Adelaide Literary Magazine No.28, September 2019

Revista Literária Adelaide

siblings as an offering to the birds. The two favorite beings in the world. I could s ll
mother smacked them upside the head, remember knocking on the door, holding a
“Stop it, stop it,” and tried to unravel one Ca leman Pizza from Mama Teresa’s, wait-
of the li le girls, wrapped around her leg, ing to hear Bubbles yipping from inside,
pressing her tear-streaked face against the scratching at the peeling paint of the front
mother’s knee. door. I didn’t hear anything. The welcome
mat covered in bits of dust and fallen leaves
A part of me hoped that Leo would ar- had a secret key hidden underneath it and
rive right at that moment to see the human as I twisted that into the lock, I thought that
world turned upside down by a couple of maybe Leo had locked Bubbles in the kennel
fat birds. It’d be a nice way to start the con- if the shop called him in. I found Leo playing
versa on, in shock and laughter in the cha- Overwatch on the stained sofa, smushed,
os. It’d be a nice, silly way to start over and empty bags of popcorn lying around him
start anew. and a can of Mountain Dew overturned,
seeping into the couch.
It had been three weeks since I told him,
“I never want to see you ever again.” “Hey babe, almost done, almost done.”

Maybe we needed something a li le “Where’s Bubbles? I’ll let her out. I
crazy, like A ack of the Seagulls, to ease picked up a pizza.”
tension.
He looked up and looked back down at
I sat there, watching the seagulls scream the game. “Uh. She’s not here.”
and steal bits of scraps before flying away
to safety. Children were crying around me, “She at your Mom’s place?”
a symphony of the ruined beach adventure.
No, Bubbles was not at Patricia’s place.
A li le terrier erupted from where the Leo had go en red of having a dog around
umbrellas were flocked together. He ran to- and Bubbles had just passed eight months
wards two seagulls figh ng over a golden old. She wasn’t a cute puppy anymore,
fast food wrapper and he snapped at them, she was something that needed too much
barking up a storm, telling them off and training and too much me. Sure, a dog
what not. was fun and all but it was more fun ge ng
some me to himself. Didn’t I understand
The terrier looked nothing like Bubbles how difficult of a decision that had been for
but I thought about her anyway. On Fridays him? Couldn’t I understand how hard that
and special Tuesdays, I drove from Pasade- had been for him to drop Bubbles off at his
na a er Leo le the shop for the day. Then nephew’s ex-girlfriend’s aunt’s place? Who
the three of us would take the Island Tran- was someone Leo knew very well, thank
sit, walk the extra eight minutes, and stroll you very much but who didn’t have a first
along East Beach shore together. Leo and name worthy enough to be remembered
I always held hands, both slick with sweat when prompted?
and without a care in the world, while Bub-
bles strained against her leash to a ack “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said.
seagulls and small children.
“Babe. I’m being serious.”
Three weeks ago, I traveled from my
garbage apartment in Pasadena to see my “You can’t be serious.”

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Leo shrugged. “I’m serious,” but he their a en on, “We’re just going to go
wouldn’t meet my eyes, “Come on, don’t home if you can’t behave! No! We’re not
make me into the bad guy here.” ge ng pizza! Or ice cream!” The children
screamed back in response.
I drummed my fingers against the pizza
box. “Where’s my stuff?” I hiccuped be- “NO!”
tween tears, “My mugs, my blankets? I’m
going home.” “I don’t want to leave!”

But we just needed to talk about what “Leave?! Mom, I would rather DIE”
had happened. If my calcula ons were right,
Leo had just go en off of work, checked The smallest child, dragging the cloth
Overwatch, taken the Island Transit, walked bag, bumbled farther and farther away
the extra eight minutes, and soon enough from the stomping grounds, trying to out-
he’d see me enjoying myself in the sand. It maneuver the seagulls. I almost said some-
was a foolproof plan. I’d explain I was just at thing to the parents, almost did, and then I
East Beach to relax, we’d strike up a conver- took another sip of Tito’s and rethought the
sa on, I’d unblock him from all of my social inclina on.
media accounts (LinkedIn and Ne lix in-
cluded) and we’d pick Bubbles up together I didn’t need to anyway, the father
from wherever Leo abandoned our baby at. caught no ce of seagull inten ons and saw
them creeping up towards his own flesh
For a moment, the world cleared around and blood. The birds were waddling a li le
me and I blinked out of the alcohol-induced faster a er the child dragging the cloth bag
stupor. The seagulls were s ll wreaking hav- behind him. The child realized his mistake
oc. I sighed, ran my hands through my hair and started hurrying, throwing his other
and rubbed away the sweat that collected hand to the air and belted out cries. The fa-
on the back of my neck. My head pounded ther started towards them, “Oh god. Mont-
from the sun and I swirled the paper bag in gomery! Montgomery!”
my hand, keeping the liquor just inside the
bo le. “With a name like that,” I took another
sip of Tito’s, “He deserves to get chased by
Two of the seagulls crept up behind the gulls.”
beach adventure family, inching closer to-
wards the cooler near the umbrella. On top “Montgomery!” The father ripped off
of the cooler was the prize, the par ally bit- one of the towels folded over their beach
ten, perfectly cra ed roast beef sandwich. chairs and strode towards the shore, to
On the other side of the blanket was one of catch up with his child, “Montgomery!” The
the twins or the single youngest kid, I s ll father looked back to the rest of the circus
wasn’t sure. He was dragging one of the family pu ng away their tent, “Babe, the
environmentally friendly cloth grocery bags gulls are going to fly away with-” but he
and stumbling away, trying to escape other stopped what he was saying.
seagulls that crept closer and closer to the
reused, reduced, recycled prize. His roast beef sandwich, res ng on the
cooler, baking in the sun, was being stalked
The mother was packing up the rest by one of the seagulls close by. The seagull
of the things, clapping at the kids to get fluffed out its feathers, cocked its head,
and took steps up to the cooler. The father
looked back and forth between his greatest

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crea on and the snot-nosed brat he had flesh and blood and memories and every-
dragged to the beach only a few minutes thing to you! How could you abandon him
ago. I sat up in my seat, trying to see his for a sandwich?!” The father held up his
thought process in the wrinkles that out- hands in defense and his kid turned to stare
lined his forehead. His kid was close to be- at me. “That’s horrible!” I could feel some-
ing nipped by fat birds, there was no way thing wet on the side of my face, leaking
he’d head back to a warm sandwich. out from my eyes.

The father hiked back to his family put- “Hey. Lady.” The father held up his sand-
ng their things in their cloth bags. The wich and gestured it towards me in wide,
seagull and the father paused for a moment, sweeping mo ons, “You smell like booze
gazing at each other, measuring each other’s and you’re screaming at my kid.”
worth. With a flick of his wrist, the father
snapped the towel at the bird creeping up to The mother stepped away from the
the cooler. The seagull jolted back, opened flock of umbrellas and into the sand next to
its beak to u er a horrified scream and took me, “Babe, I’ve got the kids in the car, let’s
off down the beach. “Haha, awesome,” the go get a pizza. I need a drink.” She turned
father took the last step and took a giant over to look at me, I could feel her eyes
bite out of the sandwich that had spent on my face and I’m sure she saw the tears
some me hea ng up on the cooler. streaked across my cheeks.

I pushed back from the clearance beach “Lady,” He started, “Look, you smell like
chair and it fell back on to the sand. My bot- booze-”
tle of Tito’s slipped out from its paper bag
and hit the ground, my notebook plopped I took a deep breath and wrapped my
into the sand and my pen was nowhere to arms around my body, I wasn’t sure if I
be seen. “You’ve got to be kidding me!” was shaking or if the rest of the world was.
No ma er how many mes I swallowed
“What?” The father looked over to see the heavy thump in my throat, that dry-
me waving my arms at him, “What? What? ness wouldn’t leave. All the liquid in my
Did a seagull get you?” body was pouring out of my eyes. “I can’t,
I’m can’t-” I stumbled back to my things
“You just abandoned your kid!” I point- and threw everything in my bookbag, the
ed at the li le boy out of sight, “For a sand- crunch of my quart sized bag of barbecue
wich!” chips was unmistakable.

The father stepped back and held up his “Lady, I think you’ve been drinking-”
sandwich, “My kid’s fine.”
I ignored him and tossed my bag over
“He’s ge ng chased by birds!” my shoulder, wheeling around to walk
away from the line of judgemental um-
The father shrugged and held up the brellas. In the burning, dying sun, my
sandwich, “I can always make another one.” blood ran cold when I saw the mess of
brown curls towering over the umbrel-
One of his children walked up to him, las and peeks of an Overwatch fan shirt,
“Mom’s in the car and she can’t find Monte.” strides ahead of me. “Oh, you’ve got to be
kidding me.”
“Hey!” My feet sunk in the sand and the
heat pierced my toes, “That’s your kid! Your

