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In the Faded Blue Light

By Don Donato

 

Dedication
for Zelda and Nathalie
— Souvenez-vous de Paris

NOTE: Presented here are the first two chapters of an eight-part novella — continuing in the fall issue.

Chapter I.

 No personality as strong as Zelda’s could go without getting criticisms and as you say she is not above approach [sic]. I’ve always known that. Any girl who gets stewed in public, who frankly enjoys and tells shocking stories, who smokes constantly and makes the remark that she has ‘kissed thousands of men and intends to kiss thousands more,’ cannot be considered beyond reproach even if above it. But Isabelle I fell in love with her courage, her sincerity and her flaming self respect and its [sic] these things I’d believe in even if the whole world indulged in wild suspicions that she wasn’t all that she should be.

But of course the real reason, Isabelle, is that I love her and that’s the beginning and the end of everything. You’re still a Catholic but Zelda’s the only God I have left now.

[F. Scott Fitzgerald, 1920]

 

Note: All excerpts from F. Scott Fitzgerald’s letters appear as they were written. Many of the errors are not annotated with [sic].

It was late in the morning when I needed to change trains in California on my way to a wayward piece of Los Angeles. I was bound for an appreciating tract of unreal estate known as Hollywood, a shining lure for believers in far-flung dreams, a district of hope for talentless “would be” actors and washed-up novelists. It always seemed fitting that a place of such tenuous promise should be situated in California, a strip of land teetering on a faulty line between gaiety and annihilation. A place where, for nearly a century, the wide-eyed have brought their fantasies and well-concealed desperation. 

I had taken a seat on a hard-wooden bench situated under the station’s eves, successfully hidden from the boorish California sun. A weedy man with a swarthy complexion covering tight, leathery skin, sitting close-by, looked up and caught my indolent stare.

“You must be from the East,” he said. “You’re from the East, right? I can tell by the lack of color in your face.”

He proceeded to introduce himself, and I feared he was about to try and sell me one of those parched, sand covered lots somewhere far from civilization for the purpose of bringing vitality to the city bound. I pretended he was speaking to someone else and reached for my newspaper. He walked toward me and took the adjacent seat. I held the paper in both hands to discourage any intention he might have had of shaking my hand.

“Paul Paulson’s the name. You new in these parts?”

It wasn’t my first trip to Hollywood. Ten years ago, I had accepted an offer from a producer to take up residence in a studio cottage to write about the “Jazz Age.”  Zelda, my wife, and I left Paris, and I attempted, as commissioned, to create a “flapper comedy.” I was, indeed, a product of the Jazz Age, perhaps, as some have said, in gauche praise or hardened accusation, that I created it. Even so, I don’t think I could have attempted to recapture such a time without Zelda. She was a flapper to her very depth.

“Yes,” I lied to the prune of a man sitting next to me. “I’m en route to a plot of desert land I purchased a while ago for the purpose of improving my faded appearance and overall health.”

“You missed it you know,” he replied.

I looked at him blankly.

“The train, you missed it.”

I pulled my watch from my vest pocket.

“It’s only 2:25. I’m waiting for the 2:40.” I put the timepiece to my ear.

“There’s nothing wrong with your watch.  You missed it.”

My watch was ticking. That brown stick of a man was right. I missed it. Not all the hope the world has ever known would bring it back. He sat as close to me now as the painted les femmes who had strolled passed me on the Boulevard du Montparnasse. Their bodies glowing proper and their desire spilling out through closed-lip smiles. In the soft blue light of a new Paris evening I had sat at a table set outside the café Le Select. Gatsby, my latest character, recently had left me. He was about to make his way in the world. I waited to hear what others would think of him. I have always envied him. His life relived each and every time someone finds him on a dusty, bookseller’s shelf. Certainly, each time his life would end in tragedy. No matter. He would try again and again. 

“Is there another train?” I shouted at the man.

“There’s always another train, but the one you’re waiting for is gone. It came early.”

I thought I heard the train coming. I rushed to the precipice of the platform and looked back down the track as far as I could.  Nothing was there. I could have sworn I heard it. The man yelled to me,” It doesn’t come from that direction.” When I turned toward the pedantic son of a bitch to tell him to mind his own business, I found him engrossed in my newspaper. I resolved to remain standing at the platform’s edge, waiting, looking back down the tracks.

After a while, the tracks began to rattle, and the 3:10, coming from the other direction, started to come into view. It approached the station, slowly but steadily. Its slowing wheels squealed against the metal rails like an overweight hog. The engine blasted air from its undercarriage, and my suit jacket blew open. An older woman held her hat down and shielded her face. The wind burst again. I bent my head down to keep the blown dust out of my eyes. There was an enigmatic clang, and the beast lumbered to a stop.

I feigned tying my shoe and watched the would-be land salesman board. I entered a car several away from him with my spirit lagging pitifully behind. It was in Hollywood where I hoped to turn things around. The money was good, 1,000 dollars a week for creating screenplays, a form of writing similar to the novel minus meaning, feeling, and thought.  Nevertheless, it afforded enough to keep Zelda in Asheville Psychiatric Hospital, and, allowed me to devote time to writing seriously again. I had an idea for a new novel. But, in spite of all this, each day my mood turned grayer and darker. Zelda weighed heavily on me. At the end of each day, the light fading slowly and sweetly with invitation, Zelda’s voice jingled again in the streets of Paris.

“Scott, Scott, let’s have a drink here. We’ve never been. Come on. Maybe someone will recognize us. Come on. We’ll drive them all crazy. We’ll kiss and carry on like they have never seen, not even in Paris. Come on, it’ll be fun.” It was hard to refuse Zelda. Her voice thrilled with an excitement which promised so much.

“Inside or out?” I replied. 

Her eyes widened, and I felt her spirit leap. I abandoned any notion of sinking into a few drinks, into a placid place, waiting and wondering if my telegram reached Max soon enough.  I wanted to change the proposed title for my new novel, which, at that moment, sat perilously at the edge of a no-nonsense printing press. I was crazy about my new title, Under the Red, White, and Blue. Max was satisfied with calling it The Great Gatsby. It never made any sense to me. There’s no emphasis, even ironically, on Gatsby’s greatness or lack of it. My new title told the story. That’s what it’s about: lost dreams in the midst of such hopeless hope. Zelda grabbed my hand and pulled me toward the entrance of the café.

“Outside, of course,” she answered, “much more scandalous. Maybe we’ll make the US papers, and Max’ll send you another letter.”

“Max has my, our, best interest, always,” I blurted out as we rushed off the street into the gathering of tables.

“Oh, he never has any fun, so he doesn’t want anyone to have any. Who cares what people think of us. What you write sells books, not who you are. Right? Right?”

“People want to believe what they read. Who can believe a drunk with an out-of-control wife?”

“Out of control? Who’s out of control?” She whipped her head toward me, and without pause, quickly redirected it to the waiter watching us from beneath the awning.

“Monsieur,” she said, her voice rose a tone. Monsieur.”  The waiter stepped out onto the street into the full dimness and warmth of the early Paris evening. A few patrons turned their heads. Some faces struck still. A woman, dressed fine and rich, turned to the gentleman sitting next to her, and whispered in his ear. He looked up, and he caught my stare.

Monsieur.” Zelda’s words now shrill. “Monsieur, a table for two. Mr. Fitzgerald and I prefer the outside. S’il vous plait.”

The waiter nodded. We followed him. The gaiety of the City’s faded blue light, promising a never-ending life of playful glances and soft laughter, peeked in as we made our way under the awning, passing among the circle-shaped tabletops. A man with a white walking cane dangling from his table, jerked his head up. His expression was tight. He looked down, adjusting the balance of his cane as he stared at its imaginary teeter. He held his head in a strict focus away from my direction. He waved to the waiter, who promptly brought his check.   

Zelda paid no attention to the uneasiness which had begun to ripple around us.

“I’ m sorry, I never, I just never…,” Zelda repeated over and over, her Alabama drawl driving and twisting each word as we bumped and ricocheted our way through the narrow table passages. Embarrassment on empathetic faces brought my eyes down. We gathered momentum as we passed between tables. With a sudden stop, Zelda landed in a chair, bounced up, and settled down with her body slightly quivering.

“I don’t care. Let’s have a few drinks and make love in public,” she said, her aging face locked stolidly before my eyes. At seventeen her beauty caused contriving, young men to meet her “unexpectedly” wherever they expected her to be. Their only wish was to share a hopeful word or two with her. She rarely touched a door or moved a chair.  She rewarded her would-be suitors with a sweet smile, followed by a glance from long-lashed eyes which she quickly hid behind a fan of Southern charm.

I stepped quicker and began to stumble. With a reckless and defeated heave, I fell into a seat next to everything that kept a fire burning somewhere inside me. I hadn’t yet regained my balance, when Zelda grabbed the lapel of my coat. “Kiss me wildly,” she said. I pulled her closer and put my hand on her knee. She lay her hand on mine and moved it inward and higher. The eyes of two courtly women darted back and forth from each other to the unfolding scandal with a syncopated rhythm of the Jazz Age. Others shrank into open-mouthed children while they pretended not to notice.

 I grasped her face, holding it motionless. The evening light fell silent to the ambient hum of increasing conversation. For a moment, beneath the titillation, beyond the boundaries of  propriety imposed by self-protective righteousness, we were what the world wanted most: the excitement of the forbidden; a glimpse of hope in the mundane; perhaps a morsel of a lost memory; and, in all its non-yielding desperation, the reality of fantasy.

 I took a seat by a window, settled in, and the train began to crawl away from the platform. The speed picked up and I watched through the window the occasional houses, made miniature by acres of buffering California farmland, pass-by at ever increasing speed. A vineyard came into sight, then quickly receded, dragging my eyes along until it disappeared. The snarled vines remained in my mind and reached so deep that my body tingled and my eyes filled. I wanted to jump out and run back and follow those vines back to where I first saw them on the train going to Lyon from Paris.

On that day I had travelled to Lyon, I was to be accompanied by a fellow whom I had met a few days before in a bar in Paris. He was a writer, but he hadn’t published much at that time. I had read a few of his stories which appeared in some European magazines, and I could see he had great talent. He was a well-built man, rather tall with a sturdy body and flaring ears. His unbuttoned vest matched his woolen sports-jacket and his white button-down shirt was wrinkled and its collar splayed open revealing chest hair.

He spoke to everyone in a low tone while scrutinizing their faces. I always wondered what he was looking for. His eyes exuded a confidence bordering on conceit that promised that whatever he found was assuredly an unspoken object of criticism. 

He insisted I call him Ernest. He hated Ernie. In all truth I hated it as well. It had a way of grinding him into the top layer of the earth’s soil where the masses spent their lives — lost and unaware.  For reasons still unknown to me, save the interpersonal tightness induced by the better part of a bottle of Beaune, Ernest consented to come with me to Lyon to pick up my car. It had broken down when Zelda, I and Scotty, our daughter, had attempted to drive to Paris from Antibes. We continued our trip to Paris by train and had to leave the car in Lyon for repairs.

After drinking the better part of the night away, Ernest and I had agreed to meet at the station a few days later and take the early train to Lyon. Through no fault of my own, I missed that train. Ernest went to Lyon, as planned. I arrived on a later train. He had called my apartment several times while waiting for me at the station. He had spoken to my housekeeper. I had told her to tell him I wasn’t at home.

When I reached Lyon, I went directly to the hotel bar to settle what was left of my nerves. Ernest walked in.

“Where the hell you been? I checked every hotel bar in Lyon,” he said.

“I must apologize. The time got away from me, and I missed the train. I was going to come looking for you, but I wanted a drink first.”

Ernest stood next to me at the bar. “And second, and third, and… which one is this?”

“Barkeep, un pour mon ami.” I turned to Ernest. “Bourbon or are you drinking the hard stuff?”

“I never touch absinth outside of Paris. Can’t trust it anywhere else.”

“Okay, bourbon it is.” The bartender brought a bottle and filled the shot to the brim.

“Scott, what happened? Were you tight and fell asleep somewhere?”

“Sleep. I wish I could sleep once in a while.” I pulled a vial from my coat pocket. “I need this stuff to maybe get some sleep.”

Ernest brought the glass carefully to his lips.

“I was working,” I said, “a deadline for a story.” 

Ernest lowered the empty glass to the bar, his fingers still wrapped around it. He barked at the bartender, “Another bourbon.”

He looked at me. “Are you a reporter now?”

He didn’t believe my story, and it was just that, a story, fiction, the stuff which lives in my head like so many orphans. This wayward child wound up in Ernest’s incredibility. I couldn’t bring myself to tell him the truth. I couldn’t tell him that it was Zelda, who was unraveling like an overwound clock. She wouldn’t settle down. She kept throwing things, whining, crying, screaming. 

A few months prior, in the south of France, she had some screaming episodes when she was drunk, but I thought it came from her insatiable need for attention. I was writing day and night then. Some sober talk eventually calmed her, but this time she wouldn’t listen to me. I grabbed her. She broke free and tried to run out. I caught up with her at the door.  I couldn’t trust to leave her alone with the housekeeper. I called this doctor I had met in Le Select a few nights before. He said if I ever needed anything…. He gave Zelda an injection of morphine. It put her to sleep. That was the first time she needed the morphine to bring her back. It soon became a regular affair.

Ernest had not yet met Zelda, and I hadn’t spoken much about her. He struck me as a serious writer. I knew his work, and it was the real thing. I wanted to know him better before explaining the terrible strain my marriage had become. Zelda was restless. She missed the constant swirl of party-filled nights we spent in New York. Like all flappers she lived in a world which danced the Charleston perpetually.

At that time, when I first met Ernest, Zelda and I were living in Paris, an extraordinary timeless place where characters lingered on every corner, and night-lit cafés offered a home for the light-hearted while giving refuge to the lifeless.  It was a time when Zelda’s words still sparkled, and her voice vibrated with thrilling alarm created by the flame burning inside her. She lived life as a fairytale, a series of frivolous adventures in a world which allowed her to romp like a child in an amusement park, her beauty, her only ticket of admission. At seventeen she was the most beautiful woman I had ever known, but time had taken hold. What was once her carte blanche to life, at age twenty-six had begun to wane. Her reality beginning to trail listlessly behind.

 We found each other at an early age when I was a young Army officer stationed in Montgomery, Alabama. She was the last of a type known as the Southern belle: a rich, young beauty who manipulated the whims and fantasies of infatuated young men. I was no exception.

 The boys at Camp Sheridan were invited to a country club dance in Montgomery. The War was in full swing in Europe and we waited for our orders to come through. We knew where we were going. There were rumors about the Argonne Forest in France.

One officer, who had returned from the front, spent some time on the base before he could hitch a ride back to one of those farm states, Iowa or Idaho. He wanted to spend the rest of his life there on a small farm his father had left him. He had lost his right arm and several fingers from his left. In some deep part of me, I knew why he wanted to go back to that farm.  What he had lost in France was no matter. He wanted to find the parts of himself he had left in the rows of plowed soil and in the air that smelled of freshly turned earth.  He wanted only again to loosen familiar ground and find the dreams buried by a young boy. He took mess with the enlisted men. He had lost his taste for privilege.  As we walked together one day, he told a bunch of us, “When men die, they all die equally.”

We reached the entrance of the mess hall, and the group followed the wounded man in. I trailed behind and watched them disappear into the building. I walked a little closer and stopped a fair distance from the door. My orders were sitting on some General’s desk waiting for his signature to send me into, perhaps, the last days of my life. I began to sweat, and my hands trembled. I pushed and pulled on my damp shirt. I took a step back and then another and another. I saw the door open and someone was waving to me to come. I turned away. It wasn’t death I feared. It was the idea that all men die equally which haunted me. I had to re-write my novel and get it published. I headed to the officers’ dining club.

During my free time on the weekends I had written enough pages of some disjointed ramblings to convince myself I had a novel. I called it the Romantic Egoist and sent it to Scribner Publishing. I had made the contact through a friend who knew the editor, Max Perkins. He liked the idea, but he had objections and suggestions that needed to be made if I ever had any chance of publication. I had written for the Tiger and the Nassau Review at Princeton, but Perkins wanted something different. He wanted it all to make some deeper sense. The story was inspired by my life as a student at Princeton. How much sense could I make of that?

