorry. Got that damn meeƟng on my mind,” I say with a chuckle but no one is laughing with
say and stare at her breasts. “Speaking of me.
things on my mind, you given any thought to
that drink?” My fresh start is no longer fresh. It’s no longer
new. It smells like day-old coffee and body
“About that. Not sure if it’s a good idea to mess odor. I pass out clean copies to my coworkers
around with coworkers. I just don’t want it to and throw the wet ones in the recycling bin.
be awkward later. I hope you can understand The minions look bored, uninterested, impa-
that.” Ɵent. A couple of people have to share a copy. I
spew lackluster numbers, irrelevant facts, and
“Sure. No worries,” I say remembering her last monotonous figures.
Facebook post showing off her long legs and
low-cut sweater, clinking beers with that He- A colleague quesƟons part of the data. It’s cor-
Man from IT. He was drooling over her exposed rect, I insist.
neckline and she appeared lit like a meander-
ing firefly. Awkward, my ass. “No, it’s not,” she insists and digs deeper and I
feel my penis shrinking with every debasing
I take the stairs, two at a Ɵme, stacks of manila comment she makes. Then it’s seƩled: my
folders nestled in the crux of my elbow. My numbers are off and I leave the meeƟng a cou-
asthma-like breathing gets shallower with eve- ple inches shorter.
ry climb because I didn’t realize three flights of
stairs was the equivalent to Iron Man training. The day is stale by noon. My heart feels like a
thirty-pound organ suffocaƟng every breath I
A bunch of minions and ass kissers were spread take. It pumps acid through my veins. I heave
around the conference table when I stumbled into the toilet, expecƟng blood or bile or de-
in, as beads of sweat clings to my hairline and mon piss. My heart is beaƟng a thousand beats
I’m no longer confident in my anƟperspirant. per minute and another drumming heart ap-
Count to four. Past mistakes stay in the past. pears in the middle of my brain. My therapist
Today stays in the present. said panic aƩacks are a manifestaƟon of the
mind because it feels it is losing control, stuck
“John, we’ve been waiƟng. We all got lives to in the corner with no way out. I breathe. I
live,” says my boss scribbling in his notebook, choke on my vomit before swallowing it back
not bothering to look in my direcƟon. “I hope down.
you’re ready.”
I hear footsteps outside my stall, then they
“Absolutely. I apologize for being late.” I plop paƩer away minutes later. My tongue feels like
my files onto the table. Stacks of paper slide sandpaper and my armpits are saturated with
out and ice skates towards my boss and bowls fear and the stench of embarrassment. The cell
into his coffee cup. It topples over, spewing any phone in my back pocket vibrates. I reach back
remaining liquid onto the table, absorbed by to pull it out and land hard on my ass when I
my handouts. I don’t dare check my boss’ ex- answer.
pression. I save what I can and accept napkins
from an altruisƟc neighbor. No one says a “John, where are you?” I recognize my work
word. I grab more paper towels by the donut wife’s voice.
plaƩer at the front of the room. I dab the
coffee cup dry and hand it to my boss. “I’m in the bathroom stall, Second floor.”

His is stoic and his hands remain in his lap. “You’re having another aƩack, aren’t you?
“You can throw it out. I’m done with it now.” I Need me to call someone?”
obey with clenched teeth and resume col-
lecƟng my stained paperwork. “I’ll be fine. I need a moment to find my self-
respect.”
“I apologize everyone. This is not how I wanted
to start this meeƟng, but at least my handouts “I heard about your meeƟng. A hot mess.” She
will now offer you a free whiff of caffeine,” I laughs like she feels sorry for me, but it makes
me smile listening to her voice.

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Revista Literária Adelaide

“I don’t know what to do.” My cell phone vibrates and sings. My work
wife’s photo appears on the screen. I smile
“You said you’ll be fine.” knowing she cares about my wellbeing and
perhaps knows me too well. I turn off the igni-
“I lied.” Ɵon and answer her. She calls to remind me
that tomorrow I can start again. Reboot.
“I’m coming to get you.” Restart.