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

“Jack, what’d she say? Kidding? Jack, sand. “I’ll call Carrie...I’ll call Rex...I’ll call
she’s freaking out the kids.” someone,” I had to get back to Pasadena.
I’d find someone in my contacts and offer
In the breaks of families, I could see them tears or fi y bucks, whatever worked.
Leo’s e-dye Overwatch shirt, I’d recognize “I just need someone to drive me home. I
those brown curls anywhere. “Oh, Jesus.” just need someone with nted windows in
their car,” I mumbled into the daylight.
“Lady-”
“What?” The li le boy waddled closer
I pivoted another 180 degrees and to me.
pushed past the beach adventure family.
I pushed past them and stomped through “Nothing, nothing.”
the sand, it burned my bare feet. I remem-
bered walking into the beach in periwinkle “Oh, you’re the drunk lady, my Mom
dollar store sandals and I had no idea where said I can’t talk to you.”
those ended up at. But I also remembered
seeing the Overwatch shirt and the brown I stopped in the sand and stared at him.
curls, coming right to where I was just a The seagulls had started to waddle away
moment ago. Panic set in and my heart from Montgomery’s precarious posi on. I
lurched in my throat like my body lurched took out my baggie of barbecue chips and
back and forth in the sand. I shrugged one I shook the bag in the air, the birds glanced
of the towels out of my bag and wrapped back and caught eye with me.
it around my body, hunkering down into
it. The world in front of me was split into a “You smell, my Mom doesn’t smell when
hazy, lapping blue and pure gold that bled she drinks.”
into each other, the same colors I tried to
escape from. The seagulls snapped into a en on
when I shook the bag again and I sent a
A pack of seagulls, clustered together, silent prayer to God before I opened the
were in front of me, wai ng paces behind baggie.
the li le boy to see what treasures he with-
held. The child and I were at the break be- The li le boy wove his hand towards his
fore the so er sand that kissed the ocean, family and took the first step before I tossed
on the outskirts of the family fun postcard. I the baggie of crushed potato chips to him.
needed a way to cut myself out of the post- The bag hit his shoulder and the dark red
card, something to break me away. bits stuck to his sweaty skin. The seagulls
shrieked and descended on him, trying to
“I need to walk back to my car,” I get a piece of the baggie.
shrugged out my last bo le of Tito’s Hand-
made and I poured it on my feet, blessing I spun around and stumbled away from
the sand beneath me. “I parked...I parked him. I hugged against the lines of beachgo-
in the free parking...I need to get back ers stretched out on towels, star ng to lean
without...without anyone seeing me…” up and crane their necks, to see why a child
I refused to say his name because I knew was yelling close by. Beachgoers shuffled
the moment I did, he’d appear next to me. out of the chairs to inves gate the commo-
I emp ed out the bo le and dropped it
onto the ground with a heavy thump in the on and I only glanced back once, to see
the Overwatch shirt heading off to the di-
rec on of the kid.

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I’d call somebody once I’d get off the
sand. Once I’d get away from the sand, I’d
call somebody with nted windows, just
in case. I just needed someone who drove
with nted windows, just in case, I saw any-
one walking the extra eight minutes to East
Beach. I just needed someone who drove
with nted windows, just in case, I saw any-
one I knew.

123

VALENTINE’S DAY

by Christopher Johnson

Dad was of the World War II genera on. The off to his mysterious doings in the heart of
Greatest Genera on. Born in 1920, came of the great city.
age during the Great Depression. Dad wore
his body like armor, like so many men of his When he came home, he ate dinner,
genera on. He was tall and thin, handsome and he asked each of us how our day was
when he was young, with blue-gray eyes of at school. But he mostly talked to Mom.
steel and an unpredictable laugh and per- When he talked, I sensed something . .
fectly straight teeth. He valued normalcy, . something, even then. I was only eight
and I don’t mean that in a denigra ng way. years old. He would talk about Po sie, his
A er the Depression and World War II, who boss in the Steamship Division of U.S. Steel,
wouldn’t want normalcy? where he worked. Po sie was always do-
ing something that made Dad angry. His
In the mornings, he did what men do. last name was Po s, but Dad always called
He shaved, but he didn’t have to comb his him Po sie. I picked up something in Dad’s
hair because he kept it in a severe crew cut. voice that made me afraid. It was a cloud of
He put on his crisply creased trousers and frustra on that hung over him. Po sie this,
sharply ironed shirt, like a solder arming Po sie that. Frustra on like a gray cloud, as
himself. He sat down at the kitchen table, if Dad had dreams buried so far down, bur-
and Mom served him coffee and placed ied in a coffin deep inside.
two so -boiled eggs and bu ered toast
gently in front of him. He raised the Cleve- One me Dad took me fishing, or at
land Plain Dealer and disappeared behind least he tried to take me fishing. We never
it, and we heard nothing from him except quite got that far. We were walking to the
occasional grunts when he read something lake, and as was my habit, I was following
about the stupidity of the Democrats. in Dad’s footsteps, going where he led. I
looked around, and the woods surround-
When he finished reading the newspa- ed us, and they were a deep and profound
per, he reappeared and finished his coffee green, and I dawdled, and Dad said hurry
and went off to brush his teeth. He wrapped up, and we approached the lake, and it was
his e around his neck. His rituals seemed crystal-blue, and Dad said hurry up again.
so distant to me. He said good-bye to us,
but he did not kiss Mom. He was impreg- We started to dig up worms, and I
nable, enclosed in the armor of his skin. He promptly plunged the pitchfork that Dad
disappeared through the front door, went had brought into my toe, and spots of blood
appeared through my Keds. “Oh, no!” I

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groaned. Dad groaned, too. “Oh, for God’s not asked—me to help him. I, of course, re-
sake!” he said. We had to go home, and on sented this, but he was the father. I wanted
the way home, it was silent as death in the to be outside playing. Yet, in a way, helping
car, and that cloud of frustra on hung over him forged a bond between us.
him, and he didn’t speak all the way home.
There was always that air, that air of disap- One me we were wallpapering the din-
pointment in me, the unstated thing that I ing room, with this intricate pa ern that
had let him down. was very hard to match. We turned the pa-
per over, face down on the dining room ta-
A er dinner, Dad would retreat to the ble, and he applied the paste to the back of
family room, and he disappeared behind the paper while I held it to keep it from slid-
the Plain Dealer to finish reading it, and ing. He was focused like an animal lasered
then he watched TV. He laughed at the in on its prey. He swept the brush back and
jokes on those situa on comedies of the forth, applying the paste, making sure that
Fi ies, at Lucy and Ralph Kramden, but oth- it covered each and every inch of the piece
erwise he was expressionless. What was he of wallpaper. His blue-gray eyes trained on
thinking, I wondered. I knew what was go- the paper, his brows were kni ed in con-
ing on in my brain. I was always making up centra on. His heart, his soul, were lost in
li le stories in my head about cowboys and the physical act.
Indians or pirates. But what about him? It
was hard to tell. We li ed the paper from the table and
carried it over to the wall as if we were
Every Saturday, Dad mowed his moth- carrying a dozen eggs. The paper touched
er’s lawn, in Cleveland Heights. Dad was the the wall, and the paste grabbed hold. Dad
only child, and she was a widow. Some mes slowly pressed the paper against the wall
I helped him. He seemed to love mowing so there would not be any wrinkles or air
the lawn. He was in the flow of it. It was bubbles. It was a war against that uncov-
a manual mower, and he pushed it up and ered wall, and he was determined to be
down the lawn, making sure that every sin- triumphant. He was lost, completely lost,
gle blade of grass was conquered into sub- totally unconscious of what he was doing.
mission. Then he took out the hand trimmer The spirit of wallpaper hanging had cap-
and trimmed the edges of the lawn. I looked tured him in its grip. He carefully slid the
at him, and I knew there was no thought or new strip of wallpaper up a quarter of an
frustra on behind his blue-gray eyes. All inch to match the paper already pasted to
his synapses were focused on the lawn. He the wall. A match! It was perfect!
had achieved satori. His mother—my grand-
mother—looked on approvingly. But when He took out the plumb line from his
he got home, Mom asked, “When are you paint-spa ered toolbox. He held the end of
going to do our lawn?” She would mu er to the plumb line against the newly hung wall-
herself as she made dinner. paper. He dropped the weight and waited
for it to stop swinging. He looked closely.
When he wasn’t mowing Grandmother’s The plumb line followed the line where the
lawn, he was fixing something around our two strips of wallpaper met. It was perfec-
house—pain ng, wallpapering. It was so
important for him to be doing, doing, do- on. Tension had crunched his forehead,
ing. He loved hanging wallpaper. He told— but now he was relieved. He had tuned out
the world and all its problems. “Harriet!”

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he shouted to my mother, who was in the track, eh, Herbie?” From that, I inferred
kitchen. “Want to look at it?” that two-dollar bills were associated with
racetracks, but I didn’t quite know how.
She came in from whatever she was do-
ing in the kitchen. “Is it straight?” he asked. Once I had my record player in hand, I
began to buy records. The first one I bought
She stepped back, looked. “It looks very was “Sixteen Tons,” by Tennessee Ernie
nice, Ar e,” she said, typically understat- Ford. Loved that song. “Sixteen tons and
ed. Ebullience was not her thing. They had whaddya get? Another day older and deep-
this kind of mutual understanding that the er in debt.” It said something fatalis c and
important thing was to get ma ers right. doomed that remains with me to this day.
“OK,” he said, dismissing her. The wallpa- Other kids liked “How Much Is That Doggie
per was perfect, and for a li le bit of me, in the Window?” I liked “Sixteen Tons.”
he had fended off the chaos of the world.
Chaos had been averted. He would fix the The next one I bought was “Hound Dog”
world, one strip of wallpaper at a me. and “Don’t Be Cruel,” by Elvis, the King
himself. “Hound Dog” and “Don’t Be Cruel”
When I turned nine, I asked for a por- are the only sides of a single in which both
table record player. They were all the rage songs hit #1. Even the Beatles never did
at the me. I wanted my own music. Alan that. “Hound Dog” was good, but “Don’t Be
Freed had broken rock ‘n’ roll in Cleveland, Cruel” was the one I loved. I’d been wan ng
and I fell in love with this mysterious insis- Elvis records ever since we’d seen him on
tent music with the big backbeat. I wanted Ed Sullivan—the famous appearance where
to own some of that music for my own, so I the cameramen didn’t show him swiveling
asked for the record player. his hips because if they had, America would
have fallen apart. As we watched, I looked
Mom and Dad bought it for me for my at Mom, and I thought she was going to
ninth birthday. They would not have bought faint in horror. I looked at Dad, and he just
it for me if they’d known the subversive stared at the television, just stared at Elvis,
uses to which I planned to use it. It had a in a kind of catatonic fit.
beige-brown case with a ny speaker and
a simple turntable and a record changer so Up in my bedroom, I listened over and
you could player mul ple records at a me over to “Don’t Be Cruel.” There was some
and lounge in the comfort of your bedroom secret in it, some mystery, which kept me
without ge ng up to change records. The listening. “I don’t want no other love. Baby,
sound was as nny as a sardine can, but the it’s just you I’m thinkin’ of.” Those words.
sound was mine. Buried in them was some mystery—some
world that I knew existed but that I knew
I had a stash of money that I’d been sav- nothing of. How he pronounced “baby.”
ing so that I could buy records on that won- Not “baby,” like a baby that your Mom gives
drous day—the day I knew would come— birth to. “Babuh.” Who was this woman he
when I would get a record player. My won- was singing to? The mystery clutched at
derful great aunts always gave me money me. “Cruel.” Not cruel like the bad guys on
for Christmas and birthday. They gave me Roy Rogers. How was this mystery wom-
corny cards with two-dollar bills inside. an cruel to him? I knew it was bad—really
When I showed the bills to my great un- bad—but in what way? He seemed so hurt
cles, they always cracked, “Been to the race