The War ended, and I was discharged. I wanted nothing more than to have what I had written, what I thought was a novel, published. I went back to Minnesota to try to find out what Perkins was talking about. Something was different there in the Mid-west. It was something the East had discarded or, perhaps ignored, and through no fault of its own, died of neglect.

St. Paul hadn’t changed much. The same barber shop I went to as a young boy was still in operation, and I suspected some of my locks could be found stuck in a floor crack. On the edge of town stood the wheat fields, golden and swaying in the wind, still waiting for harvest since the time I last had seen them as a much younger man.

 At Princeton I had belonged to the Cottage Club, a college fraternity of sorts. The only thing we ever grew was ambition. I associated with a group on campus known as the writers, the literary set. Edmund Wilson had the most promise. We called him “Bunny.”

“You still working on that play for the Triangle Club, Scott? Bunny said one day as we walked up Nassau street on our way to the Yankee Doodle Tap Room.

“Yep. What are you working on these days, the Great American Novel? You got the best shot you know.”

“Always with your head in the clouds, Scott. Maybe someday you’ll write that novel. It will catapult your name to the lips of every literature professor in every University in America, even Princeton. On second thought, maybe you should wait until Professor Gauss is dead. He might remember you.”

Secretly, I dreamed of nothing less. I knew I was a good writer back then, not as good as Bunny, but good, and I got better. It’s like I told Zelda many years later, “I’m a professional writer. You are not. Writers like me are one in ten million.” However, neither I nor Bunny ever wrote that Great American Novel. Maybe Bunny was right, I should keep my head out of the clouds, but I never could. It was there in the haze of the seemingly unreachable I wrote four novels and married the belle of my dreams.

 It was in Minnesota, while working on my first novel, in the frozen ground I felt unyielding beneath my feet, I became aware of what I had learned at Princeton. Success in America had become the compromise of ideals, rather than its progeny. I had come to realize that my generation had entered a time in which wealth supplanted the self, and righteousness had given way to opportunism. No character suffered more from this realization, five years later, than Jay Gatsby. By that time, hope had become the pre-occupation of the misinformed, and dreams the fertile ground for the cynical.

 I re-wrote my novel. The title changed to This Side of Paradise, and Scribner published it. It was in the time when excitement exuded from my overwhelming dreams, when disjointed feelings crashed brutishly onto blank pages. It was the time when my rarified reality, honed and nurtured in the sweet field of my homegrown truths, started to take root.   

  I had never been to a country club and the sound of it held me captive. The thick crop of its influential harvest held a sway that lifted me into the warm, close air puffed from half-lit, dollar cigars. I had written to a friend at Princeton who had lived in Alabama in the cushion of soft money. He had given me the names of a few of the “fastest” debutantes in Montgomery. As is often the case with young college men, the purported looseness of female prospects is surely more the imaginary and misguided information of virgin liars. As a consequence, my mind and fantasies remained opened.

 It was that night that I first saw Zelda. She was walking across the dance floor arm-in-arm with two female partners, who by all indications, provided more than moral support. She was the most beautiful girl of whitish-pink skin. Her auburn hair was bobbed with enough audacity to send it into large curls, bouncing recklessly. Every eye was on her. The men moved in anticipation to where she was going, and the women fanned themselves with quick flutters and bustled aimlessly. 

She had my full attention. A young sergeant I had known on the post nudged me. He had poked around the town on a few weekends, and he had heard a few things, especially about who was who in Montgomery. I dropped my stare to just catch him in the corner of my eye.

“She’s the brass ring around here, they tell me”, he said. “Every guy in Montgomery wants to marry her. She’s old Alabama money. She even lives on a street named for her family. You’re out of your league here Lieutenant.”

“Out of my league?” I heard myself repeating the words rushing from inside me. My eyes never left her.

“Lieutenant, forget it… unless you got some money that I don’t know about. If you do, then you still owe me two bucks from that card game you should have stayed out of last week.”

My eyes never moved. Her curls bounced like words which no one could ever write. Each loose winding of hair jumped to tell a story propelled by boundless energy and full of endless promises.

“What else do you know about her?” I said to the Sergeant.

“Not much, but there’s s girl I met here before who probably can tell you more. Her last name is Bankhead. I can’t remember her first name. It sounds like Matilda or something… Tallulah, that’s it.” The Sergeant glanced around the room, “There she is.”

He raised his head in her direction. “Tallulah, Tallulah,” he said in a voice loud enough to carry above the discordant chatter in the room. He waved her over.

A young woman with wavy brown hair extending to her shoulders appeared at his side.

“Well, hello, again Sergeant,” I heard from a husky voice. She spoke and moved with the subtle swing of the country club type. Her words had a sureness which came from a perpetual source of gratuitous wealth. 

“You seem to be a man with something on his mind,” she said, scrutinizing the Sergeant. “I like that kind of man. What can I do for you? … Careful, I’ve heard it all before… and tried most of it.”

My eyes were still locked on the tipsy, curled-hair debutante.

“The Lieutenant here wants to know more about her,” the Sergeant said to Tallulah, giving a quick nod toward the girl of my focus.

I felt Tallulah’s eyes fall on me. I never turned my head.

“Nice to meet you,” I murmured, “I’m Scott. I, I just…..”

“Oh her,” Tallulah said, “Booze, cigarettes and boys. And not necessarily in that order.”

Zelda still wandered about flanked by her supporters. She was returning smiles to passing men, some of whom I presumed to be suitors and others whose time had come and gone. Tallulah, her face falling motionless, paused and again directed her eyes to Zelda. Her voice fell almost to a whisper, “she’s always talking about making it big somewhere. She’s a dancer you know.”

“Lieutenant, I’m going to cruise around. I’ll catch you later,” the Sergeant said.

I turned to Tallulah. She was quite attractive. She glowed with a polish afforded only to those who commit themselves to the never-ending care demanded by social standing and made possible by the servitude of purposeless money. I directed my eyes back to Zelda.

“What’s her name?” I asked.

Of all the questions I wished to ask, this was the only one which reached my lips. The others I answered for myself in the way children create reality from far-flung fantasy.

“Why don’t you ask her yourself, Lieutenant?”

Tallulah strolled slowly toward the three women. When she reached the trio, a neat, lanky fellow with gray shoes with white wingtips approached the tipsy, pinkish debutante. His suit was a checkered affair. I was sure I had seen one just like it in one of those men magazines I was forced to read while waiting to get my hair cut. His trousers sported creases with the sharpness of a pretension matched only by his good manners. He took Zelda’s hand, kissed it. He then bowed slightly, acknowledging the flanking ladies-in-waiting. Zelda grazed his cheek with the back of her hand without a word. He uttered something. She shook her head and smiled and turned toward Tallulah, whose back was toward me. She pointed at me over her shoulder. Zelda lifted her eyes in my direction. I stared down at the floor. When I looked up, my mind fumbled. What had seemed so distant, came nearer.  Unassisted, she floated toward me, her path unwavering, her momentum unstoppable. She washed over me like a moonlit tide making its way farther and farther ashore. Her curls chattered without pause as she moved, and, as she came closer, I was struck by the lack of flaws in her skin, unblemished and undisturbed by ordinary life. Her face was composed of a calm beauty, an extraordinary simplicity and concert found in art born from subtle genius.

  She rested within a breath’s warmth of me. I wanted to speak, but my words hardened in my mouth. Without hesitation the great Lieutenant Scott Fitzgerald moved me aside and stepped forward. The smell of the leather of his boots, the secure cinch of the belt from his waist coat, and the proud protrusion of the brim of his peaked cap gave him all the confidence I envied. His words fell from my mouth.

“Scott Fitzgerald. Lieutenant Scott Fitzgerald. The pleasure is all mine.”

His smile continued speaking. It had all the invitation of a million words. His riveted eyes glistened. They were eyes which said you excite me like someone I have treasured from the time I first had met you. I wanted to take her in and show her how much he could offer her. The young belle’s eyes danced around the room with all the pretense of searching for better prospects. She abruptly turned in my direction, paused, and her voice rose, unnaturally, as if startled by an unexpected burst from an awakened star. Clearly, simply and forever, she said, “I’m Zelda.”

Not a muscle in my body stirred. I observed her every movement, looking for any hint of what she was thinking. I stood more erect. Her nearness shot through me. I rose higher and higher. The well-healed men and the polished women, scattered about the room, blended with each other, sweeping me into the mix. I knew for the first time how it felt to be a man of the world. The air grew still around me, and nothing moved but time.  It wound itself back. The house in which I had grown up in Minnesota crumbled into a ghastly phantasm. My parents no longer had claim to me. The man made of golden images and flawless manners, the man who had lived in the mind of a young boy, broke out with unprecedented vigor. In that moment I was certain that the truths of my promises had so materialized that they existed outside of me. The girl with pink skin and audacious hair, who now stood so close, became forever part of the rock formed from igneous dreams.

 I fumbled to keep her engaged.

“I heard you want to be a dancer,” I said.

She gave me a look. She appeared puzzled.

“I am a dancer,” she replied.

“I just meant a very successful one, on the stage as a big star someday.”

“New York, first,” she said. It knocked me back. It was the way she said it. It was familiar and unmistakable. It came from someone too large for the world which contained her. 

“The Russian ballet, of course, is the best, but New York and Europe will let me show my talent.”    

I had loved a socialite once before. She was a woman of my station, but she saw only a blurry-eyed Princeton student. Her rank and money had numbed her to the reality of belief. “Rich girls don’t marry poor boys,” she had told me.

I have come to realize that in fields of plenty, hope withers. The rich have no need for what might be… but, the girl who stumbled, whose hair curled in search of something beyond her reach, stepped upon fairy wings to find her footing. With each uncertain step she took, she hammered squarely the truth in a way which I had discovered so innocently many years ago hiding in the dust of a genie’s lamp.   

The band began to play a waltz. It was late, and I suspected this was perhaps the last waltz.

“Would you like to dance,” I said.

“My card is exceptionally full this evening. I’m sorry, but I’m promised to others.”

“Think of it as a contribution to the war effort,” I interjected. I struggled to keep my smile, which threatened to break in to a thousand pieces.  “I’m going overseas soon,” I added.

She looked at me a for a moment and a smile escaped to her lips.

“Never let it be said that I didn’t do my part to defeat the Kaiser,” she replied.

She opened her arms, and we touched. She was softer than I remembered women to be. Her body moved to the rhythm of the music, but, somewhere beneath that, in those moments of stillness, she held on tightly like a little girl. It was in those moments, I pressed her closer and held her in a way, I was sure, she had never known.  

The music stopped.

“I want to see you again,” I said

“I’ll be here next Saturday afternoon. I like to swim. Come back then, you will be my guest,” she said.

“It’s a date, next Saturday.”

She started to walk away, stopped, and put her hand near her mouth to shield her words.

“Bring some gin,” she added.

I watched her walk away.

“Lieutenant,” I heard someone say. It was the Sergeant approaching quickly from my flank. “Do you think it would be okay if I took a look at that list you got?”

 I had forgotten about it. Every guy in camp wanted a peek at it. I kept it hidden. It was a perquisite meant for those for whom untoward behavior could compensate for stunted dreams. The thought of going to the War, unfortunately, had made everyone a candidate, so I kept the sought-after list secure on my person at all times.

 I took the list from my breast pocket and handed it to the Sergeant. My eyes never left Zelda as she walked toward the door. The Sergeant turned to see what occupied my attention. He looked down sharply and perused the list.

“Lieutenant, she ain’t on it.”

“Who,” I said, turning my head just slightly in his direction.

The Sergeant lifted his eyebrows in Zelda’s direction.

“I know that,” I said.

“Are you going to see her again?”

There was never anything again that I was ever so sure of.  It no longer mattered that I was going to war. Perhaps it would all come to an end in the mud of France with nothing more ahead but the hazy fog of the Argonne Forest, but, on that night, in the dry breezes of the unassuming South, my past had begun in the way I had always known it would.   

“I think this one girl, Amanda Greggs, is here,” Sarge said, smiling a little. “You’re not going to pull rank on me, are you, Lieutenant? “

“No, no old man, she’s all yours.” The Sergeant started to walk away. He turned and looked back at me.

“I would hate to see a good list like this go to waste,” he said.

“Waste? No. It told me everything I needed to know.” What I didn’t know was that it told me only what I had hoped.

A few years later, in the days in Paris, when Zelda practiced her ballet relentlessly, I couldn’t help but think of that day in Montgomery when she floated to me. In Paris, alone in her room and at Mdm. Egorova’s studio, she twisted and strained, drifting farther from me, deeper and deeper into herself. She had new loves: ballet, Madame Egorova, and a prima ballerina, whom, at first, I knew only as “a dancer from the studio.” Later I learned her name was Lucienne. She had become Zelda’s new friend, frequenting cafés together afterhours.

I spent my nights at the Ritz bar, talking to persons I hardly knew. Some of them had heard of me, and some I had to inform. The gin gave me the courage to look them in the eyes and tell them with all the conviction of carnival barker that I was a writer, a real one, a novelist. “I wrote This Side of Paradise,” I would say. “I’m sure you’ve heard of it. Did you read it? Well, you must. I finished my third a few years ago. It’s called The Great Gatsby.  Now if you have read that one, I’ll buy you a drink.” 

I hardly ever had to buy that drink. Maybe Max was right. Maybe I should have developed Gatsby’s character more. No one knew who he was, but I knew who he was. In all truth, he really wasn’t anyone, not anyone at all.  He was a guy who bought drinks for people he didn’t even know.

On one of those lonely nights, a couple, dressed American, pushed up against the bar to my right. They wore jewelry, too much of it. His cuff links had initials. Her pearls dangled below her breasts as a testament to a string of martyred oysters. It was a time of seemingly forever, burgeoning wealth in America.

The gentleman stood back away from his bill lying on the bar. He cocked his head, tensed his face, and held his lips in a frown, as if protesting, with the upmost constraint, the sheer banality and personal intrusion of having to sign his name.  She sipped her coffee, legs crossed, her upper body straight and stiff. Their every movement had the theatrics of poorly scripted gentility and all the telltale crispness of new money. They were the new America. They stood for nothing, and they asked for everything. I moved closer and stood next to them.

It was a rare evening. The prolific Ernest Hemingway graced our presence with Gerald Murphy trailing behind him. Gerald was a man with no career, and he had everything to show for it. His fortune grew like wheat in the old lush fields of family businesses and was cultivated by personal indifference to it.

Ernest, dressed like a beggar, no jacket, no tie, his shirt sleeves rolled to his forearms, put his hand on my shoulder. I turned around. I took a step toward Gerald, and Hemingway’s hand lifted off me. There was enough talk about us. I loved the man, but not in that way. For some reason, a rumor started that Ernest and I were fairies. This firestorm of conjecture was started by McAlmon, a fag himself. Rumors, as rumors go, are usually at least half true. 

Gerald stood next to me at the bar.

“Hello, old man, how’s it going? It’s been a while,” Gerald said. “You and Zelda are in the papers quite a bit these days.”

“Don’t believe everything you read,” I said.

Ernest, now standing on the other side of me, leaned forward, like I was some object of inconsequence, and looked at Gerald.

“That’s true, my friend, good advice. Have you read his latest, The Great Gatsby?”

“It was really quite good, Scott,” Gerald said, his voice oscillating in frequencies and short pauses like a mother looking at her child’s penciled drawings.

“Leave him out of this,” I said, staring straight ahead at the bottles behind the bar.

“Who?” Gerald said.

“Gatsby,” I replied.

There was a momentary silence that rumbled through. I took down the glass of gin, sitting in front of me. The room was quiet. Ernest and Gerald faded away. The gin had done its job, and I felt numb to what the world wanted me to be – nothing, nothing at all.

Ernest broke the silence. “Scott, I heard you were looking for me. What did you want to see me about?”

“Barkeep,” I said, “another glass of gin.”

“Mr. Fitzgerald, another glass, sir?”

Gerald spoke up, getting the bartender’s attention. “He doesn’t need another glass.”  