A few minutes later I hear her voice announc- About the Author:
ing her presence. “I’m a woman coming into
the men’s bathroom. If you have a dick, beƩer Amada Matei works and lives in Cleveland,
cover it now!” Ohio. She is a graduate of John Carroll Universi-
ty and holds a Masters in Sociology from Cleve-
She hears me laughing and crying. “I land State University. By night, Amada super-
thought I was going to die,” I say when she vises a child abuse hotline, and by day, she's
crams herself into my stall and liŌs me by the wriƟng her first novel. She has contributed
arm. “I’m supposed to be the man helping you other works to Adelaide Magazine and was a
dry your eyes, not the other way around.” finalist in 2018 for the Adelaide Anthology
short story contest.
“My life is finally geƫng to where it doesn’t
suck, and that’s thanks to you holding me up.
I’m returning the favor, so don’t try to be
macho.”

“I’m glad I was useful. I wish my ex-wife
thought of me the same way.”

“Forget her. She had it made with you. She
blew it.”

“I hate my job. I despise my boss. I lost my
wife. Everything I touch turns to shit.”

“First, don’t ever become a moƟvaƟonal speak-
er. Second, this is nothing a sƟff drink can’t
cure.”

“I’m going to make this up to you. How about I
buy the drinks tomorrow night?”

“No way. You cry like a school girl,” she says
and I can’t stop laughing. My heart calms and I
can breathe. I wash my face and walk around
the floor to relax my nerves and situate myself
back at my desk.

Four hours later, I park my car in the garage.
While listening to talk radio and the humming
of the motor, the garage door descends and
touches the threshold, sealing me in. Talks of
the slowing economy and a surprise downturn
of the S & P 500 dominates the news, but the
journalist’s lullaby voice makes it all sound so
trite. I roll down the window and breathe. My
eyes are closed. I think of new beginnings. A
fresh start. The fumes waŌ towards my face
and seep into my nostrils, my mouth, my ears,
my brain.

43

THE KIND SOUL

HE IS

by Barbara BoƩner

“We’re not puƫng Boomer down,” says Dan, the middle of that conversaƟon. His communi-
rushing aŌer his morning shower. Our choco- qués just go booing! Pop tarts that fly out of
late lab, Boomer, as if he were fluent in Death, the toaster. You have to act like a plate, ready
sidles up to him, snuggles at his feet and gets to catch them.
Dan to scratch his neck. Why can’t my guy see
how it hurts Boomer to move? Why can’t he “How about this one?”
see how exhausted he gets? If Boom could talk,
he’d say, I can’t do this. I need to rest. I’m nine- “I like it.”
ty years-old. Pooped. Pooping constantly.
While I dry off, Dan holds up a Ɵe that I bought
But Dan doesn’t see a lot of things. He doesn’t him. It’s our ritual. Easy to agree on a Ɵe, a way
see me even if I’m planted in directly in front of to start the day that will have its own confu-
him. Or if he does, I’m cast as the high school sions, misunderstandings, disagreements. Mar-
principal during aŌer school detenƟon. At riage is like that. You culƟvate certain rituals so
least, that’s what I think he thinks. that when things don’t shake out, you can at
least stand at the closet and agree on the red
Boomer stares at Dan. I think our old guy might paisley Ɵe.
be crying. Dan stoops down and strokes him,
coos to him. He’s saying its okay, old boy. It’s My guy and I need every close encounter we
okay. I’m thinking, Dan, that juicy tenderness… can get. Things have been testy between us
can I have a taste? since Margareta, a head hunter, obsessively
has been pitching Dan a radiology gig in Texas.
I turn the radio to NPR and hear people dis- Laredo Texas. At first he said no. But the mon-
cussing their work with Gorillas, who are so ey is calling to him. He says the hospital has
famous for nurturing their young. They groom great equipment. Besides, we’d live large, have
their babies, inspect them, protect them. They cooks, maids, drivers, and we’d learn Spanish. I
don’t bear an offspring and decide, that actual- say it’s not a place a Jewish woman who talks
ly, they were too young at the Ɵme; it was the too fast, wears too much makeup and writes
wrong move or maybe they’d be happier in snarky comedy for even snarkier comedians
adverƟsing. could live. It’s rural. If you own a cow I don’t
want to talk to you.
I have always been jealous of gorilla babies and
those long hairy arms they use to encircle each Call me intemperate. I don’t care.
other. Jealous, too, of certain women whose
men sƟck around while they finish eaƟng. “I belong in LA,” I tell him.