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by her cruelty. I kept listening, listening, try- change. He remained at U.S. Steel, but in
ing to unlock the mystery. 1959, he was transferred to Chicago and
was promoted into middle management.
One night Dad came home from work. He was the traffic manager for the iron ore
He trudged up the stairs, exhausted from a ships coming in and out of Chicago and
day of dealing with Po sie. I was listening to Gary, which meant he was on the phone all
“Don’t Be Cruel” for the millionth me. He the me, even on weekends, telling them
stopped just outside the bedroom. He came what port to go to and what me and ev-
in slowly. “What’s that?” he mu ered. erything like that. His hair was growing
gray, but his eyes were s ll the same steely
The record came to an end. I was sud- blue-gray.
denly nervous, but I didn’t know why. He
stooped over the record player. He lowered In 1961, he moved his mother from
his fingers and picked up the record. He Cleveland to Chicago because her health
read the label. “Elvis Presley,” he said, as if was declining. “Sonny,” I heard her say to
the name itself were contaminated. “Hm.” him, “I can’t take care of a house any more.”
I was worried he was going to break the re- Dad rented her an apartment on Touhy Av-
cord. “How much was that?” enue in Park Ridge, where we lived. Grand-
mother had two passions: watching soap
“F-fi y cents.” operas like The Guiding Light and going to
Methodist services. Grandmother’s name
“Fi y cents?” He paused, turned the re- was Gertrude—not Trudy, but Gertrude.
cord back and forth in his hands. “Waste of I would occasionally go to services with
money,” he growled. He handed it back to her. Having been raised Catholic with all
me and trudged back into the hall, and con- its pomp and glory, I was amazed by the
simplicity of the church and the naked gold
nued on to his bedroom, where he would cross. Where was Jesus? Where was the
shed the clothes that he had worn all day to bleeding heart? Where was the colorful ag-
fend off the a acks from Po sie. ony of Jesus’ last hours? Where was Mary?

I was crushed, yet at the same me I felt A er the service, I filed out with Grand-
defiant. I stared a er Dad and blinked back a mother, who had already become fast
tear. I looked at the record. It had those nar- friends with the other ladies in the congre-
row wavy black lines that somehow turned ga on who had been born in the 1890s.
magically into sound, into music. I lowered “Gertrude, how are you?” they’d exclaim as
“Don’t Be Cruel back onto the spindle, turned if she’d been lost in the Amazon jungle for
the music-making machine back on. “Let’s the last ten years and had just returned to
walk up to the preacher, and let him say I do. the safety of Chicago. “How are you?” her
Then you know you’ll have me, and I know friends said, and they all had names like
that I’ll have you.” Once again I was lost in the Hilda and Clara and Hermione. It’s hard to
mystery of Elvis’s words. The word “have”—it believe I knew someone who’d been born
intrigued me. It added to the mystery. What when Benjamin Harrison was President.
did it mean? What were the secrets behind
“have”? The words, Elvis’s voice—they were Now Dad didn’t have to mow Grand-
balm for my psychic wounds. mother’s lawn, but he helped her out
with various tasks at her apartment like
As I grew toward adolescence, my re-
la onship with my father did not really

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fixing the drip, drip in the bathroom fau- phone calls came, he said, “Damned phone
cet or pain ng the bedroom. Some mes I calls!” It was as if he lived in this place, this
helped him, and then a erward we sat out separate place, a place I didn’t know. Dad,
on the li le pa o outside her kitchen, and where are you, I wanted to ask.
she served us coffeecake with cherries and
pra led on about the handsome minister February of eighth grade came, and that
at the Methodist church and about her meant St. Valen ne’s Day. It was of course a
friends Hilda and Clara and Hermione. Dad tradi on, as it is in all schools, that the kids
sat next to her and murmured, “I know, I in a class would exchange Valen ne’s Day
know,” as she talked, and he nodded and cards. Miss Bartholomew was our home-
blinked his steely blue-gray eyes and looked room teacher and our language arts teacher.
dispassionately at the courtyard of the Miss Bartholomew was 108 years old and so
apartment building that spread out below thin that she disappeared when she turned
Grandmother’s pa o. sideways, and she had wire-rim spectacles
before they became popular in the Six es
Grandmother died only a year later. We and spoke with very precise dic on. The day
went to her funeral and then to the grave- before Valen ne’s Day, she warned us that
side. Mom and Dad didn’t want us kids the nice thing to do was to give everyone
to go to the graveside, but I pleaded with in the class a Valen ne’s Day car. So, we ran
them, and finally they relented. Of course, out to Walgreen’s that night and bought
I was sad that Grandmother had died, but I bags of factory-made Valen ne’s Day cards
was also curious to see what it was like to and wrote them out carefully while we
bury someone. Mom held Dad’s hand, and watched TV, trying to remember the name
his eyes were sad and distant at the same of every kid who was in our class.

me, and his face was like a statue’s. We Then, the next day, during homeroom
were out under God’s enormous azure sky, period in Miss Bartholomew’s class, we
and the handsome Methodist minister talk- passed out our Valen ne’s Day cards, walk-
ed about what a wonderful woman Ger- ing up and down the aisles and du fully
trude had been, and Dad just kept staring placing a card on each kid’s desk. It was
at the casket that cradled Grandmother’s the very defini on of a ritual. When I got
body, and his eyes misted up, and I want- back to my own desk, I had a whole clump
ed more than anything to ask him if he was of cards, which I opened and read, just as
OK, but I was afraid to. the other kids in the class were du ful-
ly reading their Valen ne’s Day cards. My
I went into eighth grade, and Dad buddies—they wrote stupid stuff like “I’ll
worked harder and harder. When I came remember you forever.”
home from school, I hung around in the
kitchen, and Mom asked me about my day One, though, was from Carol. I opened
as she cooked or folded clothes. Dad had it, and it read, “Dear Herb, I hope you have
a lot of phone work in connec on with his the most beau ful Valen ne’s Day ever,”
job, because iron ore ships sailed into the and she underlined “beau ful” and “ever”
ports in Chicago and Gary with the inexo- three mes. Then she signed it “Carol,” and
rability of me. Dad was the conduit, the she completed the “l” in her name with
means by which the captains of the ships this triple spiral that seemed so incredibly
communicated with the ports. When the beau ful to me. I immediately turned red,

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and I glanced at Carol, and she was smiling room. She knew she needed permission to
at me, and I felt ashamed that I had only enter the bedroom. “What are you looking
wri en, “Have a great Valen ne’s Day!” at?” she said, as she saw me hide Carol’s
on her card rather than wri ng something card out of sight.
meaningful and poe c. For the rest of the
day, I felt as if a warm liquid had somehow “Mind your own business,” I said.
go en into my veins.
“Have you got an eraser?” she asked.
I went home, and I put my Valen ne’s
Day cards on the hutch in our dining room, I got one and handed it to her. “What were
which was a kind of catchall for all the junk you looking at? A Valen ne’s Day card?”
that us kids brought home from school. My
sister, Maureen, did the same thing, so we “Mind your own business if you know
had about 50 Valen ne’s Day cards spread what’s good for you.”
out on the hutch.
“Hm,” she said and le .
We sat down for dinner. But first, before
he sat down, Dad looked at all the Valen- I went downstairs. Dad was in the family
room, watching TV. Mom was in the living
ne’s Day cards. “Why are all these things room, reading. Mom generally thought that
sca ered around here?” he asked. He watching TV was a waste of me. I sat down
wasn’t mean about it. It was more like he next to her on the sofa. I said, “Dad seemed
was curious about them. annoyed at dinner. Did we do something
wrong?”
Mom piped in right away. “Oh, Ar e,
those are the Valen ne’s Day cards that the She looked at me and paused. “He
children received today at school. They’ll doesn’t much like St. Valen ne’s Day.”
put them away a er dinner.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Hm,” he said, as he bent to his dinner.
But there was something that I picked up. She paused, longer this me. “Well,
He was unusually quiet at dinner that eve- I’m going to tell you something. And you
ning. He didn’t tell any stories about Po - mustn’t ever let him know that I told you.
sie. A er dinner, he said to Maureen and Do you promise?”
me, “Be sure to put those cards away.”
I nodded.
We did as we were told. I took them up-
stairs to my bedroom. I didn’t care about She looked me in the eyes as if I were
most of them, but I treasured the one I’d an adult. “One me, when he was in third
received from Carol. I read it over and over or fourth grade, he was the only child in his
again. “Dear Herb, I hope you have the most class not to receive a Valen ne’s Day card.”
beau ful Valen ne’s Day ever,” with the tri-
ple underlining beneath “beau ful” and It took a few seconds for her words to
“ever.” Her handwri ng was so elegant. I felt sink in. “How do you know?” I asked.
my heart speed up as I read it over and over.
“When we were very young, when we
I heard steps and looked up. It was Mau- had just go en married, he told me.” The
reen, standing at the entrance to the bed- room felt very cold to me. I was silent, and
she was silent. “Remember your promise,”
she said.