The young man behind the bar looked at me with a wide-eyed stare.

“The man’s right,” I said to the young barkeep. His eyes relaxed, but for only a moment. “Bring me the god damn bottle.”

 “Very generous of you, old sport,” Ernest said. “Did I get that right? I liked the way Gatsby called his friend and enemies ‘old sport.’”

I turned to Ernest, dropped my eyes. My stare penetrated through my eyebrows. “I told you, leave him out of this.”

“Sorry about that old sp…man.”

Gerald ordered a beer. The bartender brought a glass for Ernest, and he put the bottle of gin between us. I poured myself a drink, grabbed the bottle, and put it on the other side of me.

“So, what do you want to see me about?” Ernest asked.

“Just to have a drink together. I can’t seem to write much these days. Some magazine stuff, that’s about it. And there’s another thing. No one I have asked knows where you live. Even Gerald doesn’t know where your new apartment is.” I turned and looked at Gerald. He lifted his beer and took a long, small sip, and then rested the glass back on the bar, never facing me. I made a half-turn toward Ernest and leaned against the bar. I held the gin in my hand.

“Bartender,” Ernest said. The young man turned his head. Ernest waved him over.

“Do you have any absinth?” he whispered.

“No sir, we aren’t allowed to serve it here in the Hotel. Management doesn’t want that bunch coming in here.”

“Son, they’re already here. Why don’t you ask who ever runs this joint if they might have a little private stock of it somewhere for a couple of special guests.”

“Yes, Mr. Hemingway. I’ll ask, sir.”

Ernest stepped back and grasped the edge of the bar with both hands.

“Scott, Hadley and I want to keep this place we’re in. You come around at all hours, tight, and people start to complain, and…

I faced the bar and poured the gin down my throat.

Chapter II.

Dear Scott:

… you say that you have been thinking of the past… so have I.

There was:

The strangeness and excitement of New York, of reporters and furry smothered hotel lobbies, the brightness of the sun on the window panes and the prickly dust of late spring: the impressiveness of the Fowlers and much tea-dancing and my eccentric behavior at Princeton. There were Townsend’s blue eyes and Ludlow’s rubbers and a trunk that exuded sachet and the marshmallow odor of the Biltmore. There were always Lud[l]ow and Townsend and Alex and Bill Mackey and you and me. We did not like women and we were happy. There was Georges apartment and his absinth cock-tails [sic] and Ruth Findleys [sic] gold hair in his comb, and visits to the ‘Smart Set’ and ‘Vanity Fair’ – a colligate [sic] literary world puffed into wide proportions by the New York papers. There were flowers and night clubs … and went to John Williams parties where there were actresses who spoke French when they were drunk… I was romanticly [sic] attached to Townsend and he went to Tahatii [sic] – there were your episodes of Gene Bankhead and Miriam…

[Zelda Fitzgerald, 1930]

Zelda and I lived in New York City for a while after we were married. It was a constant swirl: carefree guys I had known at Princeton, women whose intentions were poured into sleek dresses, uptown bars soaked with money from burgeoning post-war careers, and parties given by anyone who wanted to dress up his social standing by inviting a known author and his unpredictable wife. My first novel was selling, and the “slicks” bought a few of my stories. The money came in and lay in my pocket, the inside one of my sport-coat, like the calling card of a gentleman.

Harold Ober, my agent, had called me to a meeting at his office. He had great news. The Saturday Evening Post wanted more of my stories.

“Scott, have a seat. You’re going to love this. They want three more stories at double their last rate.”

Harold was looking at me hard in the eyes. It was the money that dragged a smile out of the pit of my stomach.

“Start writing more of the kind of stuff they’re looking for. The easy read, short stories. That’s what I can sell. It doesn’t matter how long it is, but no novel stuff, something that can be serialized in a few issues.”

The room was pale. The walls a wan blue. Harold sat behind a wooden desk covered with manuscripts from never-to-be heard of writers and a white porcelain coffee cup with a brown stain circling inside near the rim. A waist high radiator, sitting against a wall in the corner, shooshed steam from a tiny appendage. Harold had a habit of leaning back, tilting his chair with his hands grasped together behind his head. His eyes pierced through my silent stare.

“You working on that novel? What is it called?” he asked.

“The Beautiful and Damned, so far, anyway. I want to finish it, Harold, but I need the money. I’ll start on the Post’s stories.”

The radiator hissed, and I took a drag on the cigarette I held between my fingers. Harold sprung forward, launched by the tension of the twisted chair springs. He spoke as he flew back into his reality.

“Great, Scott. How’s Zelda?”

“Restless.”

“In New York?”

I glanced at the blank walls, no pictures, just some peeling paint above the radiator. The lower half of the solitary window to my left was obscured by the water running in narrow, helpless rivers down onto the sill. I crossed my legs, leaned forward, and put my cigarette out in the ashtray on the desk.

“The Beautiful and Damned, what do you think of the title, Harold? Will it sell?”

“I don’t know. What does Max think?”

“What do you think, Harold? Do you think the beautiful can ever be damned?”

“I’m not following you, Scott.”

“We all live in an endless eddy, Harold, forever swirling downward. We reach out from the dizzying whirl, and grasp nothing. Where once stood our imagination, there exists only its mangled images. The beautiful turns wretched, and we watch helplessly with the eyes of the damned.”

“We live in a what? I could have sworn you were sober when you walked in here. If this is some kind of writing thing, ask Max”

“Don’t you realize we are headed for a dreadful disorder of what was to be. What started on firm rock, now wobbles and teeters. It can’t last, Harold. She tries to destroy me, I try to destroy her, but all we will ever destroy is us. The beautiful are always damned.”  

“Look, Scott, you’ve been working pretty hard lately. Maybe you just need to give her some attention. That’s all.”

“Harold, I got to go.” I started to walk toward the door.

“Scott, can you have one of those stories by next month?”

I turned toward him and raised my hand as I left his office. I walked down the hall. The light from the door’s transom was nearly gone. I began to descend the stairs. The wood creaked with each step I took. I stepped lighter, but the tired wood continued its complaining. The sound was inescapable, a plaint for every time I bore my weight upon its vulnerable weak back. When I reached the bottom of the staircase, I rushed for the door, and I stepped out onto the street. New York flowed around me without favor or blame, like warm air in the heat of the summer. Cars chugged by haltingly in the traffic and preoccupied people pushed past each other in an endless flow of anonymity.

An indifference gripped me. I needed a drink. I couldn’t shake the darkness of the hallway. The faint echo of the creaking played over and over. It had the tenacity of crushing heartache born from sudden infidelity. A hopeless sadness burrowed itself firmly into all that still struggled to live within me. My chest and gut began to tremble.

 There was a bar within walking distance which was popular with the Princeton set. I headed in that direction. I wanted to stop on my way and buy Zelda something, anything, a gold necklace. I loved buying Zelda things. She loved surprises. That’s what she called them. “Scott, bring me home a surprise. Anything, anything at all,” she would say. There was a small jewelry shop on the corner of 34th and 5th. She had bought some earrings there. They were of the kind that dangled from the ears of New York women stumbling across living rooms at cocktail parties while they spilled champagne from thin-stemmed glasses. I entered the shop and laid three one hundred-dollar bills on the counter. I walked out with a necklace the jeweler said would match the earrings Zelda had bought.

“Scott, Scott,” I heard a man calling me. He was with a woman about a block or so ahead. It was Townsend Martin, an old friend from my Princeton days. He was living in New York, trying his hand at writing some plays. But it was the woman, her arm wrapped around his, who captured my attention. The shaking in my middle increased and it flowed into my upper arms. The falling night had brought a darkness which stood stark and still and bold. A ghastly image appeared and pierced me deeply, seizing my thoughts and narrowing my senses. Terror poured from my imagination. I stood frozen in the dank and coarse New York night. The woman was Zelda.  

“Zelda said that you went to see Ober,” Townsend said. “We thought you’d be at the that bar on 34th Street.” Townsend was bubbling with enthusiasm. His party spirit lay like vomit on me, and I wanted to wipe it from my body and give it to the one who deserved it most. She snuggled his arm.

“Scott, you look lost, dear. Did Harold give you some bad news?” Her words flowed slowly with the intended cold rhythm of triumphant. Her brow wrinkled. Her intent, with a calculated precision, swarmed to extinguish the dwindling spark struggling for life within me. I didn’t want to share her, not even in the least of ways, and, at times, I hated her for it. Her flirtations and secrets cut at the very heart of me. Ernest, in our days in Paris, often said I should divorce her. He didn’t understand. The dreams forged from the once formless musings of the infinitely hopeful become hardened, never to be assailed lest they fall from the heavens. No other man must ever touch her.

“Scott, what do you want from me?” She would say when I asked too many questions about what she had done with the men who had come and gone in her life. “What does it matter?” she would say. My imagination had twisted itself into bizarre shapes of her body wrapped around another. My torment tore at the fabric of my dreams,  slipping from my grasp. I wanted them back as whole and pure as I had created them. Zelda never had wanted anyone but me. Her every indiscretion was a mistake, a simple lapse of judgment of haphazard youth. I insisted she tell me about each sexual encounter, and together we would go back and recreate the truth. 

She never has told me about any of them. She uses them as the most delicate of instruments, wounding so gently but effectively, over and over. She is a selfish woman. She has taken for her own despicable use the dreams I had shared with her in those early days in the shimmering waves of the Alabama heat.

“I guess we should get that drink,” I said.

Zelda linked my arm, but never released his.  The three of us walked together. My trembling, by the sheer crescendo of its magnitude, burst from my middle. It left in its wake a vacuum where once existed all that mattered. My body lapsed into a reckless state. The desperate person inside of me, incarnated from hope and vision, retched from pain.

Arm-in -arm we walked up the five concrete steps to the barroom. Townsend pulled the door open, and Zelda entered. He and I followed. It wasn’t quite five o’clock and the place was quiet. Only two young girls, somewhere in their twenties, sat next to each other at the mid-section of the bar. I drew up a stool next to them. Zelda sat to my left and Townsend next to her.

“What’ll it be?” the bartender said.

One of the young girls whispered into the ear of the other, and they giggled. They wore hats that fitted close to their heads and the design reminded me of the helmets worn by the German army during the War. Some hair escaped from the fronts and wound itself into loose, solitary curls. They wore dresses with belts which tied at their hips. The purposeful inattention of the girls to hems, which rested high above their knees, gave the impression that the impropriety was a result of innocence and naivete. They sat with their legs crossed, creating two slender cascades. The two women nearly faced each other, resembling bookends most appropriately found on the shelf in a bordello.

“A bottle of gin,” I said to the bartender. I looked at Zelda and Townsend and turned back to the bartender. “I’m not sure what they’re having.”

Zelda turned toward me and a gave me a look. Her lips were in a tight straight line. She turned her body toward Townsend. I shot a half glass of gin down my throat. How in the hell did he meet up with Zelda? What were they doing together? She could have told me anything, and I wouldn’t have believed her. Why did she hang on to him like that?

“Townsend,” I said in a tone of casualness not seen since the Kaiser asked how the War was going. “Why did you want to see me?” I could have cared less why, but I had hoped to unearth the circumstances of his meeting Zelda. My imagination by this time had invaded my gut.

“I wanted to tell you the good news,” he said. “One of my plays has been picked up by an off-Broadway company, and they’re actually paying me. I went to your apartment, and Zelda told me you had gone to see Ober. She said it would be fun to look for you.”

“I hope my thoughtful wife offered you a drink.”

Zelda turned to me. “Of course, my dear, we both had a drink, or was it two? I can’t really remember. Yes, it was two, one in the living room and one in the bedroom.”

Townsend was silent. His face fell sullen. He lifted his drink and sipped it staring into the mirror behind the bar.

“Is there anything else you would like to know, dear, or is that enough fiction for today. Fiction is what you are about? Right?”

I poured another half glass of gin. My trembling dissipated and rushed to my face as a hot blush. I turned to the girl sitting next to me. Her back was to me. I got up and stood between and behind the giggling pair of promised promiscuity.

“Scott Fitzgerald,” I said, wavering slightly as I spoke. The glass of gin was in my hand. I took a gulp.  “I’m a writer and I was struck by your whispering and laughing. I’m always in search of characters. What are you drinking? Another?”

“I don’t see why not,” said the one on my left. She looked at her near mirror image. They giggled in acquiescence. The bartender brought two martinis.

Zelda turned on her stool completely toward Townsend and held her head in her hand, supported by her arm resting on the bar.

The two tittering girls sat like two birds perfectly perched. 

The girl on my right said, “I’m not sure I want to be a character. I mean I just don’t know how I feel about that.”

“What do you write, Scott?” The other one said.

This Side of Paradise, have you read it?  And some stuff for the Saturday Evening Post.”

“No, I haven’t read it.”

The other chirped, “I have. You’re F. Scott Fitzgerald, right? I’ve read some of your Post stories. Quite good I thought. How do you think of all that stuff?”

“Townsend, you missed our wedding. I just can’t forgive you for that.” Zelda said, grasping his forearm. I continued to feed the birds with the ramblings of a man of accomplishment.

“I didn’t get your names. I’m sorry.”

“I’m Cynthia,” said the one on the right.

“Catherine,” said the one on the left.

I moved closer to them and gripped the back of their stools.

“You want to know how I think up all that stuff?”

Catherine shifted her body in my direction. Her hem rose higher by virtue of her movement, and, I was sure, by her intention. She sat complacent, addressing me with her eyes. She exposed an inch more of her leg, and her invitation soared a mile in my mind. I stood taller. My face no longer burned from the current humiliation Zelda served as a sauce to the distasteful dish she so often forced down my throat. My threatened dreams hid in a shallow refuge formed by the circle which I formed with the two stray fowl.

“You owe me kisses, you know, wedding kisses,” Zelda said to Townsend. I saw in the periphery of my vision, her head, still resting in her hand, move more to a tilt. Townsend, standing, shifted nervously.

 I turned my attention to Catherine.

“All that stuff… I don’t think it up,” I said, directing my eyes on the soft, moist intensity in her face. “It comes to me, like a visitor bringing a message.” I reached around her and grabbed the bottle of gin sitting on the bar. I poured myself another glass. I raised the bottle, shook it side to side between the girls. Catherine raised her glass. I poured generously. Cynthia sipped her Martini. “Like you two,” I said. “You’re characters waiting to be discovered.”  I took a large swallow of the gin.

Zelda sprang off her stool. “Townsend, dance with me.”

“There isn’t any music,” he answered. He remained facing the bar.

“There’s always music somewhere.” Zelda replied.

Townsend bent his head down and turned in my direction. “Scott, do you mind?” I pretended not to hear.

“Scott, do you mind if I dance with your wife?”

The thought of another man touching her cut to my core. The pleasure she would give him sickened me. It could never be undone.

“What do you want from me?” Zelda had asked me countless times over the last two years. The answer was simple. Many years later, when her life was limited by the confines of Asheville Psychiatric Hospital, when nothing remained of us except the ghost of my hope, I finally told her the answer.

 “I want you to obey me,” I said.  It was then that I understood for the first time how she never realized the purity and power of the vibration that rang out from the stars on that night we had met. She was a selfish woman. She ignored the life I set in motion for us. She had travelled alone and arrived nowhere.   

Townsend took Zelda’s hand into his and put his other hand on her back. I finished the gin in my glass and forced a smile at the girls.

“Townsend,” I heard in clear tones, “I do want those wedding kisses.” I glanced quickly at Zelda. Her back was to me.

 “No wedding kisses,” Townsend replied, “no more to drink.”

It didn’t matter what she was about to do. She had already done it.

The intensity on Catherine’s face faded into a playful look. Her cheeks relaxed into supple, rosy beds. Her face resembled that of a child, smiling about nothing. Cynthia sipped her Martini which she held continuously near her lips. She bent her head down slightly and peered through her lashes at Catherine.

“Who am I?” Catherine said, looking at me, her eyes still and directed. Her mouth broke into a strange smile. Her lips protruded, tight and wicked.

I can’t tell you who you are. I am a writer. I can show you.” I stepped back. Zelda and Townsend came into my field of vision. She had her arms wrapped around his neck. Her body hung from him.