“Our dog’s inconƟnent,” I say. “Traffic,” he answers.

“Boomer is sƟll okay for awhile,” Dan’s picking I plead with him to turn this job down. To con-
out a shirt while I shower. “I don’t want sider me. But he keeps having private conver-
to move to Texas either,” he says as if we’re in saƟons with Margareta. I hear him joking with
her; she must be a real hoot.

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Revista Literária Adelaide

So there’s that hanging over us. And since people, wriƟng grants, discussing and per-
Boomer’s era of inconƟnence, we’ve been ar- fecƟng the Work. But the very minute I became
guing about when exactly his exit should hap- a spouse; the CollecƟve Unconscious drop-
pen. kicked into my brain. It was so sudden. It’s like,
now I almost care about dish soap. Ask me
It has to. See, Dan insists on a prisƟne-clean where to find the best Romano cheese. You go
home but he doesn’t help in any way. I never up Melrose near La Cienaga...I know about red
signed up for months and months of cleaning peppers, marinades, carpet cleaners; I am a
up dog poop, even the poop of beloved Boom- fluff and folder now, I swear I am.
er. Before I met Dan, a doctor no less, I never
saw myself as even remotely domesƟc. My But I’m not a pooper scooper. No. Can’t do it.
moon is not in Venus or wherever the heck it
should be when it comes to vacuuming. Dan and I, we both need a Francine.

Dan is oblivious about what makes a house a By the Ɵme I get into the kitchen, Dan’s long
home. Being a Jewish Doctor and the son of a gone. Only the intense Gevalia coffee aroma
Jewish doctor and a nurse, he focuses on sci- snitches that his getaway was made merely
ence and medicine: his observaƟons about minutes ago. My next move is to see if Boomer
domesƟc life are not keen. He can’t see news- might have extended his life by doing his morn-
papers on the floor or dishes in the sink. To ing poop outside. I gingerly look around cor-
him, a house is like a self-cleaning oven. I tell ners and jubilantly discover Boomer has not,
him I’m not a spray-on cleaner. Or a spray-on shit on the white Ɵle floor. I compliment him
anything. I’m not an ambient wife. while I fill his bowl and I and thank my lucky
stars that I don’t have to be a desperate house-
He says ‘oh, that’s so funny.’ wife with dog shit today. But then, around the
counter; on the far side of the refrigerator, I
Last week, I finally met someone who under- almost step on a familiar brown lump. Boomer
stood. hobbles away, embarrassed. Dog shame. My
spirit falls to the floor like a damn boulder.
This guy with an earring, Jim, was here last Here I go again, searching for the paper towels,
week to fix the icemaker in the refrigerator. He the plasƟc bag, the mop and bleach. How can
looked as if he’d lived hard and maybe had too you scold a pet that has no muscle control?
many days at sea with too many boƩles of Dan has made this point many Ɵmes. While I
Scotch. He was missing a prominent tooth. But finish cleaning everything up, I complain to the
he was a talker and I liked him. While I made a God who gave me a un-communicaƟve hus-
salad, he told me this sad story about Francine, band and an inconƟnent dog.
his girlfriend, who had just died. Right off, he
told me what he loved about her. I call Dan to give him the bad news, but he’s in
the recovery room with a paƟent. I hold unƟl
“She was such a good cleaner, man. The best! they finally put me through.
She was fantasƟc. When she leŌ a place, it was
enƟrely fucking sterilized. See this counter, he “Okay, then put him down already!” he
referred to the granite island in our kitchen, shouts. “Just don’t ask me about it!” Then I
she’d move this counter if she could, and clean hear the intercom: ‘Radiology… pick up line 3.’
over it and under it, man,” he said, swilling his They don’t even bother to use Dan’s name; I
second of Dan’s Dos Equis. “There was nobody know he has trouble with that. I wish he felt
like this girl.” Jim’s green eyes locked mine to more appreciated at work. I was brought up to
make sure I was geƫng his message As if I had believe men wanted to conquer the world.
a choice. He almost started crying. Turns out, they mostly want someone to say
‘nice job. Thank you. Good boy.’
Francine, this lady of Jim’s. wasn’t even his
wife! I do this Wife Deal. I do it way too much. And they want a treat.
Before I was a wife, I was once so not wife, you
could hardly get a cup of coffee off me. I was No wonder Dan adores dogs.
making art, chumming around with theater