“I’ll remember.”

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I went back upstairs to our bedroom
and stared again at the Valen ne’s Day
cards sca ered on the top of my dress-
er—at Carol’s and at the other ones that
I’d received. Then I went back down to
the family room, and I sat on the sofa,
and I watched TV with my Dad.

About the Author:

Christopher Johnson is a writer based in the Chicago area. He is the author of This Grand
and Magnificent Place: The Wilderness Heritage of the White Mountains (University of New
Hampshire Press, 2006) and the co-author of Forests for the People: The Story of America’s
Eastern Na onal Forests (Island Press, 2013).

130

SHAME

by Harry Ricciardi

In Nelson’s dockyard, Wayne was working. ‘He says he fell asleep.’ Tommy grinned
On the back of some fancy plas c boat, the conspiratorially.
fi ng had broken that held the wire that ran
inside the davits that raised a dinghy. It was ‘You think he missed the mark . . .’
early. He had only begun to take it all apart
when Tommy motored up in the dinghy of ‘Come on!’ He shrugged and restarted
the boat Tommy was running that winter. his engine. Wayne put his headlamp in his
toolbag and climbed down into the tender.
Tommy killed the engine and dri ed un- He helped li lines over their heads and
derneath some dock lines, nudging off hulls used his hands to keep them from scuffing
on either side and bumping up against the up any boats too badly as they idled out
bulkhead, where Wayne had his tools laid from between the big boats. They motored
out. Tommy was excited. He shouted down out of Nelson’s Dockyard. In the entrance
into the lazare e, where Wayne was work- channel bits of wood floated. Some sec-
ing. ‘Remember Danny’s brother Bo — he
had that old fishing boat?’ ons of planks between frames had made
their ways ashore. A lone life jacket hov-
‘I helped him recaulk it in Grenada. The ered in the center of the channel, just inside
season a er, he had it up in St. Barth’s, the outcrop of the rocky entrance, before
when we rebuilt Paul’s mast . . .’ Wayne which the blue Caribbean churned in a cha-
tried to keep working. The piece that had os of peaks and troughs. The guys picked
broken off was hard to get to. up the old lifejacket. Where Zorra had been
printed on the front somebody had crossed
‘Yeah man! Bo put it on the rocks a li le it out and wrote Delilah in black marker.
before dawn.’ Tommy was laughing about Bo’s a en on
to detail when they came into view of the
‘Whoa . . . Is he ok?’ Wayne came out old boat. Half the hull had been chewed off
from inside the lazare e and turned off his by the grinding ac on of the swell and the
headlamp. rocks. The remaining half lay above the de
but was s ll ge ng slapped by waves. The
‘I think he just swam ashore.’ mast leaned precariously and shook with
the beat of the ocean’s thrust. Wayne’s
‘Where was he?’ stomach turned.

‘Right outside English Harbor.’ ‘Dude,’ Tommy said. He stood up to get
a be er idea of where he was going, watch-
‘Jesus!’

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ing the water for barely submerged rocks, ‘I’ve got so many drinks.’ Bo had a drink
and turning the outboard suddenly to avoid in his hand, and there were four cheap plas-
them. ‘Duuude.’
c cups with cocktails mixed up in front of
‘We should save the mast,’ Wayne said. him. He pushed one at Wayne and sat back
on the stool where he’d been si ng.
‘I’m not going near that fucking thing.’
‘Thanks.’ Wayne sat down next to him
‘Yeah.’ Wayne held his mouth in a ght and sipped it. ‘Thanks,’ he said again.
line. ‘Yeah,’ he said, ‘it’s a bunch of work.’
A girl came up to Bo and threw an arm
They made careful circles in the dinghy, around him. She kissed his head and she
picking things up. Before long the dinghy kissed his cheek. ‘I’m so glad you’re alive,’
was full. The excitement wore off and the she said. She kind of screamed and her
guys silently threaded their way around the voice cracked. Bo put an arm around her
rock piles and buzzed back into the harbor. waist and looked happy to be alive.
They stopped at Wayne’s boat where they
unloaded most of the stuff. Tommy lit a cig- ‘Hi Lauren,’ Wayne said. ‘Hi Wayne,’ Lau-
are e, hung onto Shalimar’s rail and wait- ren kissed his cheek.
ed for Wayne to dip below to grab a couple
tools, specific to the job he was doing that ‘Delilah,’ Wayne said, turning to Bo and
morning on the bulkhead. As they were holding up his drink. Lauren picked up one
motoring back into the dockyard Tommy of Bo’s drinks said, ‘Delilah’ and drank. Bo
said, ‘That’s so fucked up.’ said, ‘Delilah’ and took another sip. Then
he said, ‘Sorry Wayne.’ Wayne shook his
‘Yeah,’ Wayne said. ‘Yeah, that was a head dismissively but Bo kept talking. ‘I
cool old boat.’ know how much you loved that boat. If it
wasn’t for your help I would have never
‘Did Bo build that boat?’ got her out of Grenada. I feel like, of all the
people in the world, I really let you down.’
‘No.’ Wayne shook his head. ‘Bo’s not Bo was South African and his accent wasn’t
a boat builder. He got it from an old white always no ceable. That night his accent
dude in Grenada. But it was a fishing boat. was no ceable.
Built on the beach in Carriaccou. Maybe
Zepherine built it. Maybe not. . . . It looked Wayne was s ll shaking his head. ‘Po er
just like Sweetheart.’ would be sad. But Po er’s gone.’ Po er was
the old English dude that had spent years
‘Such a shame,’ Tommy said. on the boat. Wayne shrugged. ‘You’re alive.
It’s good to be alive.’ He held his drink up.
‘Such a shame.’ Wayne nodded.
‘Damn right,’ Bo said. Lauren clinked her
That night Wayne went into town to li le plas c cup with his a er he clinked
have a drink. A lot of people were at the with Wayne and screamed, ‘Damn right!’
yacht club bar. Bo looked lost. He was really
drunk. ‘Sorry Bo.’ Wayne gave him a hug. ‘Did you get anything off the boat?’
Wayne asked.
‘O fuck.’ Bo rolled his eyes and shook his
head around. ‘I fucked up.’ ‘I got most of my weed. I got a bag of
clothes and my fishing gear . . .’ He smiled
‘You fucked up.’ Wayne shrugged. ‘You but a er a second he tried not assert his
want a rum and Ting?’

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smile. ‘It’s all up at Gregory’s house but I it would be a week. . . You can be generous
don’t think he wants me to stay there.’ with your hours. It’s under warranty and it’s
their bill. If we’re ready on me, you’ll have
‘You can have a night or two on Shalimar to come to St. Maarten with us.’
while you figure things out,’ Wayne said.
Wayne tried to be smiley and charm-
‘Hey thanks. I appreciate it mate.’ The ing. ‘Thanks a lot. I was going to try and get
girl kissed Bo on the head again. down to Dominica next week.’

A girl Wayne didn’t know wrapped her ‘You don’t like racing?’ Cary asked. ‘I just
arms around Bo from behind and kissed want to go to Dominica,’ Wayne told him.
his cheek. ‘You’re a survivor!’ she shouted. ‘I wish I could come with you to Dominica,’
Wayne gave up his seat. Cary nodded. They played pool for an hour.
As Wayne was walking out of the bar, he
At the end of the bar Wayne had no ced slipped in between a pair of women to tell
the captain of the boat he was working on Bo he was heading back to Shalimar, ‘if you
in the Dockyard. Cary was not the only Scot want a ride out.’ ‘It’s alright, mate,’ Bo said,
in the Caribbean running a boat, but he ‘if I need a place to crash I’m sure I’ll be able
was the only one that had grown up in a to find a ride out there.’ ‘All cool,’ Wayne said.
working neighborhood of Glasgow. When
Wayne had Shalimar hauled out the sea- In the harbor, the wind gusted, but it
son before, Cary had delivered him three wasn’t excep onal. Bo’s gear was piled up
gallons of good bo om paint and wouldn’t on Shalimar’s a deck, otherwise order pre-
take anything for it. He asked, ‘How’s it vailed. Wayne felt ready to leave for Dom-
coming?’ when Wayne sat down. inica that night and regre ed he’d taken
on Cary’s job. Cary hadn’t pushed him. He
‘It’s slow, but I don’t have to cut the hadn’t even asked him; Wayne had offered.
deck apart.’ Cary said, ‘Thank god. I saw For a minute he sat on the cabintop and had
you got the fi ng out, how’d you get in a spliff. He’d been reading different Carib-
there?’ ‘A headlamp, a mirror and a ratchet bean history books for most of that season.
with a joint in it . . . if I have trouble ge ng That night he didn’t feel like picking any of
it back in there, I think I can remove one of them up. Wayne smoked and looked up at
those lights on the back of the boat . . . but the hills around Shirley Heights. He smoked
we’ll see. I’ve got hope.’ ‘Hope!’ Cary called and cursed An gua for all the boats in the
a waitress over and ordered them drinks, harbor and all the people at the bar with
even though Wayne tried to show him the nothing but yacht races on their minds. He
one he had wasn’t finished. cursed, he smoked and he listened for fish
breaking in the harbor.
‘The riggers don’t want to put another
fi ng on that same piece of wire, so you’re Bo woke him up when a dinghy dropped
ge ng a new one. It should all be done to- him off on Shalimar with a girl later that
morrow.’ Wayne took a break to think. He night. Wayne went on deck and finished his
sipped his drink. ‘If I have to pull that light, spliff. Bo said, ‘We can sleep in the cockpit.’
it could be an extra day. Either way, you’ll Wayne said, ‘Sure,’ and hauled a bunk cush-
be able to race this weekend.’ ion on deck with a couple of blankets and
pillows. Then he went back to sleep.
‘You know the builders offered to fly
someone in from New Zealand? They said