I looked at Catherine. “Your character is a beautiful woman sitting in a bar located deep in the loneliness of the City. A successful man sees you sitting unaccompanied. He is captivated by you. He buys you a drink, tells you his sorrowful story, and you long for him.” Cynthia giggled. Her eyes widened and looked squarely at Catherine.

“That is quite a good bit of fiction, Scott,“ Catherine said.

Cynthia giggled again. She reached out and touched Catherine’s face. She took Cynthia’s hand into hers and began stroking her arm. Zelda let go of Townsend, turned around and stared down along the bar, but she never looked at me. She sat frozen, no triumphant look, no smirk of ridicule. The chagrin of misspent revenge blushed my face. Zelda’s eyes were riveted to the girls. Her face was frozen, like a flesh mask fashioned by a sculptor who caught his subject in the depths of a fantasy, disarmed and consumed.

Maybe it was time to leave, I thought.

Catherine turned her gaze from Cynthia and looked in my direction.

“What do I do now?” she asked.

I looked at her blankly. 

“What does my character do now?”

“She gets up and walks into a different novel,” I said.

I leaned in to grab the bottle of gin, which sat on the bar between the girls. When my ear passed Catherine’s lips, she spoke softly and slowly, “We do like men.”

“Scott,” Townsend said. He walked toward me. Zelda sat at the bar; a drink was in her right hand. Her left arm was draped across her stomach and it held firmly onto her waist. Her back was tense and straight. She directed her eyes forward away from the girls. On occasion, with her lips on the wide rim of her glass, she glanced at Cynthia. With increasing frequency, Cynthia’s eyes landed in Zelda’s.

Townsend stood next to me, behind the two girls.

“Got to go,” he said, “I’m a working writer now, you know.”

“So am I,” I replied, “and that’s the reason I’m staying.”

“I don’t know how you do it, my friend, out all night, sleeping it off all morning…”

“I don’t do it. It does it to me.”

Townsend looked at me. He cocked his head and his eyes squinted slightly.

“It sits right here.” I pointed to a spot between my chest and stomach. “I try to put it on the page, to get rid of it, but it never goes away. It lays in a twisted lump.”

 It was in those times when I tried to unwind this draining convolution into words, a dark cloud would move over me.  Each time I ran, frantically and futilely, from the suffocating sadness, raining down. Hopelessness would puddled around me. It was then, in those times, when I fell back on the dreams which I planted many years ago and drank the gin which made them all believable.

It was that night in the haze of that drunken New York barroom, while I pointed to the struggle in my twisted gut, in the midst of the chaos that had become my life, two opposing characters appeared and grew in my soul. One lived with intoxicated hope; the other existed in a sober hopelessness. Four years later Jay Gatsby met Nick Carraway.

“Scott, you’ve had enough, Townsend said. “Why don’t you and Zelda go home?”

“No, not ready to go yet.” I looked in Zelda’s direction. “How about you, dear?”

“I’m with you,” she replied.

“Glad to hear that’s settled,” I said. Zelda turned her head and gave me a delighted stare. She seemed to savor the last bit of my jealousy.

“Alright,” Townsend said, “I’m leaving. Go slow, Scott.”

He began to walk toward the door. Zelda called to him, “I still want those wedding kisses.”

You bitch.


References

Chapter I.
Introduction
4  “All good books are alike….”
Ernest Hemingway. “Old Newsman Writes: a letter from Cuba.”  Esquire Magazine December 1, 1934: 26.

Chapter II.
5  “No personality as strong as Zelda’s … but Zelda’s the only God I have left now.” :
Broccoli, Mathew J., Fitzgerald, F. Scott, et al., Correspondence of F. Scott Fitzgerald. New York: Random House, 1980. P. 53
17 I’m a professional … me are one in ten million.”
Stenographic Report of Conversation Between Mr. & Mrs. F. Scott Fitzgerald and Dr. Thomas A. C. Rennie,” LaPaix, Rodgers Forge, Towson, Maryland, TMs (carbon), May 28, 1933, 114 pp., with note by Thomas A. C. Rennie to Dr. Slocum; Craig House Medical Records on Zelda Fitzgerald, C0745, Box 1, Manuscripts Division, Department of Rare Books and Special Collections, Princeton University Library.

Coming in the Fall Issue: Chapter 3 & 4

BIO

Don Donato received a Masters of Liberal Arts in Creative Writing and Literature from Harvard University, College of Extended studies, in 2019. His graduate interest was studying the writing of the Lost Generation living in Paris in the 1920’s. In addition to short stories published in various journals, Don has written a novella, In the Faded Blue Light, in the voice and style of F. Scott Fitzgerald in the form of “memoir.”

Don Donato: Dod401@Alumni.Harvard.edu



Monte is Summoned to Building One

by Ed Peaco



Monte Thompson was trying to walk quickly from the parking lot to the heavy doors of Building One. He was hoping to stay ahead of the big boss, who Monte felt closing in on him. Derick Blockmenn, the Principal Partner and CEO of DataProbing Network, was someone to avoid. However, Monte had to be careful on his titanium hip, installed six months ago, and which had been causing as much pain as the human hip that had seemed to slowly disintegrate. In recent years, he hiked Mount Washington with three buddies, ran a half-marathon, and slogged through a mud-obstacle course. A year ago, he hit 55, and AARP ratcheted up its barrage of mail and pressure to enroll, but what was worse in that year was a boatload of torture in the left part of the pelvis. Complaining to himself, he denigrated the surgery as an old-man’s thing, but it had to be done. Rehab had been extended with physical therapy sessions, three per week. But there was more than just the physical pain. He had been taking off numerous half-days to visit neuro specialists and to take a battery of tests and an MRI to determine what was making his thinking so sluggish.

Today was one of those days when he had to slip away for a follow-up appointment at the big hospital downtown. The neurologist wanted to show Monte the findings of the MRI from a few weeks ago. Monte hoped he could dodge Blockmenn.

Entering DataProbing’s front lobby, Monte heard some banging behind him. It was Blockmenn, shoving the hydraulic mechanism of the front door, barging through the entryway, shouldering the door as if he were a linebacker, causing a metal-on-metal screech, muttering obscenities down the main hall. Monte ducked into the men’s room, hoping that hanging out there for a few minutes would be sufficient to shake the boss. Monte came to Building One rarely, to check if any of his mail was lingering at the front desk, and for the occasional staff meeting. This morning, looking this way and that, he thought the coast was clear, but he was wrong. Gangly and clumsy, with long, springy hair, graying and unruly—a twisted Einstein—Blockmenn almost knocked down Monte at the men’s room door.

“Hang on a minute,” Blockmenn said.

Then, while urinating, Blockmenn told Monte, “Get with Buster about the Natural Deep pitch. We need audio, video, text, today!” Monte wondered what Natural Deep was. Blockmenn told Monte to call Buster King, Monte’s supervisor, the hefty put-upon Managing Partner, and have him provide details. Blockmenn’s request threw Monte; he paused to gather his words. Buster was a prickly manager who tried to conceal his girth with billowy shirts. Standing by the sink, Monte phoned Buster, but the call went to voicemail, which made Blockmenn stomp away, fuming.

The DPN campus was composed of three small buildings, spread apart along a spacious greenway, with a wooded area beyond. Building One contained administration. Building Two quartered the specialists and investigators. The communication services were housed, including Monte’s team, in Building Three. “Blockhead,” as the staff called Blockmenn behind his back, could blow at any moment, for any reason. Longstanding employees said he had trouble with anger, pharmaceuticals, and substances, precipitating meltdowns and blowups, including one featuring fisticuffs with Buster and another with an investigator. A visit to Blockmenn’s office could be frightful, with swords and firearms mounted on the walls. From time to time, Monte thought about how he’d avoid those outbursts, or worse, an assault. He often cringed at the mismatch between the helping function of the organization and its dreadful creator. Like a terrible jingle that he couldn’t get out of his mind, Monte couldn’t stand the pretentious phrases of the mission statement, the fatuous boilerplate. What a load of crap!

DataProbing Network: a platform for those who need investigative solutions for casualties of catastrophic events, fraud, crime, and corruption. When government and law enforcement can’t or won’t help, DPN can perform functions tailored for the client, including investigators, litigators, scientists and communications experts, providing data-visualization tools, research resources, and voiceover video.

Eventually, Monte tracked down Buster in a meeting in which Blockmenn was ripping Buster a new one over the latest disaster. Monte listened briefly in the doorway. He learned a few things: Natural Deep was a natural gas producer. One of its offshore platforms in the North Sea had recently exploded. Blockmenn was livid about an investigator’s blunders that could lose the Natural Deep account.

“We have to be the first to know about shit like this, and know everything about it,” Blockmenn said. “Get off your lard-ass, Buster. If something blows up or somebody gets screwed, we need to be on it immediately!”

And Blockmenn to Monte: “Crap out all the appropriate proposals by the end of the day. Show them what we can do before somebody else does. Don’t waste time!”

Monte understood that this would not be a good day for slipping away for a doctor’s appointment. He shuffled back to Building Three and set aside the typical office morning chat, except for one dumb-ass Blockhead story: “I had a standing meeting in the men’s room with Blockhead!” Everybody had a good laugh, then Monte described the heap of work that had been dumped in their laps: the Natural Deep account. It was a setback for everyone and meant long hours ahead.

Monte took a moment to think about his own personal setbacks. His declining health and mental issues had recently caused the loss of a sweetie who had soured on him—one in a short list of sweeties following his divorce, including the dazzling Natalie, with whom he fumbled as she gave up on him. More important, he had trouble communicating at work: increasing forgetfulness, slow on the uptake, not finding the right words, all of which required co-workers to repeat discussions. Physically, his hip was flaring up with spiky shoots of pain, which required another visit to the physical therapist and the surgeon’s physician assistant. There would be no more running or hiking for a while, and not much walking, either. Just a mess all around.

He tried to recall when his mental fog started. It might have been with the hip replacement, or even before. Long after the anesthesia should have lifted, his head was still muddled. He went to a rehab place for ten days, then spent two weeks rehabbing and working from home, with the help of his nephew, Cable, who had plenty of time to help his uncle, as he’d been laid off from his job when the bar where he worked closed. Cable welcomed the cash Monte gave him to help with chores around the house, although Monte sensed Cable, who lived in a nearby remodeled barn, wasn’t really up to playing full-time nurse. Then again, Cable was the one who insisted Monte get a referral for a full neurological work-up, including an MRI for cognitive impairment.

—   —   —

Monte had arranged the time of the doctor’s appointment closer to lunch in hopes that his absence might not be noticed. He and Cable met the neurologist in her office to discuss the findings from the MRI. During a few minutes of pleasantries and questioning, the neurologist was looking at her screen. Then Cable piped up. “Sometimes when he talks, he sounds loopy, but not from those pills, because he won’t use them.”

“Loopy?” Monte asked.

“And a couple of times, he didn’t know where he was,” Cable said.

Grinding his teeth, Monte told Cable, “Hey, could you stop talking?”

She shot a glance toward Monte. “So, the report,” she said. “There’s no stroke, no tumor; but the scan detected mild atrophy of the brain.”

“That doesn’t sound good,” Monte said.

“Well, few very small foci of increased T2 signal in the bilateral subcortical white matter. …”

“What?” Monte lost her; nothing made sense, even after two attempts.

“You have mild cognitive impairment,” she said. “You might have early-onset dementia. The anesthesia from the hip replacement surgery some months ago may have accelerated cognitive decline. Tests show word loss and halted speech suggesting a progressive trajectory.”

“Meaning it gets worse, right?”

“Yes, you may eventually lose speech entirely.”

“Oh, that sucks!”

“There are many kinds of dementia, and there is no cure. Sorry to say.”

“Sorry to what?” Monte asked.

“I’ll set you up for a PET scan. It’ll show more about what your brain is doing.”

Cable tried to calm him down, but Monte got worked up when he heard sorry to say.  Then he stood up and walked out, reeling from the doctor’s words.

—   —   —

Back at DPN and eating lunch at his desk, Monte took a moment to calm down and count his blessings, such as they were. At least he worked in Building Three, as far from Blockmenn as possible. His team was talented and energetic. The three people in the media studio were versed in writing, editing, and producing. Each had a specialty: Michael (words), Charity (visuals), and Monte (audio) including voiceover for video. He was known for his gentle vocal tone, even when describing the worst explosions, natural disasters, and massacres around the world. Ironic that his diagnosis would affect his speech.

He and his team thought of the people in Building One as super-conservative and themselves as embracing a lefty fellowship. If anybody needed anything, Tori, the sharp-witted courier, would provide it. Tall and thin, she often speed-walked from building to building, pulling a red wagon filled with everything from printer cartridges to Earl Grey green tea. The best perk was the bucolic feel of Building Three, ensconced near trees and bathed in green space. Monte had always enjoyed walking around the grounds and into the woods on his lunch hour. A few years back, he hooked rope ladders over a weighty branch of a big oak and climbed just for fun. That was before the hip problems arose.

Michael, back from lunch, stopped at Monte’s desk. “I heard about fireworks at Building One today. Could it spread here?”

“You mean Blockhead might come to Building Three with a flamethrower? Not likely,” Monte said. “Blockhead likes to push around the sycophants in Building One.”

“I’ve been thinking about—this might seem silly—but, what about an escape plan?” Charity said. “Do we have one?”

“Like a secret passageway, a false wall?” Michael said as he chuckled.

The concerns of his co-workers, in lieu of that morning’s eruption, seemed to make sense. “Maybe we should think about that,” Monte said.

Tori interrupted this conversation with her daily visit to Building Three. She stopped, as usual, at Monte’s desk to tease him about his work. “Here you are: The Michael Bublé of Bloodbaths, The Pavarotti of Panic, The Sinatra of Sorrow.”

“Thank you very much. Just trying to make terrible events a little bit more pleasant,” he said with a little bow, while trying to get back to work.

Reflecting on the appointment with the neurologist, Monte knew he’d been lethargic and forgetful since coming back from his hip replacement surgery. He spent much more time in the sound booth than he would have before the surgery. Colleagues had to address him more than once to get his attention. He had trouble pulling words out of his mouth. Moreover, he noticed that people were seeing him speaking off a script, and when the discussion went beyond the script, he went silent as he worked through a speech block. It was scary. What was happening? Dementia, more goddamn dementia! What were his co-workers thinking? He worked through dinner and into the night, eventually collapsing for a few hours of sleep on a couch in the studio. Still he wasn’t done.

The next morning, seeking coffee, he already felt fried. Buster tromped into the studio, elbows out, standing over the three co-workers. With a loud sigh, he said, “We lost the Natural Deep project. You guys were too slow yesterday. The big guy is not happy.”

The threesome looked at each other, making grave faces. Buster conveyed again how disappointed Mr. Blockmenn was and described other work coming up.

Then Buster pulled Monte aside to ask him about his health and questioned the quality of his work. This was the first time anything like that had happened to Monte—ever. Both men remained silent for a short time.

“So, you’re the leader in Building Three. We need you, but, what’s up?” Buster asked.

“I’ve had some pain with the hip, and I don’t get enough sleep.”

“What can we do to get you back into the swing of things?”

“It’s up to me.”

“Yeah, but think about what’s going on with you. I don’t know what it is, but it might be more than just sleep. I’ve heard stuff about you, like, you’re not all there. We need you to be on top of things, all the time. Do you grasp what I’m saying?”

“Give me a little time to get myself into shape.”

“I’ll be checking in from time to time.”

No way was Monte going to use the word dementia, or mention his visit to the neurologist. How long could he fake being fully functional? Occasionally, he looked at a word and couldn’t pronounce it, or it made no sense unless he focused on it for a while. His work pace had been slowing down, and he knew that Buster and Blockmenn had become aware of it.

—   —   —

A few weeks later, Blockmenn summoned Monte to his office in Building One on a Monday morning. Monte arrived early. Blockmenn was not in his office. His longstanding admin, Victoria Deutsch, with ash-blonde helmet hair and extensive makeup, extended a hand toward a chair for Monte. “Feel at home, this is an amicable settlement,” she said.

“What settlement?”

“Didn’t he say?”