45

Adelaide Literary Magazine

I call the vet and make an appointment, then What a spectacular day, as if Boomer himself
find Boomer’s leash. With great effort he strug- picked it: the low humidity, the clear skies and
gles to his feet, the spirit willing. I’m pretend- temperatures in the high sixƟes. How lovely it
ing this is our regular, occasional trot around is that the weather of our last moments on
the neighborhood. He’s having trouble, so I earth are perfect.
follow along as he stumbles. Sits. Lies down.
Tries to get up. So, we just go to the end of the I lead him to the Toyota.
property. It’s refreshingly cool outside which
makes my face Ɵngle pleasantly. I love the feel- His eyes swivel; cameras snapping shots, his
ing of air rushing into my lungs; it’s as if life mouth dripping saliva, his tongue licking my
comes towards me, inviƟng out. arm as if I were doing him a favor, which is
what the car represents to him. Trips, parks, an
I complain to Boomer about the smell; he licks adventure. I heave in a breath. That was the
me like the kind soul he is, as if licking is some- wrong thing to do----breathe. I burst out in
thing that makes me feel beƩer. Typical male. sobs, a river of apologies flood the car. I tell my
He wants to hear \good job,’ too. He limps, dog how much I’ve loved him, and how I’m
sniffs, earnestly trying to be the hearty pup he sorry I have to do this, and he’s such a good,
once was. Every once in awhile he barks; he good dog, such a born comedian, and he’s
can sƟll bark. A cat, a rustle of a tree; Boomer made us so happy. And remember the walk in
is on duty, ruff ruff, that’s my boy. the hills he loved so much, and the doggie
park, and how he got the squirrel one night?
Back at the house, he pants, splayed on the And how he drank from my bidet thinking it
floor, I talk doggie to him, brave Boomer, al- was a doggie fountain? What about the year
ways taking care of his girl, Stormy. Thank you, we dressed him up for our Christmas card; he
you old guy. He wags his tail; he’s so good- was famous all over town. How he’d snore next
natured. We’re very close, his innocence, my to Dan and I could never make out for the life
guilt. of me who snored louder. How he preferred
certain lawns in the summer to roll on, and
I’m shaking but I have to face the fact that I how we took him up to Oregon and he had two
can’t live this way anymore. I can’t start my day delirious weeks frolicking in the creeks and
with the pungent smell and the clean up job. I running thru the grass, his ears flying and how
leave a message on Dan’s voice mail, re- at night, he lay in front of the fire so Ɵred and
quesƟng that he meet me at the vets aŌer happy. What a funny liƩle guy he used to be
work. I cut up steak. Boomer only sniffs it, and when we first rescued him. And then I’m plead-
then eyes me suspiciously which he does ing for his forgiveness, and soon, I can’t even
whenever I give him really good food. He only see the road in front of me, my eyes can’t fo-
eats a few small pieces, and slowly. He must cus. I’m hysterical, heaving, sobbing, wailing,
sense something; he never eats leisurely. But my heart is simply breaking open. Boomer re-
today he’s a thousand chews a bite--a macrobi- gards me with avuncular concern as we pull off
oƟc lab. Ventura Boulevard into the vets’ lot. I take the
collar and hook it up to the leash and help him
I pet him and brush him and noƟce how willing stumble out of the car onto the pavement.
he is to cherished. Then I shoot a few parƟng
shots; Boomer is all raised eyebrows. Even He’s immediately searching for life, as usual.
through the lens, though, there’s no disguising Something interesƟng. His aƫtude is so com-
his droopy skin and grey hair. pletely posiƟve; he doesn’t need Louise Hay
tapes or CD’s of mindfulness meditaƟons; I
Boomer’s old. accept and love myself exactly the way I am.