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The next a ernoon, a er finishing Cary’s it.’ Wayne shrugged. He started making
job, Wayne returned to Shalimar to find the himself lunch in the cabin.
cushion and the blankets s ll on deck. Bo
was reclining on top of them, but he sat up ‘Graziela’s captain offered me a spot for
when Wayne came aboard. ‘I really appre- St. Maarten this weekend.’ Si ng in the
ciate you opening up your home to me,’ Bo cockpit, Bo shouted down to where Wayne
said. ‘Sure,’ said Wayne. He went down be- was cooking. ‘That sounds good,’ Wayne
low where he stripped off his clothes. He told him. ‘I’ve got to figure out what to do
came out on deck and he jumped in the with this stuff,’ Bo said. ‘You’re probably go-
water. He dove down for a handful of sand ing to abandon that stuff . . . unless you grab
and he scrubbed his armpits. He rubbed his another boat right away,’ Wayne told him.
face. He swam a lap around the boat then ‘You don’t think you can hold onto it for
he hauled himself back on deck. While he me?’ Bo asked. ‘No,’ said Wayne. He didn’t
was rinsing himself with fresh water, Bo look up into the cockpit. Eventually he put a
said, ‘Thanks for grabbing all this stuff. I sandwich on deck for Bo, but Wayne ate by
don’t even know what I’m going to do with himself, with a book, at his galley table. That
night he took off for Dominica, without Bo.

About the Author:

Harry Ricciardi writes stories and poems
and builds tradi onal wood boats. Recently
he’s been reading ancient Chinese poems.
David Hinton’s transla ons of Meng Hao-jan
and Hsieh Ling-yün con nue to make him
curious about distances, bodies of water and
literature, here in the big swirl.

134

FOUR DAYS OF RAIN

by Anita Haas

“I go a pick up Susi at her grandma’s. Back She chose an album she listened to
in an hour. Think you can handle the place whenever she was le in peace, one with
on your own that long, Sis?” Helen Merrill and Clifford Brown. She placed
the needle on her favorite song, Cole Por-
Clara cringed. Jorge loved humilia ng ter’s “You’d Be So Nice to Come Home To”,
her, especially when coun ng on the sup- set to loading coffee cups and beer glass-
port of his faithful audience. es into the ny dishwasher, and fantasized
about what kind of man she would like to
“Yeah, sure.” come home to, rather than the brother, sis-
ter-in-law and niece she encountered day
“Yeah? You sure you’re sure?” Tomás in and day out.
winked at Jorge and hooted over the blare
of the soccer game on TV. Jorge pa ed his Some mes she imagined a northern
buddy on the shoulder, reached for his jack- man, tall and blond, his clear eyes smiling
et and umbrella and headed for the door. down at her. He would murmur to her in
adorably accented Spanish, and smuggle
But all of Tomás’s courage evaporated in her off to his far-away country, where ev-
Jorge’s wake. Avoiding Clara’s eyes, he paid eryone would respect her. At other mes
her for his coffee and slipped out, a promis- he was swarthy, with eyes that penetrat-
ing hush of rain filling his place. ed right through to her soul, but loved her
nonetheless.
Clara, alone in the bar now, gave a li le
hop of glee, turned off the TV and heavy met- Clara turned on the dishwasher and
al her brother played from pen drives, and abandoned her post behind the bar. The
hunted through the small collec on of LPs be- space between the tables served as her
hind the bar. Those, along with the old record own personal dance studio. Imagining her-
player, formed part of the legacy le by their self poised and classy, like Helen Merrill
parents from when they opened the place de- herself, she swayed and twirled as she had
cades before, in Usera, a working-class neigh- done years ago, encouraged by her parents
borhood in the south of Madrid. and their friends.

Embraced by solitude, Clara greeted A throat cleared behind her. “What?”
each frayed and faded record cover; Billie She spun around, coppery curls flying, her
Holiday, Nat King Cole, Dinah Washington
... so many friends from a happier me ny tense frame prepared to confront more
echoing her sad hello.

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of her brother’s buddies, full of bumbling “Could I have a gin and tonic, please?”
ques ons and excuses to flee.
Gin and tonic. Gin and tonic. When was
But it was a real customer, and of the the last me …? Their usual customers just
type that rarely frequented their establish- chugged beer, and from bo les only, be-
ment; early for es, dark, smartly dressed, cause Jorge was too cheap to pay for a new
with a kind, intelligent gaze. beer tap. And where had he hidden that
ta ered book of cocktail recipes? The one
Embarrassment paralyzed her but the their mother had used to usher the young
client smiled. “Helen Merrill. Love that Clara through symphonies of flavor before
song. I also like Chet Baker’s version. Do presen ng them to her guests with musical
you know it?” reverence.

Clara stared at the recent arrival. She Cubes of ice fizzed in the glass Clara
had lived moments like this so many mes nudged toward the stranger. He locked
in her day-dreams. In each version she pi- her gaze in a wordless thank-you, solemn
loted the conversa on with intelligence night-sky hues n ng his hair, eyes and
and wit. However, now that it was finally clothes, and moved off to table three in
happening, she was mute. the corner.

There were so many things she could Limp, she began cramming napkins me-
have said; “Sure I know Chet Baker’s ver- chanically into holders, watching him. A
sion, it’s great. I also like the one by Sarah ragged newspaper, discarded days before,
Vaughan, and I love the way Nina Simone trapped his a en on now, passively receiv-
sings it! So tragic and tense. But I just can’t ing his firm grip and the gentle graze of his
take the Frank Sinatra version at all!” fingers over its surface.

But it might sound preten ous to say Chips! A distant voice called in her brain.
those things. And maybe this man was a The ideal excuse to go to him. She filled a
Sinatra fan. Doubt swelled her tongue and bowl and moved around the bar, the con-
robbed her of the moment forever. tents trembling.

The man hesitated, turned slightly to- “Oh, thank you.” He turned slightly. She
ward the door, and prepared to re-open his hovered a moment longer. He looked up,
umbrella. “You are open, aren’t you?” expectantly. She summoned her courage,
“How … how is the gin and tonic?” realiz-
“Yes, yes. Open. Yes.” Self-loathing erupt- ing immediately that he hadn’t yet touched
ed within Clara and she forced a freakish it. Her eyes followed the laugh lines which
smile. She struggled to un e her stained framed his features and punctuated his
apron. How she regre ed having let her- sun-kissed skin.
self go. So many years serving the same old
crowd had made her careless. And even that “Fine. Thank you. Well …” he chuckled,
crowd was dwindling, so she had to feel “I’m sure it is. I haven’t tried it yet. You see,
grateful for it. I …”

What was this elegant man doing here, A sudden shriek announced the arrival
anyway? Couldn’t he see this was a dive, of her three-year old niece, Susi, along with
reeking of stale beer? At least, ever since Jorge, and his wife Yolanda, arguing about
her brother had taken over.

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a parking cket, rain streaming from their At that moment the stranger’s chair
jackets. Clara glanced at the clock. Jorge scraped the linoleum and he stood up,
had said an hour. Barely twenty minutes placed a bill of ten euros on the table, and
had passed! le the bar.

“Ok, Clara, back to work! Stop cha ng A er the door closed, Jorge broke out in
up the customers.” Jorge called out in a big loud exaggerated hoots. Iron Maiden and
voice. ACDC exchanged glances, then joined in.

Yolanda smacked him lightly on the Jorge spun around to silence Helen Mer-
shoulder, “Jorge, hahaha, you are so bad! rill and replace her with some Rosendo he
hahaha!” Susi copied her mother’s laugh. had downloaded onto the computer.
Although she didn’t understand the joke,
she knew who it was on. “What old movie did that guy escape
from?” said Iron Maiden between swigs.
Clara scurried red-faced back behind the
bar as her brother approached to greet the “From one with a big budget, judging
new customer. The man raised his glass and by the amount of dough he le !” laughed
took a sip. ACDC.