Suddenly, Blockmenn surged into the office and dropped loudly into his chair.

Victoria gave Blockmenn a stern-mother stare. “Be civil,” she told him. “Apparently, we have to start from the beginning.”

“Make it quick,” Blockmenn said.

Monte sat across from the Principal Partner, who began pushing papers into a single pile. Victoria presented a packet of termination and compensation documents.

She said, “Mr. Thompson, we know about the issues you’re confronting—”

What she said made Monte flinch. He wanted to eke out a few months more. Stuff gets around. Who blabbed? Who cares? Nobody had to tell anybody. The issues showed up every time he opened his mouth.

“—and we want to help you in any way we can,” Victoria said. “We will extend to you twenty-six weeks of severance compensation and health insurance.”

Monte felt like he was wandering in a thick fog. There was a lot of talking from Victoria that he seemed to hear from a distance. He wasn’t surprised, but he felt a little queasy. Victoria proceeded with the exit protocol. She described each document and showed the stickers pointing where Monte was to sign. The process became lengthy as Victoria recited various paragraphs that she seemed to think important.

“Thanks for the generous payout, Derick,” Monte said. “Could be worse!”

“Whaddaya mean? You want more?”

“I meant to say—”

“I don’t want to know what you meant,” Blockmenn said, fidgeting with pens and a stapler. He opened a drawer and brought out three handguns, fondling each, one by one, somewhat like he was strangely washing up with a big bar of soap. Then he placed the guns across his leather desk pad. “Which gun would you want to have?” Blockmenn asked.

“Now Mr. Blockmenn, not that,” Victoria said, with a withering gaze, as if she’d seen this routine before.

Monte recoiled. “What the hell?”

“Oh, Monte will like it.”

Monte certainly never had anything to say to Blockmenn, even on a good day, which was almost never. What a ridiculous exit interview!

So Monte responded first with a smirk, then pointed to the more compact piece. “If I must, this one, but—”

“The Smith & Wesson Governor,” Blockmenn said. “Excellent choice.” He picked up the Governor in both hands and raised it a few inches as if it were a large piece of gold.

“This one looks like the gun that Dick Tracy used from comic books and funny pages I read as a kid,” Monte said, then he snorted, which escalated to a nervous cackle. Monte was surprised with his outburst; he was scared and boiling mad. If only he could find Blockmenn without firearms, I would beat him to a pulp. Monte listened to the thumping of his charging heart, like it might explode at any moment.

“What’s so funny?” Blockmenn lurched up from his desk. “Do you think this is silly? It’s a matter of death or life.”

“Come on, Derick. What would I do with a gun? This is weird!”

In a spark of rage, Blockmenn swiped the weapon off the desk and to the floor, where it crashed with a sharp smack, spinning like a top on the ceramic tile. Seething, Blockmenn threw his head back petulantly. The gun lay spinning on the floor. Victoria sat there like nothing had happened.

Bug-eyed, mouth agape, Monte shot out of his chair, which fell back to the floor. “What’s this all about? Butterfingers! Screw you!” The gun spun slowly to a halt. Monte looked down and found that the barrel was pointed at his feet.

Victoria stooped to collect it. “Be careful, Mr. Blockmenn.”

“I’m fine,” said the CEO. “Take care of these papers. Show me where I sign. Be sure he signs the non-disclosure.” Blockmenn grabbed some documents from the desk and others from the floor, and stalked out.

Victoria leaned to Monte, close to his ear, whispering. “You deserve a reason for Mr. Blockmenn’s demeanor. He is a gifted leader, but he has challenges. He sees things. He hears things. He has treatment, but he doesn’t take heed. Today, he went off his meds, and he has upped his vodka intake. Don’t worry. Everything will be all right in the end.”

—   —   —

Blockmenn had designated Buster to escort Monte off the premises, but Buster was pulled away to deal with the current Blockhead tantrum, allowing Monte to hobble back across the green space to Building Three. He was eager to tell everybody about the disturbance that Blockmenn fomented.

 “I was summoned to Building One today, and the place was totally toxic. More bizarre behavior from Blockhead—he’s barking up and down through the corridors, he’s pulling a full-blown roid rage. He pulled out three handguns for me to examine. When he left his office, I saw he had another piece in a shoulder holster. He is absolutely unhinged!”

“Creepy, but we all know that he experiments with all kinds of alcohol, drugs, and pills. He’ll make mush of his brain if he keeps going this way,” Tori said.

“Oh, and so why was I summoned to Blockhead’s office? He fired me. This is my last day at DPN.”

Hubbub broke out as people wanted to know when, how and why; it went on for a while, requiring Monte to provide answers: Any feelers yet? Where ya looking? Try the local broadcast outlets? Great voice for radio. You’ve got connections.

“You guys know why I’m leaving, right?”

“You’re lucky,” Tori said. “You’re getting out of here.”

“Not exactly lucky,” he said, after which he looked for some way to get away from the crowd. He thought Buster would have already kicked him off the premises, but he wasn’t around. Monte went to the basement to find his plastic storage tub. He scrounged about in the tub, finding a few obsolete devices, old manuals, and binders, the rope ladders that he had stopped using, and a full set of clothes for back when he used to bike to work. He lugged all of it upstairs, where he unloaded the printed material into the recycling bin, and dumped the rest in a trash can. He kept the clothing.

He steered Tori into an empty hall. “So, I want to tell you, but you probably had some notion,” he said. “It may be early-onset dementia. Brain power just gets less and less.”

“Some of us were thinking—”

“If I’m lucky, the disease will go slow,” Monte said.

“—I wanted to say something.”

“Dementia comes gift-wrapped in many ways. Google it,” Monte said.

She briefly covered her mouth. She said, “Sorry.”

“You can tell anybody,” he said. “Tell them I said you could. I don’t want to talk about it. Maybe later.”

He spent a few minutes with Michael and Charity showing them around the soundproof booth used for making audio tracks, extolling the quality of the end result, better than your own voice. In the bottom drawer of his desk he found a dusty Doctors Without Borders tote bag, and he stuffed it with the clothes and a few books. As he packed, the idea of leaving felt better and better.

A squawk from the intercom startled the people of Building Three. The intercom was ancient and hardly ever used. The sound was loud and distorted. It was Buster. He was blurting hysterically. “Blockmenn’s on a rampage. This is real. He’s going after Monte. Active shooter alert! Active shooter alert! I couldn’t stop him. Go, go, go right now!”

Monte yelled through the halls of Building Three, “Let’s get out of here! Run to the woods!” He limped as rapidly as he could toward the trash can to retrieve the rope ladders. “Don’t go to your cars. The parking lot is next to Building One. Toward Blocker. I mean Blockhead. Who wants to run for the fence? I’m going now.” He pocketed his phone, gathered his rope ladders, hollered, “Last chance!” Then he went toward the trees. Five co-workers—Tori, Michael, Charity, and two others whose names he couldn’t remember—followed Monte’s limp-shuffle adrenaline-fueled gait across the green space into the brush. Some of the group were frantically texting and calling 911. He trudged through the prickers, the saplings, the big sycamores, and the downed-and-rotting trunks. Now he was hurting. He kept looking behind to make sure the others knew where he was. The escapees sped up when they heard a short spattering of gunshots. Monte stumbled upon two homeless men camped out with blue tarps and sleeping bags. He invited them to come along to avoid the crazy guy with guns, but they were only startled, and waved Monte away.

At last, the fence came into view. Monte hooked the first ladder over the top of the fence on the DPN side, then awkwardly climbed half way up, feeling something like a butcher knife jabbing into his thigh. He paused, then took it slow, placing the second ladder on the other side, and went over to check that the ladder was properly placed. Oh, throbbing pain! He waited for the pain to subside a bit, and he found a way to pull himself up mostly by his arms. He went back over to the DPN side to help those who needed it. Tori had trouble trudging in her sandals, and she was apprehensive about the ladders, but she managed to get over. One of the guys whose name Monte couldn’t remember, a hefty fellow, decided not to attempt the ropes. Michael said he had something like these ladders on his bunk bed growing up, and he hastened up, over and down. Charity, looking jittery, threw her pumps over the fence, and took the steps quickly. Monte followed.

“We made it!” Monte said. “So far, anyway.” He collected the rope ladders and carried them under each arm.

Charity looked around at the scrub trees and high grass lining the road, then she declared, “Whoa, we’re in the boonies. I’ve never been on this edge of town.”

“Me, neither,” Monte said. “When you enter DPN, you’re still in the city. But over the fence, we’re really out there.”

“I’ve been beamed up to another planet,” she said.

Wincing with every other step, Monte led the crew down a gravel road toward what he hoped was a main road.

“Hey, we have to keep moving,” Monte said. “We need to get far enough away so we can’t be seen.”

“Why are you toting those ladders?” Michael asked Monte.

“They’re souvenirs.”

“For crying out loud. I’ll carry them,” Michael said.

Monte fell back from the group, and they went around a bend. He slowed down, looked back where they had walked, then looked ahead. He didn’t see anybody. Panic set in.

—   —   —

Well, shit, let them go wherever they’re going, but I’m gonna sit here and feel each throb. Too loud to think. Am I thinking?

Can’t process. Getting canned: that calls for an up yours! Psycho Baby playing with guns, shit for brains. Those gunshots: that demands a full-throttle mother fucker!

Spent my best years in pig slop—that boilerplate, the pretentious crap that I wrote!

Blockhead, why didn’t you fire me long ago?

Early on: Got divorced. Then there was Natalie. Wow Natalie! Posted to Dublin. Could have followed her out of bumfuck DPN. What a sledge head I was!

Im the blockhead!

No more hikes, no more races.

Gimmy a wheelchair and fuck yourself.

Surgery stupor, now dementia, what’s next?

Aphasia, my sweetie till death?

Won’t see the guys anymore. No trails. No mountains.

No woman would mess with this mess of me.

Losing everything!

Oh, what’s this? Something’s wrong. What’s happening?

Where am I?

—   —   —

As the first one to notice Monte was nowhere in sight, Michael back tracked and found Monte on the shoulder of the road, panting, howling in a gutteral basso profundo.

“What’s wrong?” Michael asked.

“I’m kinda messed up,” Monte said. “Really lost. Scary.”

Michael pulled him up to sit and put an arm around Monte. “You OK?” Michael asked.

Monte looked around and saw the ladders. He said, “Oh, ladders. Yeah, yeah, ladders.” He didn’t want to stand up yet. Something had hit him like that wigged-out feeling from that anesthetic. “When I saw the ladders, I knew everything again—weird.”

Tori held his hand. “How do you feel? What do you need? You can’t help it, right? It’s that dementia, right? Sorry. I gotta shut up.”

“I think it was that I didn’t see you guys,” Monte said. “I was nowhere. Not sure where I was.”

“I don’t know either,” Charity said. She gave her water bottle to Monte.

“It’s a different not-knowing,” he said. “It’s not, it’s different—I can’t find the word. Sorry.”

“Hell, no. Don’t be sorry. You saved us from that madman,” Michael said. “You’re our hero!”

As Michael and Tori helped Monte get on his feet, Charity went ahead to a Smarty-Mart store. The others arrived in a few minutes. She bought bottled water for everybody. They sat on plastic chairs and called family and friends to say they were OK.

“Oh, my brain let me have that word. No, it went away. No, yes, I got it: embarrassing. A different kind of not-knowing.”

—   —   —

Monte wanted Cable to stay with him that night. Next morning, Monte’s phone was crammed with calls and texts with concerns for his wellbeing and news of what happened at DataProbing Network. Buster’s voice message: Blockhead went just-a-stumblin’, the Governor in one hand, bottle of Grey Goose in the other. I called the cops. They came in five minutes. When Blockhead heard the sirens, that was when he tried to blow his fuckin’ head off, but he botched the job. Nobody else got hurt.

—   —   —

Two days later, Tori came to Monte’s house and sat outside with iced coffee.

“I’m not going back,” Tori said.

“We’re still alive!”

“Another thing. I have a business proposition for you,” Tori said.

“Oh, really? I have no money to invest.”

Tori laughed. “Just saying, I’m gonna be a personal shopper—woo-hoo!”

“Cable gets my groceries.”

 “You’ll need more help than that. Come on, you could be my first client.”

“Not sure I’m ready for that,” Monte said.

“You can function almost all the time, except for when you can’t.”

“I’m going back to the neuro doc to have a PET scan,” he said. “That’s supposed to be the be-all, end-all for the diagnosis.”

“Then what?”

“Just carry on until I can’t, whenever that is.”



BIO

Ed Peaco is enamored with the short story. Many of his stories involve love (or like), blundering and redemption. He held editing posts at a newspaper for 27 years. In the next decade and continuing, as a freelancer, he’s writing about local music; and editing books, magazines and articles. The villain in this story, “Monte is Summoned to Building One,” is modeled on an eruptive boss. Peaco quit quickly, but Monte kept working too long. Peaco lives in Springfield, MO.





Along the Lines of Improv

by Cecilia Kennedy


Pythons move in straight lines forward. They stiffen their ribs and lift their ventricle scales on their bellies to keep pushing ahead. A straight line extends infinitely in either direction, without curving, but in a realm of infinite possibilities, where straight lines may intersect, any number of them could determine the path a python takes, and where it ends up.

#

Plagued by what she calls “brain bumps,” Peggy vows to make creativity flow on the job by taking an improv class. At work, her mind clogs with thoughts, pelted by self-doubt, so she travels twenty minutes to the theater at the edge of the Millerstown Strip Mall to take Saturday-morning classes, but here’s what she doesn’t understand: Why does all improv have to be funny? Peggy dreams of moving an audience to silence with admiration—a story so powerful that a rush of emotions builds, and people leap to their feet to applaud when she’s done.

But so far, the skits and exercises inevitably lead to bathroom jokes or characters she doesn’t understand, but she keeps going, hoping to learn something. There’s a mirror in the classroom space, which also doubles as a dance studio. In the mirror, they can practice making faces—or see other’s reactions.

Today, Bob is playing his chain-smoking character who wants to teach his student (Peggy) to play the blues, which of course requires her to sing—horribly—and she doesn’t want to do it.

“Push the note like you’re grunting one out,” he says, in his fake, raspy voice, but she doesn’t want to. Such a thing is so ugly and crass. She’d strain her neck, and her face would transform into something hideous with lines and wrinkles.

“I’m actually here to buy a guitar,” Peggy says, trying to change the scene—to avoid having to make a fool of herself, but Bob insists, and she feels cornered. She catches her face in the mirror—all red and scrunched up. She also sees the faces of the other students in the class, reflecting looks of cringe and pity. The instructor steps in, stops the exercise, moves to the next person. A hissing sound expels from the radiator-heater in the back, as Peggy follows the lines of the floorboards towards the exit, reaching her car at the edge of the wooded area behind the theater. The stream is alive with sound and movement—splashes, jumps, and sun light, but she’s headed straight home.

#

During rehearsal, right before the matinee improv production, the instructor reminds the students to listen to one another, to respond with open hearts, to let the story unfold in any way it might. Peggy tries to quiet her bubbling and fizzing brain, so overloaded with a toxic mixture of ideas and doubt, that she can hear banging on the pipes overhead, the creak of a door, a slither-sound of the wind as it rushes through the tiny holes of daylight dotted into the roof and frame of the building.

When rehearsal starts, Stan assumes a stubborn character who is waiting for a bus. Peggy tries to get him to do something other than stand there and smile and repeat the same two lines, but he won’t budge. The more he resists, the more her gestures become desperate. She jumps up and down, screaming that they’re wasting their lives, just waiting for a bus. With her entire soul, she yearns for a transformative moment on stage, a breakthrough, but at the end of the class, everyone decides that Stan stole the show.

#

Hours before the performance, Peggy reads news headlines on her phone, but they keep getting interrupted with alerts from a neighborhood website she signed up for, where frantic neighbors post warnings about car prowlers. Apparently, a neighbor has discovered that the area behind the Millerstown strip mall is overrun with unusually large pythons, and when the wildlife team and sheriff’s department split one open, they find missing people’s bones. A strong discomfort in Peggy’s stomach overtakes her, but it’s quickly erased by thoughts of the performance ahead.