Now I’m all business, trying to get him inside In we go. The preƩy LaƟna recepƟonist asks
the car. He works diligently to oblige: his hind why we’re here unƟl she takes a look at my
legs are not able to hoist him up. I give him a miserable face; then she hands me a Kleenex,
boost. We work with each other, he wants to nods and disappears.
be spring into the seat, but he can’t and I al-
most fall down under his weight.

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Revista Literária Adelaide

Meanwhile Boomer is interested in the other be alone then. I don’t want to be with an intro-
dogs; he pulls on the leash, sniffing them. My vert like Dan, who might be busy scratching his
God, his last moments on earth are so friendly, leg while I die. I don’t need to die insulted.
so sweet. I feel the collecƟve Sadness of Ever
Saying Goodbye to Love. I’m swallowing As the doctor loads the lethal stuff, I’m trying
guƩural sounds, hoping I’m not noƟced, hoping to hold on. I look into Boom’s eyes, hum, coo,
nobody here know my mission. My Kleenex is and try every uƩerance a human can make to
useless. I need extra strength. soothe another senƟent being. At some point
the needle is inserted and Boom’s eyes have
“I’m sorry, dear,” says a frail woman with a begun to close. Slowly, they do fall shut. And
poodle who she calls Finley. “He seems like a then he is quiet. The doctor nods.
lovely pet.” She reaches out to Boomer and he
licks her in his dumb, enthusiasƟc way. Her Boomer isn’t here anymore.
poodle and Boomer sniff each other.
It seems that every loss I’ve had, or maybe
“Boomer’s very last dog friend,” I blurt out. even the collecƟve loss is now anchored in my
gut, my shoulders, behind my eyes. My heart
“I can see that, on your face, dear,” she says contracts like a fist. I’m buried in the white
kindly. “Finley likes him.” towel.

I wish she wasn’t so nice. Nice hurts. “Do you want to stay in the room for a mi-
nute?” Doctor Rob asks.
Boomer barks at Finley. Our old man wants to
play. Come on, Finley, man. Play with Boom! I shake my head yes. Then, no. No! Then, yes,
please. I keep whispering stupid metaphysical
I conƟnue to weep; tears plunk onto his fur. stuff he’d never understand, like does he see
Now, Doc Rob, tall, a liƩle furry, and possibly the light as he passed, or his mommy? I make
the most relaxed human I’ve ever met, opens promises about how there will be new life in a
the heavy door and signals me inside. I pull the brand new body; he’ll be a fluffy, healthy, tail
leash and Boomer manages to rise. Inside we wagging, steak-fetching, tongue-licking pup
go directly to a steel and glass cubicle. Rob who can run and sleep without snoring. The
checks his file then explains how this is going to truth is that I’m waiƟng for that dog to get up
happen. It won’t take long, only several off the table and come home with me. I want
minutes from when he injects. Boomer will be resurrecƟon; not re-incarnaƟon, which takes
enƟrely comfortable. That sƟngs me somehow. too long.
Shouldn’t death be uncomfortable? Or maybe
I’m thinking of life. Then, I get up and run through the waiƟng
room, past the doggies waiƟng for shots and
Doc Rob has an easier Ɵme geƫng Boomer on teeth cleanings, over to the cashier. I struggle
the table than I would have imagined. He has a with my wallet, not able to look at her, aware
talent for this. The doctor pets him and gently my face is probably streaked with makeup.
talks to him. Boomer only makes a few whiny
sounds, but we are both so present, he must “Why did I put on blush when it always runs? I
see our hearts. I try to quit my laments but it’s knew where I was going,” I say as I dig for my
no use. Who wouldn’t weep? I can’t stop my- checkbook, which I can’t find.
self from murmuring tenderly. I can’t seem to
shut up. She says, don’t worry, we’ll mail this to you
later. Do you want his ashes?
“This is the right thing to do,” says Dr. Rob.
“Ready?” He’s not morbid or cold, just focused; I shake my head yes, which strikes me as the
there’s a job to do. This helps me, too. He wrong answer but she says they will drop them
hands me a big white towel. I nod okay, but I’m off for me in a day or so. I clear the door, dash
not. to my car and collapse in the driver’s seat. Dan
is siƫng in the passenger seat staring ahead.
I think: I hope my demise will go a liƩle like
this, somebody that I love witnessing, con- “Why didn’t you wait for me?” he asks tesƟly.
necƟng when it most maƩers. I don’t want to