“Clara!” Susi pounded her small fist on Jorge approached the table, took the ten
the bar, “My juide!” Yolanda was unzipping euros and handed it to Yolanda, then re-
her daughter’s jacket, and Clara waited in turned to the bar to hiss in Clara’s ear, “I just
vain for her to reproach the girl. might toss all this jazz shit out one of these
days.” She faced him, crushed but not sur-
“Here.” There was a loud clack of n prised at his sadis c grin. “You don’t like the
against steel as Clara slammed the can in idea, Sis? Well, you’re screwed, then, aren’t
front of her niece. She braced herself for you? I’m the boss now. Mommy and Dad-
her brother to ridicule her choice of music, dy aren’t here to coddle you anymore. You
the music their parents had woven into the could always look for a job in another bar,
tapestry of their shared childhood. But this although I doubt anyone would hire you.”

me there was no reac on. “He’s a jerk, Clara’s head bowed under the hail of
but not stupid.” Clara thought. Jorge knew snickers from everyone present, including
it might be wise to cater to this new cus- her niece. How she yearned to do just that,
tomer’s tastes. escape forever! But where could she go?
Who would risk hiring her? Could she do
Clara ran a cloth over the bar top. Two of anything else? For thirty-four years these
Jorge’s friends slunk in, each one cradling a walls had hidden her, first sheltering her
motorcycle helmet under his arm and sport- womb-like with the warmth of her par-
ing a soaked black t-shirt shou ng out the ents, their music and customers, while she
names of heavy metal bands; Iron Maiden helped out in the kitchen, then at the bar.
the first, and ACDC, the second. When they A er school, weekends, holidays. Some-
no ced the jazz playing, their eyes leapt
from Jorge to Clara, and back again. Jorge mes they organized jam sessions and
shrugged “Got a problem, mates?” begged her mother, a Galician who could
easily pass for Portuguese, to sing bossa
“No, no. None.” They stammered. nova.

“Ok, then. What’ll it be? Two beers, right?”

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Clara could never have imagined that af- No, she wouldn’t be able to pull either
ter their parents’ deaths the bar, her haven, of those off. She just wasn’t the type. If
would become her hell. only she were more talka ve, like Yolanda,
like the Andalusian women she knew, who
Tuesdays were slow in the best of teased and flirted with bubbling sponta-
weather, but when it rained their customers neity. If only she didn’t care so much what
sought refuge in home, take-out pizza and people thought of her.
TV. Clara, on the other hand, welcomed the
rain, the tranquility in the bar, the bellow of She s rred the liquid, taking in his ca-
thunder, the tropical swelter and freshness. sual elegance. A desperate curiosity seized
The stench of stale beer surrendered to the her; his mo va ons, his fears, a hundred
perfume of wet earth, and a so percus- ques ons blazed inside. But Clara knew she
sion replaced the staccato of TV and angry couldn’t hurl herself into profound conver-
electric guitars. People connected under an sa on without the preparatory banter. Her
us-versus-the-weather solidarity. brain raced to construct a coherent sen-
tence.
Yolanda wanted li le to do with the
business, and Jorge usually le Clara alone The bar is usually full at this hour! It’s
whenever none of his buddies were around, the rain, you know…
preferring to run errands and tend to paper
work. She filled the solitude with melodies Feeling confident, she took a deep
from her youth, imagining herself outgoing breath, turned to hand the stranger his
and daring like those jazz singers. She was drink and opened her mouth to present him
swaying her hips, holding a spoon for a mi- with her sentence, when the door banged
crophone and singing “You’d be so nice to open and in hobbled her elderly neighbor,
come home to” along with Helen Merrill, Benita. “What weather we are having! Oh!”
when she heard the now familiar cough. she said, looking le and right, then directly
at Clara, “Nobody here?”
“Hello.” Monday’s stranger smiled at
her as he pushed his way through the door. Benita was one of those people who in-
vaded a place with her presence. All conver-
“Oh …” Clara whirled around, plunder- sa ons stepped aside to make room for her.
ing her brain for all the crackling remarks
she had been rehearsing for his unlikely re- “Yes, Benita. I’m here.” Clara sighed as
turn. she placed the stranger’s drink on the bar,
recognizing his spicy cologne from the day
“Uh … so, could I have another one of before. She bit her lip, not wan ng to sound
those gin and tonics?” bitchy in front of him.

“Yes … of course.” She fled towards the “Well, I meant Jorge or Yoli. And where
bar, cooled her hands on the ice bucket and is Susi? Okay, I’ll tell you then …”
raised them to her cheeks.
The man took the glass and headed over
As she poured the gin, she tried to think to table three. Clara felt an ache deep in
of some brilliant and funny thing to say. her belly and a rush of energy urged her to
Seems like we have the same taste in mu- jump over the bar and go to him. This may
sic hahaha. Or Did you know I invoked you? be my only chance!!! But she froze, Benita’s
That’s because I’m a witch … presence trapping her in place.

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“I’ll have a coffee. Do you remember Clara was floa ng off the last notes of
that smelly tenant in 4D? Well, imagine, Billie Holiday’s “Don’t Explain”, and scrub-
the other day …” and Benita proceeded to bing a par cularly stubborn spot of grease
jackhammer Clara with gripes and gossip on the window, when she felt her favorite
about the neighbor. Clara nodded respect- Helen Merrill record beckon.
fully, but could only hear Helen Merrill,
now singing “Falling in Love with Love”, Was Jorge just being mean when he
and she could only see the mysterious cus- threatened to toss their dad’s records? She
tomer, the same grimy newspaper lying knew he was capable of it. As she flipped
open on the table in front of him. Rivulets through the dusty album covers, she had the
of water formed random trails through the eerie suspicion the collec on was shrinking.
steam on the window behind him, crea ng Her favorite Nina Simone record was gone,
a luminous rectangular background for his as was the Chet Baker album her father had
silhoue e. so proudly brought back from a trip to Paris.

Just before Benita concluded her story, The persistent drizzle protected her
Jorge pushed open the door, followed by from the elements, and “You’d Be So Nice
some of his pals. to Come Home To” engaged her in a slow
dance as Clara dried the glasses she was
“Beers for everybody, Clara!” he tapped taking out of the dishwasher. Would he
his keys on the bar, and headed directly come today? Twice the magic had hap-
over to greet the stranger. pened. Could it happen a third me?

“Oh,” Benita lit up and turned to the wor- Yoli’s excited phone conversa on with
thier audience. These men were all friends one of the mothers was compe ng with the
of her son, “Now that you’re here ...” record when the door swished open. Today
he was wearing a long black raincoat from
Rejected but relieved, Clara began un- a 1940s thriller, and was struggling to close
capping beer bo les. Jorge was making an a large umbrella.
uncharacteris c effort to ingra ate himself
to the stranger who, smiling politely, le his Clara had prepared for this moment.
drink half full, took his umbrella and aban- She sported a clean, new apron, mascara
doned the bar … not, however, without framed her green eyes and corrector cov-
placing a bill of ten euros on the table. ered the sad circles under them, but the
flock of corny lines she had rehearsed in
Yolanda was helping Clara clean on bed the night before took flight, abandon-
Wednesday evening. Clara preferred to work ing her in her prison of shyness.
on her own, but she knew she was supposed
to show gra tude. Yoli stopped cleaning af- “Wow! What crazy weather out there!”
ter half an hour and was busy whatsapping
other mothers from Susi’s daycare. “Yes … uh … gin and tonic?”

“Do you mind if I play some of my dad’s “Ooh, not today, thanks. It’s a bit too
old records?” cold for that. Seems like winter is star ng
again. What about an Irish coffee? Is that
“Huh? No, I don’t care.” Yoli was much possible?”
easier to get along with when Jorge wasn’t
around. “Mmmmmm. Irish coffee. My faaaavor-
ite.” A sexy female voice cooed from the

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end of the bar. Clara’s mouth fell open, then “Oh yeah? Play dad’s records so that
clapped shut. Her sister-in-law was making new guy, the fancy dresser, will come in?”
eyes at him.
Clara had to admit it. Her brother was
“Here, I’ll get it for you. Clara, you go evil, but no idiot. She felt her cheeks burn
and clean up the kitchen.” This was abso- and lowered her head over the sink.
lutely out of order; they had not used the
kitchen for more than storage since her Quite a bit taller than his sister, Jorge
mother’s death. But the look Yolanda gave was reaching up, placing glasses on the
her made it clear Clara would have to obey top shelf. He turned to observe her and
or argue. She chose the less embarrassing picked up a knife from the counter. He ran
op on. his fingers up and down the blade’s edge
then tested the point with his thumb. “You
Sor ng old Tupperware containers, Clara know, he comes in every day at seven a er
eavesdropped through the li le service work. Whether you play that sappy song or
window behind the bar as her sister-in-law not.” He fisted the instrument and grimac-
made all the typical small talk she longed to ing, stabbed the air with each word. “Every
master herself. Yoli and the stranger chuck- day a er work he comes here and has a
led over the weather, found they shared a drink before going home for dinner with his
preference for black chocolate, and even wife and kids.”
discovered they both had a distant rela ve
in Teruel. Clara was appalled when Yoli t- He sneered at her. “How stupid can you
tered, “Oh, I am so shy! It’s embarrassing get?”
for me to talk to strangers!” His sparse, low
responses ngled through Clara. He tossed the knife into the sink and
strode off to the kitchen.
A er ten minutes of cha er, a pack of
Jorge’s friends filed in. Yoli turned abruptly Alone and shaking, Clara looked up at
away from the stranger, changed the mu- the old wall clock. It was ten to seven. How
sic, and began socializing with them. Clara’s had she never no ced that he always came
legs broke into a sprint and propelled her at the same me? Shoulders slumped, she
toward the kitchen door, just in me to see realized how naive she had been. That li le
the man leave. A bill of ten euros lay on ta- girl fantasy, at her age! She had ached to
ble three. believe there was some magical force that
drew him to the bar, and that she could in-
“Don’t you have any errands to run to- voke it by playing their song. Despite all the
day?” Clara asked Jorge, a bit tensely, the obstacles and intrusions abor ng their con-
next evening. versa ons, she needed to think that deep
down there was a reason.
“No, I don’t, actually. Why?” Jorge
smirked at her. “Any reason you don’t want She squinted at her dark reflec on in
me around?” the mirror behind the bar. A wife and kids.
Comes here every day at the same me.
“No … I just like to play dad’s records Sappy song or not. Straight from the office.
some mes and I know you don’t like them.” Dinner at home. How stupid can you get?
She felt proud of herself for the smart,
quick answer. The record lay wai ng on top of the
player. She slipped the disk out of its cov-

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er, grasped it firmly with both hands and was just a joke, okay? I don’t know any-
hissed, “I never want to hear you again!” thing about the guy. No idea if he’s mar-
One, two, she willed herself, and snap! ried, has kids, where he works, nothing!
cracked it in two. She tossed the pieces into How would I?”
the garbage. There! She turned around and
defied the clock. It was five to seven. Clara turned slowly toward the garbage
can and knelt in front of it. Vision blurred,
Clara stood up, straighter than ever. When she picked up the pieces of broken disk,
the door opened promptly at seven, her and held them together.
heart did not race. It was only some of her
brother’s pals. It didn’t ma er, she’d serve Outside, cars sloshed by, and screeching
them. When she saw her reflec on, her face children splashed through puddles.
had changed. She looked older, colder. She
washed and scrubbed with raging efficiency, From the kitchen came the sound of
one eye on the me. But he didn’t come. moving boxes. A moment later, Jorge called
to her through the service window, his
Jorge’s friends le shortly a er eight. voice slightly so er than usual.