#

A small audience has gathered in the theater, mostly friends and family of the other actors, but Peggy is determined to elevate the form of improv. Improv has a pure soul, and so does Peggy.

The first scene is a bank, and they’re supposed to count imaginary money and develop the story from there. Peggy’s legs feel weak and wobbly, but she stands up tall and moves forward.

“Money isn’t the most important thing in life,” she says, and when she’s said those words, she hears the doors creak open in the lobby, and she takes the sound as a sign that she’s on the right path. She’s really listening now, opening herself up to the moment. She must continue, right along the line she’s started.

“Like hell, it is,” Bob replies, and the audience erupts in laughter. But Peggy will not be shaken. Behind her, from down the hall, she hears a smooth sound, almost imperceptible, and she faces the audience head on.

“It’s the ruin of souls,” Peggy says. “We stand at its mercy, and it divides us.”

“Here, divide this and stack it,” Bob says, but Peggy persists. The smooth sound is in the wings now, and she knows this moment is pure and true.

“I’ve loved with all my heart, and I’ve earned nothing in return. All of this is nothing.”

She feels a stillness in the air, and when she looks out at the audience, and into their faces, all eyes are on her. She feels a rush of warm air surrounding her, on all sides, from behind, and opens her arms to take a bow. When she turns around to leave, the unhinged jaws of the biggest constrictor anyone has ever seen, are gaping wide, its patterned scales breaking the straight line around its lower half, coiling tightly around her.



BIO

Cecilia Kennedy taught English and Spanish courses in Ohio before moving to Washington state and publishing short stories in various magazines and anthologies. The Places We Haunt is her first short story collection. You can find her DIY humor blog and other adventures/achievements here: (https://fixinleaksnleeksdiy.blog/



The Third Floor

by Nancy Machlis Rechtman



The battered red Volkswagen pulled up to the entrance of the grey, forbidding building. A well-dressed young woman with almost-blonde hair got out and entered through the main doors which slammed shut behind her. There was a surly-looking man in a white uniform standing by the entrance and he looked her up and down.

“Who you here to see? he asked.

“A doctor,” Diana said.

“Who sent you here?”

“My doctor, Dr. Smith…”

“That your car?” he interrupted.

She nodded yes.

“Plates are out of state. You from out of state?”

She nodded again.

“What are you doing here then?”

“My insurance is here.”

“Never mind,” he said brusquely. “Explain It to them at Admissions. You going to sign yourself in?

“I suppose so.”

“Well, I’ll let them handle it at Admissions.” He turned and started to walk away.

“Wait a minute. Where am I supposed to go?” Diana asked.

The man glared at her like she didn’t have a brain in her head. “I toldyou. Admissions.”

“Would you mind telling me where that is? I’m in a lot of pain…”

He started to walk away again, muttering under his breath.

“What did you say?” she asked timidly.

He didn’t turn around but spoke loud enough for her to hear. “Third floor.” Then he disappeared down the hall before she could ask any further questions.

Diana tried to find an elevator which proved to be almost as difficult as getting an answer out of the man in the white uniform. The halls had been laid out in a random, chaotic manner and she felt like a rat in a maze, trying to find her way to the cheese. Instead of an elevator, she found a staircase and decided that it might be her best course of action. The burning sensation in her gut was getting worse and she didn’t want to waste any more time trying to find the goddamn elevator. She opened the door to the staircase and walked over to the stairs. The door slammed shut behind her with a thud. That seemed about par for the course in this place.

Diana began to climb the stairs and after a few minutes, it seemed as if she had climbed forever. But there were no outlets, so she just kept climbing. She had to stop and catch her breath several times and considered turning back, but she was sure that eventually there had to be a way out. Finally, she reached a landing where there was a door. She reached for the handle and her heart dropped down to the pit of her stomach. It was locked. She began to pound and yell, hoping to attract someone’s attention. Finally, the knob turned and she was face to face with a pitted old lady wearing a moth-eaten terry robe and matching shower cap. The woman stared at her, then walked away. Diana looked around the drab, green hall, hoping to find someone in authority, but there didn’t seem to be much chance of that.

“Excuse me!” she called out to the bathrobe lady.

The woman turned around belligerently. “What the hell do you want?”

Diana was taken aback but found her voice once more. “Could you please tell me where Admissions is?”

The bathrobe lady stared at her in disbelief. “You’re in already, aren’t you? Why the hell do you need Admissions if you’re already in?”

“Well, I’m in, but not really in, you see…”

“Third floor.”

“I know that,” Diana said starting to lose her patience. “I just can’t seem to find the third floor.”

“You lost a floor? No one around here’s ever done that before.”

“What floor is this?” Diana asked.

“You see the sign?”

“No. No, I don’t,” Diana said wearily.

“There’s always a sign. Just keep looking.” With that, the bathrobe lady turned and shuffled off.

Diana looked around in despair. She heard strange sounds coming from behind the closed doors of one of the rooms, like an animal might make when it’s caught in a trap.

Diana felt the iron knot tightening in her stomach and realized she needed to sit down somewhere. She reached a large room with an open door. There were no chairs, only a broken-down cot. She collapsed onto it as she felt the pain get more intense, spreading throughout her entire body. She didn’t realize that she had fallen asleep until she awoke to find herself surrounded by five pairs of curious eyes. She stared back, uncomprehending at first, then bolted upright, clutching tightly at her purse.

“What have they done to you?” asked a faded old man kneeling by her elbow.

“They haven’t done it yet, can’t you tell?” insisted a young man close to her toes.

“Done what?” Diana asked, hazily.

The five pairs of eyes exchanged glances, then looked down at the floor.

“Please,” Diana said. “I’ve been trying to find my way to the third floor. Would one of you be kind enough…”

“What’s the matter with you, couldn’t you find the goddamn sign?” came a familiar and not very welcome voice.

Diana cringed, suddenly recognizing the bathrobe lady.

“What do you want the third floor for?” asked the young man in a hushed voice.

“Don’t be rude,” admonished a wispy young girl who was chewing daintily on a candy bar.

“Well, what floor are we on now?” Diana asked.

The old man giggled. “Can’t you read?”

“Seems to me she don’t know much of nothing,” pronounced the bathrobe lady.

Diana fought back her mounting frustration along with the pain that had taken over her body. “Perhaps if one of you would be kind enough to show me the sign, I could be on my way. I really am in a bit of a hurry, you see.”

“Then what were you doing sleeping like that in the middle of the day?” asked a man who seemed to be composed entirely of butter.

“Come with me – I’ll show you the sign,” said the wispy young girl, almost halfway through with her candy bar.

“Ain’t no one goin’ nowhere!” boomed a deep voice from the doorway. Diana looked up, startled, while the others simultaneously dropped to the floor and crawled under – or partially under – the cot. There stood the biggest, meanest-looking linebacker of a nurse ever seen on the face of this earth.

“Excuse me,” Diana said meekly. “Perhaps you can help me. You do work here, don’t you?”

Nurse Linebacker snickered. “I ain’t seen you around here before. You better learn now – I’m the one who asks the questions around here and you better learn that quick. So why don’t you tell me – who are you?”

“Well, my name is Diana Johnston and I’ve been trying to find the…”

“QUIET!” bellowed Nurse Linebacker. “I don’t want your whole life story – you can tell that to the headshrinker!”

“Headshrinker?” Diana repeated. Upon getting no response, she plunged on. “Well, you asked who I was.”

“Your number, you dope!” shouted the bathrobe lady.

“But I don’t have a number!” Diana exclaimed.

“Impossible!” insisted the butter man. “Everyone has a number.”

“In his case, two numbers!” the bathrobe lady cackled.

“ENOUGH!” shouted Nurse Linebacker. “Now, don’t give me no problems, or else.” She looked down and noticed the candy bar in the wispy young girl’s hand, sticking out from under the cot. In one swift motion, she grabbed it out of the girl’s hand and shoved it into her own mouth, spitting out the wrapper and swallowing the candy bar in one gulp. She then returned her attention to Diana, who had watched the feat with the candy bar in utter amazement. “So, what’s your number?”

“I told you…” Diana began.

“No, I’m tellin’ you!” Nurse Linebacker boomed. “You tell me your number or I’ll personally drag you by your ears down to Admissions and have them check your file!”

“Fine!” Diana shrieked. “I’ve been trying to get to Admissions all morning!”

“What on earth for?” asked the old man. “You’re already in.”

Diana counted to ten in her head to steady her breathing. “I need to see a doctor. So I would be very grateful if you would show me to Admissions so that I can check myself in.”

“Third floor,” said Nurse Linebacker.

Diana took a deep breath. “Could you take me there?”

Nurse Linebacker looked at her with disdain. “You can’t find a floor? All right, come on. You’re in worse shape than most.”

With that, the hulking figure gave one last furious glare to the five figures huddled on the floor, then grabbed Diana’s shoulder, whirled around, and propelled her down the hall towards a door at the end. She opened it, shoving Diana ahead of her. It was another staircase, lacking any sort of illumination. Diana stumbled, then groped her way down the stairs, Nurse Linebacker’s palm still firmly attached to Diana’s shoulder. After walking down six steps, they reached a landing. Nurse Linebacker swung the door open and pushed Diana out into the light. There was a large, block-letter sign directly across from them which spelled out “ADMISSIONS.” Diana gasped.

“Only six steps!” she exclaimed.

Nurse Linebacker gave her another withering look. “Well, you’re here. Better get a number fast. Or else.”

Another nurse approached and started clucking when she saw Nurse Linebacker.

“Althea, what are you doing in those clothes?” asked the tiny nurse.

Diana glanced at Nurse Linebacker and was stunned as she watched the previously imposing figure shrink back and cower in the doorway.

“Nothing, Ma’am,” Nurse Linebacker whispered.

“Then put back that uniform wherever you found it and get back to your room right now. And I mean right now or there won’t be any TV privileges for you for the rest of the week!”

“Yes, Ma’am. Right away, Ma’am.” With that, Nurse Linebacker – aka Althea – raced out of sight as Diana tried to contain her astonishment.

“Oh, hello, dear,” said the new nurse who resembled a parakeet with her yellow hair, darting eyes, and curious way of clicking her mouth when she talked. “Don’t mind Althea. She always manages somehow to get a hold of one of our uniforms and scares the hell out of the other patients, don’t you know.  She’s basically harmless, though. And who might you be, dear? I don’t believe I know you. Why aren’t you in your room?”

Diana looked at Nurse Parakeet gratefully. Finally, a rational being! “Well, I’ve been looking for Admissions, you see…”

Nurse Parakeet suddenly became the epitome of efficiency. “Oh, my dear, well, we can’t have that! You just come with me and we’ll fill out all the forms. Self-admitting, I suppose.”

Diana nodded her head. “Yes, and I hope you can get me to Dr. Smith soon. He said he’d try to meet me here…” She hurried to follow the twittering nurse into the Admissions office and sat down across from her.

“Name?”

“Diana Johnston.”

“Age?”

“Thirty-two.”

“Problem?”

“I’ve got this terrible pain…”

“Yes, yes. Life can be filled with pain, you know. In fact, that’s my motto. You see, I even stitched a sampler with those very words, as a daily reminder,” Nurse Parakeet said, indicating a sampler over her shoulder. Diana looked closely and sure enough, there were those exact words done in very neat little stitches: Life Can Be Filled With Pain, You Know.

Nurse Parakeet pulled some more forms from the printer and gave them to Diana. “You can write, can’t you, dear?”

Diana looked at her. “Oh, I’m in pain, but it’s not so bad that I can’t write.”

Nurse Parakeet beamed. “That’s the spirit! There may be hope for you yet. But of course, we’ll let the doctor decide. Come along with me – he’s very busy, you know.”

Diana rose slowly since the pain was becoming unbearable, and followed Nurse Parakeet back into the hall, through several corridors, and was aware of almost inhuman sounds coming from behind the doors of some of the rooms, just like those she had heard earlier. She wondered exactly what went on in this hospital, but her thoughts were suddenly cut off when Nurse Parakeet stopped short and indicated a door to her right.

“The doctor’s in there, dear. When you’ve finished, come back to Admissions so you can finish filling out your paperwork and I can assign you a room – once the doctor’s rated you.”

“Rated me?” Diana repeated.

But Nurse Parakeet was already off, fluttering back down the hall. Diana knocked lightly on the door and entered. There wasn’t anyone there and she looked around slowly. It was the strangest examining room she had ever seen. There was a long leather couch, a large over-stuffed chair, and that was it.

“Lie down!” shouted a voice behind her.

Diana whirled around. There was a short, grey-haired man with a pointed beard, round spectacles, nearly-invisible slits hiding behind the lenses which she realized were his eyes, and a nervous tic that pulled the right side of his face towards his right ear and then released it like shooting a rubber band across the room at a random target.

“Gotcha!” he cackled, rubbing his hands together gleefully.

“Who are you?” Diana demanded.

“I’m Dr. Sputz, of course. And you must be number 117053, if I’m not mistaken.”

“I don’t have a number. My name is Diana Johnston.”

“Everyone here has a number. It’s mandatory. But if you want to deny having one, we can delve into that another time.”

“I’m not denying anything! Can we please just get on with the examination? I feel like I’m on fire.”

Dr. Sputz grabbed his notebook excitedly and began writing furiously, mumbling, “Patient has severe burning symptoms, the Heaven and Hell Syndrome, perhaps.”

“Doctor, can you please hurry? It’s getting worse.”

“Of course it is! Lie down now and let’s talk about this pain.”

“Well, it’s centered around my gut…”

Dr. Sputz jumped up and down. “Wonderful! Wonderful! The pain is in the gut! Of course, if it was in the heart, it would be even better. Then we could talk about unrequited love. But the gut will do just fine for now. Lie down.”

Diana sat on the couch and noticed straps hanging down from the side. But Dr. Sputz didn’t give her the time to comment.

“I suppose I should ask anyway – are you in love?” he asked.

“Am I what? Look, I don’t think we’re getting anywhere. Do you think you can have Dr. Robert Smith paged – he told me to meet him here.”

“Aha!” whooped Dr. Sputz. “I was right! A romantic rendez-vous with your doctor. And now he hasn’t shown up. No wonder you’re in pain!”

“What the hell are you talking about? Dr, Smith was going to give me some tests to see if I need an operation.”

“Tests! Even better! I can give you tests. And then we can operate. Oh, young lady, you’ve made my day!” Dr. Sputz grabbed Diana’s hand and kissed it fervently. “Now lie down and I’ll strap you in.”

Diana looked at him nervously. “You know, I think I’m feeling better now. Maybe I’ll just go home. I’ve got to make dinner for my husband and kids anyway.” She started to get up.

“Sit!” barked Dr. Sputz.. Diana automatically obeyed. “Lie down! Roll over! Play dead!”

Diana stared at him.

“No wonder you’re in pain. Not only are you in love with your doctor, but you’re a married woman! Involved in a secret love affair! Or maybe I was right and it is unrequited love – perhaps your doctor has been using you as his plaything, a sexual object! Well, which is it?” He stopped and looked at her questioningly, his pen hovering over his notebook.

“I’m leaving,” Diana declared. As she rose, Dr. Sputz lunged forward and tackled her, throwing her onto the couch. He grabbed the straps and tied her down so she couldn’t move, then he stood up.

“They didn’t tell me you were violent!” he exclaimed, straightening his clothing. ”I will excuse it this time – the torment of psychic pain can bring us to do many strange things.”

“Psychic pain! You’re crazy. I told you, my gut’s on fire!” Diana cried.

“That’s right, of course it is after all you’ve been through. I’ll get the nurse to give you a sedative. Then, when you’ve calmed down, we’ll begin with the tests. We’ll start with something easy, ink blots perhaps.”

“Ink blots!” Diana screamed. “Let me out of here! I’ll sue you, I swear, if you don’t untie me and I mean now!”

But Dr. Sputz bounded over to the phone and spoke urgently into the receiver. “Yes, yes, a large dose – the largest you’ve got – she’s getting quite hysterical.”