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

I give him a disbelieving glance as I grab a Ɵs- “How can you say that? The long hours I work.”
sue to try to get the thick mascara glunk off my
face. “I know you work long hours,” I say gruffly.

“I didn’t think you’d come!” “I suppose you’d like me to lick you when I get
home?”
I can’t look him in the eyes because if he’s even
a liƩle tender, I will tear apart like an old rag. “Yes, actually,” I admit. “Or do something
So I look at my hands. Then at Dan’s. Then at friendly. Anything would be beƩer than playing
my hands gripping each other as if I squeeze Solitaire on the computer with the focus of a
them hard enough I won’t wail. Traffic Controller.”

Then I noƟce Dan’s breathing. He’s trying not “I can’t believe we’re fighƟng over this,” says
to cry too. Dan. “Boomer helped me relax aŌer work.”

“Dan, Doc Rob says he deserved to stop suffer- “Maybe I could do that,” I say. I begin crying
ing. You always told me if you had to suffer too again.
much, you’d want to die.”
There’s a Pancake House next door to the
“Well, I’m a coward,” he reminds me. Vet’s. We take a booth and use Maple Syrup to
medicate our pain. The waitress must sense
There isn’t much more we can say. Dan inhales something; she talks so quietly I almost can’t
and exhales loudly. He’s digging for a Ɵssue hear: do we want more coffee? Maybe she’s
and snorƟng so he doesn’t have to blow his used to people coming here for pancake thera-
nose which would be, I guess, a confession of py aŌer dreaded vet appointments.
his sorrow. Finally his tears do emerge, slowly,
as if even crying has to be restrained and digni- “Should we get another dog?” Dan asks.
fied.
This starts the tears all over again.
I adore him for this sadness---his sensiƟvity is
probably why I married him. “You’re not making any sense,” says Dan.

“Honey….” I say tenderly. “I thought dogs were supposed to teach us
how to live,” I say.
“He was the best dog,” bleats Dan.
“Maybe Boomer did,” he says.
“He adored you, honey,” I mumble.
“He was the perfect guy,” I agree.
“Nobody will ever love me like Boomer loved
me,” he says gloomily. “Woof, woof,” says Dan. “I could try to take his
place. Then, “Where would I lick you, anyway?”
“Excuse me!”
I try not to laugh. And then I’m giggling. This
“You know what I mean.” makes Dan reach for my hand.

“I’m fucking devoted to you; you realize that, We look at each other. Love syrup floats above
don’t you?” our pancakes. We connect.

“Sure, honey, but you’re not a dog.” Dan’s beeper goes off. He turns away, muƩers
several ‘uh huhs’ then locks my eyes queerly.
“Well, either are you a dog, Dan!” “The head hunter from Texas. I have to talk to
her.” He points to the check, then to my hand-
He shrugs again. bag, shoulders the phone and waves. He man-
ages to take one last forkful of pancake, and
“Okay, tell you what? I’ll take that remark that then bolts out of the restaurant. The door
I’m not a dog as a compliment,” I say. slams as Dan dashes to his Caddy. I watch it
shoot out to the street, and then how it speeds
“I didn’t actually mean it as a compliment.” crazily down Ventura Boulevard.

“Well, Boomer loved me beƩer than you do,
any day, Dan.”

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