“Well, looks like your boyfriend ain’t “Psst! Sis, here.”
comin’ today.” Her brother grinned. “Hey,
you didn’t really believe what I said before, Clara looked up slowly. He was reaching
did you?” a record album down to her. It was her fa-
vorite Nina Simone album with a version of
She looked up. “You’d Be So Nice to Come Home to”, the
one that had gone missing a while back.
He laughed at the change in her expres-
sion, and headed toward the kitchen. “It “Try this one.”

Anita Haas

141

THE FASTEST GUN
ON 441

by R. W. Haynes

OK, here’s the story. fishes out of his watch pocket. And he pays
it off. And there’s nobody else in the store
The se ng is a semi-rural 7-11 type except him and the lady. Real quiet. Tran-
store. There’s a kind of lean and hungry quil wouldn’t be the word, but maybe bor-
lookin, raggedy, kind of dirty character, ing might be be er. Dull. Anyway.
walking through the parkin lot toward the
door of the store. Looks like one of those So he says to the lady… She says, “Thank
homeless people. He’s carryin a piece of you.”
cardboard sign that says, wri en in crude
le ers with what looked like a pencil, writ- He says, “You’re welcome.”
ten and rewri en and rewri en to make
the le ers larger and more visible. Crude And he says, “How’s your day goin today?”
le ering. Wasted lookin piece of cardboard.
“THIRTY PIECES OF SILVER.” She says, “Well, I’ve had a lot be er, but
I reckon it will pass.”
Anyway, this guy crosses the parkin lot
of the 7-11. Walks inside. Worried-lookin “It will,” he said. “What’s wrong?”
lady about 27, standin behind the count-
er, lookin like she had barely pulled herself And she said, “Well, my husband’s ‘bout
together to get to work. Not quite squared to drive me crazy, and I don’t know what
away, not quite beau fied and brushed and to do ‘bout it.” She said, “I think he’s goin
all that stuff. Anyway, the guy walks in… back to drinkin, and I think he might be da-

[long pause] n somebody else.”

So anyway, this guy’s got the sign. He And the fellow, he’s got his bo le of
walks in the store. He goes back in the back wine. He’s got a kind of a pouch hangin on
and buys himself a quart of Mad Dog 20- his shoulder, and he’s pu ng the wine in
20 or Ripple or T-Bird or something similar. there, and he says, “Well, honey, I tell you
Comes up to the counter. Pays for it with what you do.”
some greasy dollar bills and a few coins he
And she says, “Well, any ideas you got
will probably work be er than everything
I’ve tried.”

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Revista Literária Adelaide

And he said, “That’s right.” He said, told. Lonnie Cash has himself had some-
“That’s right. But you do what I tell you, thing of a drinkin problem over the years,
and everything will be fine.” but he’s kind go en over that. He’s also
had a few scrapes with injus ce, I guess
And she said, “Sounds like it’s worth a you could say, and he’s decided that nothin
try to me.” And he said, “It is.” much ma ers any more. He wants a few
bucks. He wants to get on down the road.
And she just looked at him, with this The only way he can think of to meet his
real skep cal look on her face, and a slight- needs at the moment is by takin that old
ly crooked smile, slightly charmed by him, cheap Saturday night special he’s got in his
because he’s offerin her help, even if it’s pocket and pu ng it to work for him. He’s
not a very likely assistance. And he takes not afraid. He’s not a cruel man, but he has
his cardboard sign, that’s got “THIRTY PIEC- a kind of a…almost an animal prac cality,
ES OF SILVER” wri en on it, and he lays it and when he feels like he’s figh n for his life
down on the counter. he’ll do what it takes to emerge victorious.
And this is one of those points at which he’s
“Give him this,” he says. very close to making a decision that will en-
able him to con nue down the path which
“What?” she said. “This?” he doesn’t really understand but which he
has been down many mes before.
“Give him this,” he says. “And tell him I
told him to behave himself.” Now Lonnie decides to go ahead and
take ac on, He makes sure his pistol is in-
And the lady just laughs and laughs and visible. He looks through the glass and
laughs. And she says, “Well, if I do that, he’ll he sees this guy in there, homeless wino,
think I’m crazy.” it looks like, talkin to the lady behind the
counter. And he decides he’s goin to go in
“That’s all right,” he said. “Just do what about the me that guy comes out.
I told you.”
The homeless-lookin fellow smiles at the
She said, “Are you serious?” lady behind the counter, and, somewhat
to his surprise, she extends her hand for a
He said, “I never been more serious in handshake, and they shake hands. And she
my life.” has a somewhat dazed and amused expres-
sion on her face. But suddenly she looks
She said, “It won’t hurt to try, will it?” much calmer than she has in a long me.

He said, “No, it won’t hurt to try.” Lonnie meets the eyes of the homeless
guy as he is entering the store, and he imme-
Now at the same me there’s a guy diately has an extremely strange emo on.
pulled up in the parkin lot outside. He’s He has a feeling something extremely im-
drivin a beat-up old 92 Impala, and he’s portant is happening to him at that moment.
got it in his mind he’s gon rob this place. He goes on in the store, and he walks back to
His name is Lonnie Cash. He’s one of these the back, cuts his eye around to see if there’s
guys, a kind of workin guy poised some- anyone coming, and there’s nobody com-
where between the agricultural form of la- ing, and, as he walks up to the front desk,
bor and the more manual kind of construc-

on labor, jobs where you work hard and
you don’t get treated real well but jobs in
which you can survive decently, most of the

me, if you show up and do what you’re

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

he thinks, “Well, I at least need to give the And the lady said, “You do the same.”
illusion that I’m about to make a purchase
instead of robbing this lady,” and he reach- And Lonnie walked out the door. Never
es over to the candy rack and grabs a Baby touches his pistol. Instead of goin to his car,
Ruth candy bar. And as he goes up to the he kind of walks a li le bit dazedly around
counter,he lays that on there, and the lady the edge of the store, and he sees a dump-
behind the counter says, “Will that be all?” ster. He goes back to the dumpster, and the
dumpster has a li le gate on it, a sliding
And he says, “I believe it will.” gate that has a li le chain, and it’s locked
so that it can’t be pulled open, however,
And the lady behind the counter said, there’s enough slack in the chain that it can
“Did you see that guy that just le ?” be moved about three inches. Lonnie goes
back to the dumpster, and he turns around
He said, “I sure did. and looks behind him. And he makes sure
that nobody is watching. And he reaches
She said, “I never saw anybody like him in his pocket, and he takes out that old .38
in my life before.” that he’s got, and he opens the cylinder,
and he takes all the bullets out, and then
And Lonnie, much to his surprise, said, he throws the bullets in the dumpster. And
“I haven’t either.” then he looks at the cylinder of the gun, and
he closes it with a click. And he takes that
The lady behind the counter takes the pistol, holds it up and smiles at it, and says
dollar that Lonnie has handed to her, and “There aint no such thing as an unloaded
this is the point at which Lonnie had expect- gun.” Then he throws it in the dumpster
ed he was goin to produce his piece-of-crap and slams the gate shut.
pistol and clean out the cash register. But,
instead, he takes his change, and he says,
“Thank you very much. Have a nice day.”

About the Author:

R. W. Haynes is Professor of English at Texas A&M
Interna onal University, where he teaches early Bri sh
literature and Shakespeare. His recent publica ons
include studies of playwright/screenwriter Horton
Foote. In 2016, Haynes received the SCMLA Poetry prize
at the Dallas conference of the South Central Modern
Language Associa on. His book of poems tled Let the
Whales Escape is forthcoming (2019) from Finishing Line
Press. Recently published is Laredo Light: Fi y Poems by
R. W. Haynes (Cyberwit 2019).