A moment later, Nurse Parakeet flew into the room with a tremendous hypodermic needle, almost as long as her arm. She looked at Dr. Sputz who nodded towards Diana. Nurse Parakeet plunged the needle into Diana’s arm. The room started to spin almost immediately and the last thing Diana heard was Dr. Sputz whispering to Nurse Parakeet, “She threatened to sue.”

The next thing Diana was aware of was that she was lying on a cot in a small, drab room, and her arms were tied down. She was very thirsty and could barely swallow. The door soon opened and Nurse Parakeet entered.

“Well, what a sleepy-head you are,” she twittered. “You were a very naughty girl, you know. But we’ve decided to forgive you this time and give you another chance.”

“Water,” Diana whispered.

Nurse Parakeet handed her a paper cup. “Here, drink this all down like a good girl, that’s a dear.”

“How many hours have I been asleep?” Diana asked.

“Let’s see…you came in on Wednesday …about two days, I think.”

“Two days!” Diana shrieked.

“Now, don’t get yourself excited or, well, let’s not get into that right now.”

“Where’s Dr. Smith?”

“Dr. Smith?” Nurse Parakeet frowned. “Oh, you mean your lover. He never showed up. But it’s really better that way, don’t you think? Especially for the children, you know.”

“Dr. Smith isn’t my….” Diana stopped. What was the point? “What about my husband? I left him a voicemail to meet me here – did he show up?”

Nurse Parakeet looked at Diana pityingly. “No, dear. I suppose that’s why you’ve been in such pain. It must be hard to accept the fact that nobody cares.”

“I don’t understand. I left him a message to meet me at County General.”

“Now why would you do a silly thing like that?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why, County General’s about two miles down the road. Why would he drive there to meet you here? I suppose you were afraid he’d catch you red-handed with your doctor lover so you sent him on a wild goose chase, didn’t you?”

Diana felt the knot tightening in her stomach. “Where am I?” she asked hoarsely.

“My dear, don’t you remember anything? You’re at County Mental Health Institute.”

Diana stared at Nurse Parakeet in shock, then started to laugh. “I’m in a loony bin! My insides are on fire and I’m tied up in a goddamn insane asylum!”

“We prefer to think of it in more constructive terms, dear. We like to refer to our facility as a recreational center for healing of the mind and spirit.”

“Would you please untie me?”

“I don’t think that’s allowed, dear,” Nurse Parakeet said firmly. “Why?”

“So I can leave, of course.”

“Oh, no, my dear, we can’t have that. We haven’t even begun the tests.  And then the treatment. You’ve been rated a fifteen, you know. Oh, dear, I don’t know if I was supposed to tell you that.”

“What’s a fifteen?” Diana asked.

“Well, anything over a ten is dangerous. Fifteen is the worst.”

“You don’t understand,” Diana said, fighting to remain calm. “This is all a mistake. I’m supposed to be at County General. I’m from out of state, my GPS stopped working just before I got here. I guess I made a wrong turn.”

“Yes, well, we all take the wrong road at some point in our lives. But what on earth would you have gone to County General for? They can’t treat your problems there, my dear. You’re deep in the grip of a painful psychosis and we’ve got quite a battle ahead of us to return you to good mental health,” Nurse Parakeet chirped.

“I’m fine, believe me,” Diana insisted. “Now just untie me please so I can get my things and leave.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” Nurse Parakeet said.

“Why not? I don’t belong here.”

“Because you haven’t been cured.”

“Take my word for it. I’m a new woman.” Diana tried to sound upbeat.

“Oh dear!” cried Nurse Parakeet.

“What now?”

“A new woman? I’ll have to inform the doctor that you’re exhibiting signs of schizophrenia!”

“It’s an expression!” Diana shouted. “Anyway, you have to let me go. I checked myself in – it’s not like I was committed or anything.”

“That’s right – it’s worse.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve got papers that you signed, admitting you were in need of help and giving us free rein in treating you until we’re sure you’re one hundred percent cured.”

Diana stared at her. “I don’t believe this! Look, at least let me call my husband to let him know I’m here. He must be worried sick. And I’m sure he can straighten this out.”

“No calls are allowed to the outside,” declared Nurse Parakeet.

“Why not?”

“Rules, my dear. We’ve got to follow the rules. Now, you just calm down and we’ll give you some tests to see exactly how far gone you are.”

“What if the tests show I’m normal? That I’ve been cured? Then can I go?”

Nurse Parakeet twittered. “You really are on another plane of reality, aren’t you, dear? Just relax and the doctor will be in soon to begin the testing.” With that, Nurse Parakeet turned and flitted out of the room.

Diana was in despair. How could she convince these people that they had made a horrible mistake? And what about Sam and the kids – they must think she had been kidnapped or even killed at this point. Actually, being kidnapped didn’t seem entirely inappropriate in describing her situation. She certainly was being held against her will. And what was this business about no phone calls? Her cell phone was in her purse which had been confiscated and it had no charge left anyway, but maybe she could use a phone at the nurse’s station. Or Admissions. She had to get out of here, she would have to escape. But there was nothing she could do while she was strapped down like this, and she was starting to get so sleepy again.

“Attention!” boomed a familiar voice, startling Diana out of her torpor. She looked up and there was Nurse Linebacker, or rather, Althea, standing in the doorway in a nurse’s uniform about two sizes too small for her, the buttons straining against the buttonholes, like a can of Pillsbury biscuits ready to pop.

“Althea, I’m so glad to see you,” Diana said weakly.

“Speak up!” Althea roared. “You don’t whisper to a superior. And how dare you lie down while I’m addressing you. Get up!”

“I can’t get up,” Diana said, nodding toward the straps.

“Aha!” Althea cried. “Time for the treatment to begin.”

“No, not yet. Just some tests.”

“Ha!” Althea exclaimed.

“What is the treatment anyway?” Diana asked.

Althea blanched, then glared at Diana. “Classified information. Top secret.”

“Have you had the treatment, Althea?”

“No questions allowed! Especially while you’re still lying down after I gave you a direct order! We may have to throw you in the stockade!”

“Listen, I’d like to show respect towards you, I really would,” Diana assured her. “But I’ve got to remain disrespectful as long as I’m tied down like this.”

“I won’t stand for it!” Althea bellowed as she bounded over to the cot. With one swift motion, she had ripped the straps from Diana’s arms, freeing her. Diana tentatively stretched her arms and began rubbing them gingerly.

“Attention!” Althea yelled.

Diana stood up as quickly as she could, but her knees buckled and she had to support herself against the wall. She realized that Nurse Parakeet had slipped something into the water she had given her. Her mind was foggy and she could barely stand. She knew that Althea was her only hope for escape.

“I’d like to make a suggestion,” Diana said. “I think a march might be in order to get me back in shape.”

“Quiet!” roared Althea. “Just for that, you’re coming with me.”

“Where to?” Diana asked hopefully.

“On a march. Hup, two three four, now we’re going out the door…”

Diana tried to regain control of her brain as they marched up and down the halls, Althea prodding her along. She was dimly aware that the pain in her gut had lessened considerably. Maybe she wouldn’t need an operation after all. Now, if only she could maneuver Althea towards the exit, or rather, have Althea maneuver her.

“You’re out of step!” Althea yelled. “Shape up!”

“I’m hungry,” Diana said. “I haven’t eaten in days.”

“Don’t be a jellyfish! We all have to do without. Hunger is good for you, builds character.”

“If only I could… Oh, never mind.”

Althea looked at her suspiciously. “If only you could what?”

“Well, it’s just that I had a whole bag of candy in the back of my car and if I could only get to my car…”

“What kind?” Althea’s eyes glistened.

“Milky Ways.”

“No one’s allowed outside. Rules!”

“Creamy, chewy chocolate and caramel.”

“Rules!” Althea trembled.

“I’d just run out real quick and then come back. I’d only take one for myself – the rest of the bag would be for you.”

“Rules!” Althea gasped.

“You could watch me from inside and then we could run into one of the rooms and stuff those ooey gooey chocolatey delights…”

“To the car!” Althea commanded.

Diana tried to keep up with Althea who was practically galloping down the hall. They turned a corner and there was the exit, those wonderful clanging doors directly in front of them. Diana glanced around, but no one else was nearby.

“OK,” Althea said. “No funny business.”

She stood to the side as Diana walked past her to the doors, her heart pounding. She didn’t have an actual plan since she didn’t have her purse with her car keys or her uncharged phone. All she knew was that she was going to have to make a run for it.

“Ready!” Althea yelled. “Set!”

Diana paused, waiting to hear ‘Go!’  But when ‘Go!’ never came, she turned around and there was no Althea. Instead, Dr. Sputz was standing several feet away, arms folded, with two gorilla-type guards by his side.

“You’re not leaving so soon, are you, my dear?” Dr. Sputz demanded.

Diana bolted for the door, but the guards’ cretinous looks belied their swiftness. They lunged forward and grabbed her arms, then dragged her down the hall with Dr. Sputz following, his cackle echoing behind him.

They took the elevator back to the third floor, then Diana was shoved into a bright yellow room with a cot in the middle and all sorts electrical gadgets surrounding it. She looked around fearfully.

“Let me go,” she pleaded.

“My dear, no one leaves here until they are cured. And to be cured, we must get rid of the pain.”

“The pain’s gone, I swear. It’s gone,” Diana insisted.

“Liar!” Dr. Sputz shouted. “You haven’t had the treatment yet, you’re still in terrible pain! But if you’ll behave yourself, the cure will be much easier.” Dr. Sputz nodded for the two gorillas to strap Diana down to the cot. She had little strength to resist.

“OK, we will now begin the tests,” Dr. Sputz said with forced calm. He pulled some papers from a folder and the two gorillas attached several wires to Diana’s head and arms. “What’s this?” he asked, flashing an ink blot at her.

“A train.” Diana said.

“Wrong!” he yelled.

Diana screamed as the electric shocks raced through her body.

“Aha!” Dr. Sputz exclaimed. “I see I was right! You are still in pain. No, I ask you again, what is this?”

“A cow?” she guessed.

“No, no, no!” he roared, once again motioning for the electric current to sear the nerves of her body. “Again!” he demanded. “What is this?”

“I don’t know,” Diana whispered.

“Fine, fine, that’s right,” he said, patting her on the head. “Now I will give you sixty seconds to put this puzzle together.”

“But I can’t move my hands,” Diana protested.

“No excuses!” he yelled, stamping his foot. He grabbed a stopwatch. “Start now!”

Diana frantically tried to move her hands, but she was tied too tightly. “Can’t you at least loosen the straps?” she pleaded.

“Thirty seconds!” Dr. Sputz whooped, running back and forth across the room. Diana struggled against the straps even harder. Dr. Sputz jumped up and down, looking at the stopwatch. “Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two…” He glared at Diana. “Nothing! You weren’t even able to put two pieces together! We’ll have to intensify.” He nodded and now double the voltage wracked her body. Diana screamed again, then sobbed.

“Oh, don’t be such a wimp!” Dr. Sputz ordered. “We’ve got to give you some backbone – that’s the only way you’ll learn to withstand the pain of the world. Now how many fingers do I have up?” he demanded, holding up one finger.

“One,” Diana said.

“Imbecile!” he shrieked.

ZAP went the charge through Diana’s body. She felt that she was going out of her mind from the pain.

“Try again!” he shouted.

“I don’t know, I don’t know,” she moaned, hoping this was once again the right answer.

ZAP! ZAP! The jolts tore through her body which was now twitching uncontrollably.

“A person has ten fingers, count them – ten!” Dr. Sputz yelled, waving his hands in front of her face.

“But you only had one up, you asked how many fingers you had up!” she said through her tears.

“Up, down, it’s all relative. But always, one has ten fingers. This is very basic, my dear. If you can’t even remember the basics, how do you expect us to help you?”

“Let me go, please,” Diana implored.

“You’re not cooperating,” Dr. Sputz warned.

“At least let them know I’m here,” she sobbed.

“The outside world is the source of your pain, don’t you see? It’s forbidden for you to have any outside contact until you’re completely cured.”

“You’re the one causing the pain!” Diana shouted.

Dr. Sputz turned scarlet. “How dare you!” he sputtered. “I’m a doctor, I cure pain.”

“I’m fine!” Diana yelled. “You’re the one who’s all screwed up. I came here with a physical problem, not psychic pain! It was a mistake! I drove here by mistake! My GPS stopped working because I needed to charge my phone and I forgot my charger. But I didn’t mean to come here, it was a mistake! And you’ve kept me here against my will, drugged me, abused me…”

Dr. Sputz jumped up and down in a frenzy. “We don’t make mistakes! Everything we do is for a reason. And there are no mistakes in life. You meant to come here. How can you deny your psychic torment? You drove here purposely whether you realize it or not!”

“I’m going to sue you!” Diana screamed. “My husband is a lawyer! I’m going to sue you and your nurses, your patients, your cots, your goddamn machines…”

“She’s hysterical! She’s out of control! Get her ready for surgery immediately!” Dr. Sputz cried as he dashed out of the room.

Diana struggled to free herself, but it was no use. A few moments later, Dr. Sputz raced back into the room, pulling Nurse Parakeet along with him. Nurse Parakeet looked at Diana pityingly.

“My dear, I thought you understood,” Nurse Parakeet sighed. “If only you had cooperated. We haven’t any options left.”

“What are you going to do?” Diana demanded, as her mind filled with dread.

“We’re going to cure you, of course,” Nurse Parakeet said.

“But I’m fine!” Diana cried.

But instead of responding, Nurse Parakeet plunged another monstrous hypodermic needle into Diana’s arm. The last thing Diana saw were the drab green walls spinning by as she was wheeled down the hall.

The six o’clock news was winding down. A pale, mousy woman stared uncomprehendingly at the TV screen. She was wearing a tattered blue bathrobe and had a scarf tied around her head which didn’t quite hide the multitude of jagged stitches that started at her forehead. Nurse Parakeet fluttered over.

“Come, dear, don’t you think it’s time you went back to your room? You really do need your rest.”

The mousy woman didn’t seem to hear Nurse Parakeet. She just stared at the TV. Althea charged over wearing old, stained yellow bedclothes. She ignored Nurse Parakeet and the mousy woman, and stared at the TV. The commentator was wrapping up the newscast.

“And once again, we ask you if you have seen this woman, please call the police immediately.” A picture flashed on the screen and the mousy woman reacted for an imperceptible moment, then sank back into her stupor. The commentator continued. “The woman’s name is Diana Johnston, she’s thirty-two years old, five foot six and approximately one hundred twenty pounds. She’s been missing for almost two weeks now and the police still haven’t got any leads. The only clue is that she left her husband a voicemail that she was on her way to the hospital – but she never arrived.” The commentator paused, whipped off his glasses, and looked gravely into the camera. “If you’ve seen anything that you feel might help, call the police at the number you see on your screen. Her husband, attorney Samuel Johnston, is offering a reward for any information that helps solve this case. Well, that’s the news for tonight…”

Althea glanced curiously at Nurse Parakeet and the mousy woman at her side, then back at the TV. “It seems to me. I used to know…”

Nurse Parakeet gave Althea a sharp look. “Used to know what, Althea?” she asked in a razor-sharp voice.

“Someone.”

“Well, we all used to know someone, now, didn’t we, Althea?”

“I supposed,” Althea agreed.

“Was this someone anyone in particular?” Nurse Parakeet asked casually.

Althea looked again at the TV screen, then at the mousy woman. “I never knew no one in particular,” Althea declared as she shuffled out to the hall.

Nurse Parakeet watched Althea, then turned to the mousy woman. “Come, dear, let’s go back to your room now, like a good girl. We’ll work on learning your number. Now, say it after me. One, one, seven…”

Nurse Parakeet put her hand on the woman’s shoulder and slowly walked with her down the hall. The woman remained silent, allowing Nurse Parakeet to guide her.

“You seem so much better, dear. No more pain. We can cure anyone here, you know.”