144

RELIEF

by Edward Lee

She is unable to think of a different word to herself to enter and collect her husband’s
describe how she feels, a more sympathet- ashes, if she were not already crying.
ic word, one that doesn’t sound so unkind,
mercenary. So, solely to herself, silently, al- Because of clever investments they
most like a prayer, like she is speaking to a would be able to re re early. She was fif-
God she hasn’t believed in since she was a ty-five, he was fi y-six. They were going to
teenager, when cancer took both her par- see the world. They had travelled before,
ents in the same year, despite her endless of course, with one foreign holiday a year,
visits to the church and her repeated prayers and several trips to various coun es around
before the cross, a God her husband be- Ireland sca ered through the winter and
lieved in deeply, even towards the end, she autumn months, but the foreign holidays
says it in the only way she can: she is relived. were never more than two weeks, and the
She is relieved he is dead. Relieved for him county trips were usually just weekend get-
yes, all those years of pain over, but also re- aways, some mes stretching to four days.
lieved for herself, relieved that her life no The trips they would take in re rement
longer has to suffer along with him, that her would be a month long, two months, and
life need no longer be curtailed by his illness. they would cover every corner of the globe.
The holiday wouldn’t be over before it had
She feels sick thinking this thought, and begun, and they wouldn’t have to return
there is a taste on her tongue as though she before they wanted to; she hated return-
has vomited. Or, she had spoken the word ing, the coming back, hated leaving wher-
aloud and it had stained her taste buds. Sick ever it was they had been when there was
and, yes, relieved that she is able to think s ll so much to do, so much to see. She hat-
this thought, able to admit it to herself, that ed returning to the working life, though she
the thought she has guil ly considered for did not need to work, her husband earning
so long has finally become a reality. enough money to support both of them,
especially with the children grown up and
She has freedom again. And yet, yet, the living their own lives. But she had to work,
person she wants that freedom with, the if for no other reason that she had to do
person she always wanted that freedom something, especially since the children
with, even as he was the once keeping that were all grown and living their own lives.
freedom from her, is gone. She wasn’t someone who could do nothing,
sit around the house, watching television
She thinks she might cry, si ng in her while her husband was out all day at work.
car outside the funeral home, preparing

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

Yes, she could have volunteered in a charity damage. No nerve damage, no damaged
store, but wasn’t that working for no mon- spine, no slipped discs, no pierced organs.
ey. If she was going to work for free she Just that one cut; three s tches and he was
would rather it be something she enjoyed, back home that night. There hadn’t even
and she didn’t think she’d enjoy working in been that much pain. Some discomfort, he
such places, handling people’s secondhand had said, but nothing worse than a stubbed
clothes and unwanted ornaments. toe, or a paper cut.

No, she decided she would stay work- Their official re rement was a week lat-
ing where she was, secretary to an estate er, and by that stage he was feeling no pain
agent, right up un l their re rement date, at all.
and then they would be busy traveling,
sightseeing, climbing mountains, going on Of course, that changed. Then every-
cruises, whatever they wanted to do when- thing changed.
ever they wanted to do it. They deserved
it. She deserved it. She had worked hard He woke her up in the middle of the
all her life, worked and raised three chil- night, grun ng through clenched teeth. At
dren, ensuring that that they were always first she thought he was having a heart-at-
fed, dressed, looked a er; she had given so tack and ins nc vely reached for her
much of her life to her children, and while phone, but he eventually managed to get
she did not regret one single minute of all the words out: “my back”.
that me, she was happy when the last one
had moved out and she could stop being so She had helped him from the bed and as
directly responsible for them. he slowly, carefully, stood the pain seemed
to lessen, before disappearing completely
And then her husband had hurt his back. as he tenta vely took a few steps up and
down the landing. Within half an hour he
It was, by all accounts, barely more than was back in bed and snoring, and she lay
a stumble, a plank he was walking on slip- beside him, falling back into her own sleep,
ping, his feet slipping with it, causing him even though her heart had been racing only
to fall on his back, the point of a carelessly minutes before.
placed shovel piercing the skin just above
the waistband of his trousers. He shouldn’t A week later, as they stood in line at a
have been there, on that building site, but bookstore, their arms ladened with Lonely
their eldest son was building his own home Planet guides to Greece, Paris and Spain,
and had wanted them to see it in progress. the first countries on their limitless i ner-
She hadn’t wanted to see it, and not just be- ary, his back spammed so hard he had to
cause she didn’t get on with her son’s wife, be held up and led to a chair; when he tried
how she seemed to always be looking down to sit down the pain grew worse and he ac-
her nose at everyone, or not just because of tually vomited, all over himself, and on her
that. She simply hadn’t wanted to go, traips- arm. She nearly got sick herself, from the
ing through dirt and mud and dust. smell of it, the feel of it on her skin.

The funny thing was, if any aspect of “Like a hot poker being shoved up my
it could be classified as funny, beyond the spine,” he told her later as they waited in
piercing of his skin, there was no other the wai ng room to see their doctor, she
si ng, he standing because he couldn’t

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Revista Literária Adelaide

sit, though the pain wasn’t as bad as it had for days a er. And it was all for nothing,
been. It was an emergency appointment, because no ma er the combina on of tab-
though they s ll were not seen for an hour lets, or the frequency of the injec ons, the
a er their allocated me. pain remained.

Every single test that followed, from One me, si ng down, the pain was so
x-rays and MRI scans to blood-tests and, bad he couldn’t stand up and he ended up
horribly, urine and stool samples, stretched we ng himself. She wasn’t sure which of
across five months, revealed nothing what- them had been more mor fied, especially
soever except, despite that he was in pain, when she had to help him stand up and get
clearly in pain, there was no reason for him out of his soiled trousers and pants.
to be in pain.
As she had led him to the shower he
A er all these tests and the frustra ngly started to cry, the first me she had ever
unhelpful results, their doctor sent him to a seen him shed tears. When he was in, cur-
psychiatrist, which infuriated her. Did they tain drawn, she had herself cried, silently.
think it was all in his mind? If so, it was a Later, she had thrown out the clothes he’d
cruel trick for a person’s mind to play. He been wearing, even though they were ex-
took it in his normal stoic way, which infu- pensive, unable to bring herself to clean
riated her all the more, which again mad- them, the sight and smell of them turning
dened her because his calmness no ma er her stomach. The sight of them alone had
the situa on was one of the many things made her want to start crying again, though
which made her fall in love with him when she was able to hold in the tears that me.
they first met. The pain was now so great
and regular, he couldn’t sit for longer than It felt like their life was over, the part of it
an hour, couldn’t walk distances farther which had yet to begin, the part where their
than a few feet without needing to stop, responsibili es were limited to themselves
couldn’t sleep for longer than two, three only. In such a short me, their dream of
hours at a stretch. They couldn’t even go travelling the world, going on their cruises,
to the movies together, a weekly tradi on was simply that, a dream. Una ainable. Im-
they had had since they first started dat- possible.
ing so many decades before, no ma er
the movie that was showing, the joy more He insisted she should go away herself,
in the si ng together, a popcorn between and though she was tempted, she wouldn’t
them, their hands gently held. deny that, she knew deep down she
wouldn’t enjoy herself, not without him,
He was prescribed every painkiller imag- and certainly not with the thought of him
inable, the names blurring together in her home alone, constantly in pain.
mind as one; when one did not work, it
would be changed to another, the doctors The children helped, of course, but
trying to find the right combina on, which there were some things he did want them
meant he seemed to adjust to the side-ef- to help with, or see. It wasn’t proper, he
fects of one tablet, only for it to be changed said, for them to help him shower, or go to
and he’d have to start all over again. He was the toilet, or clean up a er him a er he’d
also given several injec ons directly into his had an accident. It wasn’t right for her ei-
back, the doses so strong he would feel ill ther to have to do those things, he would
add, unable to look her in the eye, but she

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

would shush him and tell him she loved surprising her three children when she sent
him, which was true, which was always them all a friend request, all of them struck
true, even during those mes she had to with that usual blindness children seem to
wipe his behind; nothing to do with having have when it comes to looking at their par-
accidents, there were just mes when he ents; all three of them had texted her im-
couldn’t turn to wipe himself without his mediately to make sure it was her and not
back exploding in pain, and she would hear some iden fy thief. She’d enjoyed playing
him struggling, bi ng down on the pain, games on it, and rediscovering people she
trying to ba le though it so as not to dis- hadn’t seen in years. She especially liked
turb her, and she would sigh, stop whatever looking at other people’s photographs of
it was she was doing, and go and help him. their holidays, all those foreign places she
had yet to see. It was these photographs
They talked of ge ng some home help, which had let her to delete the account; she
and eventually hired someone to help out couldn’t look at them now without feeling a
a few days a week, but he wasn’t comfort- hard sadness and, yes, a raw jealousy right
able with a stranger doing all that he need- in the centre of her chest.
ed help doing, though he never said so. She
just knew, as a wife knows her husband of Again and again her husband said you
thirty-six years. The help s ll came, but only go, go somewhere. But she couldn’t. She
to do some light housework, so it wouldn’t was tempted, extremely tempted, catching
be le to her if they’d had a par cularly herself plo ng routes in her head before
hard day with his back - she was glad to say realising what she was doing and admon-
goodbye to the housework, never being ishing herself for it, then, unfortunately,
that fond of doing it, but resigned to it as a taking her resultant bad mood out on her
duty, akin, but not necessarily similar, and poor husband; it felt like an act of betrayal,
certainly not as rewarding, to raising the both the plo ng and her subsequent snap-
children. ping at him.

So, she did most of the work, taking Some nights as she lay in bed, listening
some me to herself when the children to him walking up and down on the landing
came, but not to much me, because, as because the pain had woken him, whisper-
o en as they did come, more since their ing a combina on of prayers to himself, she
father’s accident, they didn’t always bring wondered why the doctors could find no
their children, her grand children, and she cause for his pain. They’d been to see a pain
never passed up an opportunity to spend specialist, someone whose only job was the
management of pain, but he’d been un-
me with them; they were all at that per- able to find anything. He said that her hus-
fect age where they were out of nappies band’s problem wasn’t as uncommon as it
but s ll at stage when the slightest thing seemed. Several thousand people suffered
amused them, never ge ng bored, and from chronic pain syndrome a year.
never complaining about being bored,
which, in her opinion, was the hardest age Yes, but she was only married to one of
for the parents, with a drama c slide down them, and didn’t care about the rest.
yet to come.
It was on those night too that she won-
She had to delete her Facebook ac- dered was he faking it. She instantly felt
count. She’d only opened it a year previous,

148