BIO

Nancy Machlis Rechtman has had poetry and short stories published in Literary Yard, Paper Dragon, Page & Spine, The Thieving Magpie, Quail Bell, Anti-Heroin Chic, Blue Lake Review, Goat’s Milk, and more. She wrote freelance Lifestyle stories for a local newspaper, and she was the copy editor for another local paper. She currently writes a blog called Inanities

at https://nancywriteon.wordpress.com




THE SECRET AGENT

By Robert Collings



There is a celebrated short story called “The Rocking Horse Winner” by D. H. Lawrence.  The story is so revered by scholars that you will find it on the required reading list for every English literature course in the English speaking world, and there are more translations than you can count.  It tells the tale of a disturbed kid who enters a fantasy world and rides his rocking horse so he can pick the winner of real-life races and bring money into his dysfunctional household.  The kid dies in the end after a particularly harrowing ride, and I could never figure out if he ended up picking another winner in that last ride, or whether the horses and the money didn’t really exist at all and were just symbols for something else.  “All great literature has a speculative element,” my English professor would tell us.  “Just like the boy in the story, that’s how you pick a winner.”

I’ve often wondered over the years about the speculative elements in our own lives.  For all of our bluster and our yearning, I wonder if we’re all riding some rocking horse that’s taking us nowhere.

Years ago, my wife and I lived in a condominium complex that had a large underground parking lot.  We had been assigned two stalls in the lot, and to reach the stalls from the entrance we had to drive down a long corridor to the very back of the building, and then take a hard left and go all the way to the corner where the two stalls were located.  This parking lot spanned the entire base of the building, and it had a hundred identical concrete pillars arranged in long rows in order to organize the parking spaces and keep everything propped up.  I have always had a vivid imagination, and I’m a fatalist by nature, and I’d often wondered what the devastation might look like if one of those pillars ever gave way and every unit in the complex came squashing down on my head.  I had made the daily journey through this sprawling concrete bunker for a good three years without a scratch, and that was surely a good sign.

I was on my way to work one morning and I was still in the underground.  Just after I made the turn to head down the long driveway towards the gate, I noticed a figure out of the corner of my eye behind one of the cement pillars to my right.  It looked like someone was hiding behind the pillar, deliberately trying to remain unseen.  I pretended not to notice, but after I had passed the pillar I looked in my rear view mirror and saw a young boy run from behind that pillar to the pillar on the opposite side of the driveway, and then hide again, as if he was being chased and was trying to stay hidden.  I didn’t get a close look at his face, but by his stature and his cat-quick movements I guessed he was in his early teens.  I had to stop my car until the big gate lifted up, and when I looked back in my rear view mirror I was unable to see anything.  No one seemed to be hiding anywhere, and the parking lot was empty.  I thought this was curious but I didn’t dwell upon it, and I had forgotten all about the shadowy figure by the time I got home that evening.

A few days passed without incident.  Then, on another morning when I was backing out of my parking stall, I noticed the same ghostly apparition at the far end of the lot.  I stopped the car and squeezed closer towards the window to get a better look.  The mysterious shadow was much further away than it had been before, but it had to be the same kid.  This time, he was ducking behind one pillar, hiding for a few seconds, then dashing to the next pillar, hiding there for a few seconds, then jumping over to the next pillar, hiding, and repeating the sequence until he reached the main driveway.  He had moved out of sight, but when I rounded the turn at the far side and headed towards the exit gate, I saw him suddenly dash out from the pillar beside me and run behind the car to the other side of the driveway.  He had been so close that he almost brushed against the bumper.  In a flash, he reached the next pillar and ducked behind it, like some stealth fugitive on the run.  When I stopped for the gate I was close enough to him to see the tips of his sneakers sticking out from behind the narrow end of the pillar.

I cracked open my door and twisted my head back and shouted out, “Hey there!  Hey!  You there! What the hell are you doing there?”

I saw him pull his feet back, but there was no other movement.  My voice echoed through all the concrete, followed by eerie silence.  The metal gate creaked open, and I headed out. 

The building had not come crashing down on my head, but I still thought about the incident in the parking lot all day.  Perhaps this shadow-kid was a homeless person in need of food and shelter.  Or a harmless demented kid from some institution who got lost and didn’t know where he was.  I worried that I had not said the right thing to him as he hid behind the pillar.  He had to know that I had seen him, so he must have been waiting for my reaction.  I kept going over the words that I had used, and comparing those words to the words that a more sensible, mature person might have used to fit the situation.  I worried that I shouldn’t have used a crude word like “hell”, which made me sound like our gruff building manager.  I was not a gruff person.  And I had repeated the word “there”, which made me sound like a frightened person grasping for words, and I was not that, either.  Perhaps I should have said, “Hello, can I help you?”  Or, “Son, do you need a lift?”  I was ashamed of myself for not using more appropriate language to draw the mysterious kid out into the open and prove to him that I was not intimidated by strange figures in concrete parking lots.   

I drove back through the parking lot that night with the eyes of a hawk, but I saw nothing.

“Do you know there’s someone down in the underground, sneaking around like a thief?” I asked my wife when I got home.

“Oh yeah, I see him all the time,” she replied

This surprised me.  “You see him all the time?  Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I dunno, he seems harmless enough.”

“Harmless like a thief.”

My wife laughed.  “You worry too much about everything.  No wonder your mother called you a worrywart.”

“That’s because there’s lots to worry about,” I said, only half-joking.  “Haven’t I told you this before?”

“I know teenage boys because I teach them,” she said.  “They’re all a little whacko.”

This may have been the sort of simple explanation we all look for, but there was something about the mysterious shadow-kid that I found unsettling.  I had been appointed to the condominium council the year before, and I’d been assigned the job of keeping an eye on the building to help keep things in order and see if anyone was violating the by-laws.  My title was “Bylaw Officer” if anyone asked.  I thought this was a good excuse to speak to Joe the building manager and bring up the general topic of shadowy stick-figures loitering in the underground at all hours of the day and night.

“It’s not all night,” Joe muttered.  He was fixing something in the boiler room because the fixit guy hadn’t shown up, and he didn’t want to be bothered.  “Just all day.  His name is Gray.  He thinks he’s a secret agent.”

I’m rarely at a loss for words, but this stopped me cold.  “He’s what?  What are you talking about?”

“His mother says he never sleeps.  He reads all night, and by day he’s a secret agent.  So far, he hasn’t stolen anything or killed anyone, as far as I know.”

“What, you talk to his mother?”

“I asked her about him, sure.”

“So what did she tell you?”

“She’s crazy, too.  They live up in 308.”

“Besides telling you she was crazy, did she tell you anything about her son?”

Joe kept working.  “She didn’t go so far as to call him a nut case, if that’s what you mean.”

“What does he do?  Doesn’t he go to school?”

“Kids do whatever they want these days.  He goes to school, he doesn’t go to school.  Who the hell knows?”

I was losing patience with Joe’s indifference, but I stayed calm.  “Joe, I just want to know what that kid is doing in the underground.”

Joe smiled, but kept working.  “You just called me ‘Joe’ so you must be pissed about something.”

This was true, and I was irritated that Joe had read my thoughts.  “For God’s sake, all I want to know – “

“You’re in charge of the bylaws, aren’t  you?” Joe interrupted, still smiling.  “He thinks he’s a secret agent.  There’s trouble ahead if you don’t do something.  We have a bylaw against loitering, so do your job.  His mother didn’t call him a nut case, but I will.  Gray Whipple.  Ever notice how all these nut cases always have funny last names?  Whipple, Gripple, Schmipple…it’s a strange world. ”

I thought about the strange world we live in.  “There’s a bylaw against loitering,” I mused.  “But I don’t know if it applies to someone who lives in the building.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Joe said.  “One little spark can cause a fire that burns the building down.  Then the whole city follows after that, and then who knows?  You gotta nip these things in the bud.”

I couldn’t help following Joe’s reasoning to its logical conclusion, and I did not relish the thought of being the condominium bylaw officer responsible for putting an end to civilization as we know it.

Joe seemed pleased that I was not arguing with him.  He nodded towards his toolbox and said politely, “My last name is Smith and I’m happy with it.  Can you hand me that goddammed wrench?”

Unit 308 was directly above the boiler room.  I’m not sure what compulsion drove me upstairs because no one had ever complained about the secret agent kid, and I certainly didn’t want to be accused of letting the power of my office go to my head.  Still, my curiosity pulled me into the elevator and a few seconds later I was at the door of unit 308.  Maybe Joe had a point.  There might be big trouble ahead if I didn’t put an immediate stop to this nonsense, and I’d even been warned in advance by no less an authority than the building manager.  I gave a few gentle knocks and listened for the sounds of movement inside.  I heard very faint footsteps, followed by the click of a bolt lock.  Then the door opened just enough for a nose and mouth to poke through.

“Yes?” came a wary female voice from the narrow crack in the door.

I tried to sound as cheerful as I could.  “I live in the building, ma’am.  I’m on council, and I’m in charge of the bylaws.”

“Oh, dear,” said the voice, and the door opened up to reveal a pale, tiny woman in a housecoat.  She wore no make-up and her hair was tightly pulled back in a bun, with long, wiry strands shooting out everywhere as if the static around her head was overwhelming.   

“Ma’am, there’s nothing to be worried about,” I assured her.  “Don’t be concerned.  Are you Mrs. Whipple?”

She nodded warily.  “Yes…”

“Do you and, um, Mr. Whipple live here with your son?”

“Mr. Whipple does not live at this address.  His address is now in Heaven with the angels.”

This startled me, and I was not sure how to respond.  I collected myself and said, “Is it just you then, and your son?”

“Is this about Gray?” she whispered.  “Oh dear, oh no – ”

I again tried to reassure her.  “I told you not to worry.  I don’t want you to be upset.  I just want to speak with your son.”

“He’s not here.”

“Do you know where he is?”

“He’d down in the parkade playing his game.”

“What game is that?”

“The secret agent game.  He’s hiding from his enemies.”

“Ma’am, can you tell your son that he shouldn’t be loitering about?”

“Oh, I tell him, I tell him,” she assured me.

“His behavior is an infraction of the bylaws, and he’s frightening some of the tenants,” I lied.

“Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear…” she kept repeating.  

Before I could say anything more, tears began to spill out of this tiny woman’s eyes and roll down her cheeks.  “Oh dear…I’m so sorry.  I don’t want any trouble.”

I now felt guilty for making her cry.  “Mrs. Whipple, please – “

“He was always a strange boy,” she interrupted through her tears.  “When he was little he would always tell me that he was standing outside of himself and looking at his own thoughts.  He said his thoughts told him to put his pajama top on backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards, over and over and over again before he’d go to bed.  Oh, it worried my husband so, and it all gave him a heart attack and sent him to Heaven with the angels.  I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I don’t want us to have to move.  Please, please, please…”

She broke down sobbing and I knew the conversation was at an end.

“Don’t worry,” I assured her.  “Ma’am, I’m sorry, too, for bothering you.  Nothing’s going to happen, I promise.”

There is no trick to getting the upper hand on a secret agent if you’re the only one with the keys to the secret doors.  I took the elevator back down to the basement and unlocked the door to the surveillance room, and within seconds of stepping inside I spotted Gray Whipple’s blurry image on one of the screens that showed the far wall of the parkade.  I then went outside, hustled around the south side of the building, and quietly entered the parkade through the emergency door.  Access to this door from the walkway also required a key that no secret agent could ever possess.  My stealth maneuvers brought me immediately into the west end of the underground, where I was now only a few feet away from the elusive shadow-figure.  He had his back to me and he was crouching behind the pillar next to the wall so no one from the adjacent driveway could see him.  He was startled when I slammed the door and he immediately snapped his head around and sprang to his feet.  He made a rather half-hearted attempt to run past me to the next pillar, but I stepped deftly in front of him and blocked his path.  I was now face to face with the mysterious secret agent and I looked squarely into his eyes for the first time.

Secret agents may look handsome in the movies, but all I saw in front of me was an emaciated, sallow-faced schoolboy with sad eyes and a quirky, half-open mouth that gave him a frozen look of bewilderment.  He had a pile of bed-hair slanting off in one direction that needed a good plastering down.  But it was the expression in his eyes that almost knocked me over, and I was immediately reminded of someone I knew as a child and who I hadn’t thought about in years. 

There was a park near where we lived, and in the summer there was this guy at the park who sold ice-cream to the kids.  This guy was severely handicapped, and I remember how he was strapped into the seat of his little refrigerator cart with a big leather belt.  He would drool and you couldn’t understand what he was saying, and the only part of his body that he could move were his fingertips.  He would furiously tap-tap-tap his fingertips on the side of his cart, but no one ever understood what he meant, and no one paid any attention to him anyway.  We would drop our money into his cup and take our ice-cream, and the poor guy was never cheated out of anything as far as I knew.  I remember how my friend had never been to the park before, and how he reacted when he saw the ice-cream man for the first time.  I remember the look in my friend’s eyes as he stared down upon the drooling man, paralyzed into silence, and tap-tap-tapping a message that no one ever heard.

The uncomprehending sadness that I saw in my friend’s eyes all those years ago was the same look that I now saw in Gray Whipple’s eyes, as if he had suddenly come upon me all strapped down and bent at the spine.

“Goodness,” I smiled.  “Does the look of me shock you that much?”

“Nope,” he said.  “I see you down here.  You don’t see me, but I see you.”

Despite the nervous look in his eyes, I was surprised at how self-assured his voice was and how calmly his words were spoken.

“Ah, but you’re wrong there,” I smiled.  “I do see you and that’s why I’m here.”

He did not respond, and I suspected he was waiting for me to give up and wander away.

“I had a little chat with your mother just now, and she told me a bit about you.”

“My parents gave up on me a long time ago.  I love my mother, she doesn’t bother me.”

I kept my voice even and just quiet enough for him to hear.  “Are you a real secret agent?” I asked.

“Maybe,” he replied, calmly.

“I used to have a little secret of my own, and you might be interested.”

I thought this might change the look in his eyes, but he didn’t waver and he didn’t answer.

I said, “When I was a kid, younger than you, I had this bizarre fear that I’d get run over by a car, or hit by lightening, or whatever.  Ever had that fear?”

The boy didn’t miss a beat.  “It’s not a fear,” he said calmly.  “I look forward to it.”

I was not going to be deterred by such an obnoxious remark.  I continued, “One night I put my pajama top on backwards by mistake, and I didn’t die the next day.  To me, this was a sign of good luck.  So every night I put the top on backwards before I put it on the right way.  Then I got to thinking, well, ten signs of good luck were better than one, so I started to put the top on backwards ten times, so I would have ten times the protection from certain death the next day.  It all made sense to me at the time.”

I waited for Gray Whipple to display some sense of neurotic kinship over this disclosure, but he seemed oddly unmoved.

I smiled, and then added, “Funny thing is, it seemed to work.  I grew out of it.”

“Your parents should have had you locked up,” he said, impassive and unsmiling.  “My mother tells everyone that story.  She thinks somebody out there will give her the answer she wants.”

“I just gave you the answer, didn’t I?”

He looked away momentarily, then turned to me again.  I knew there was little chance of any bonding with this kid.  He said, “If you’re happy with yourself, that’s up to you.”

“I asked you if you were a real secret agent.  Are you?”

“I like being a secret agent.”

“Do you like hiding from your enemies?”

 “I hide from them, and then I get them in the end.”

“Am I your enemy?”

“Probably.”

“Do you have lots of enemies?”

“My share.”

“But no friends, I take it?”

“You don’t have any friends either. Don’t try to fool me, and don’t think you’re better than me. I know what you’re thinking.”

“You read my thoughts, do you?”

“I’m an observer of my own thoughts.  Your thoughts are your own business, but yes, I can read them.”

“How do you observe your own thoughts?  Is there another person inside of you?”

“Maybe I come down here to find out.”

“Have you found the other person yet?”

He considered this.  “People think they can hide their thoughts,” he finally said.  “They think their own thoughts are their sacred property.  But the truth is, their thoughts are just as public as any walk through the park.”

“Can you read my thoughts?”

“You’d be surprised.”

“Would you be surprised to learn that I have plenty of friends, and you’re wrong?”

“You have social acquaintances, and that’s all you have.”

“You know this, do you?”

“When you read the obituaries every day, do you weep for every name you see?”

“I weep for my friends, I don’t weep for strangers.  You’re spouting a trite philosophy, and it’s not even a proper comparison.”

“Well, I don’t think so.”

I was determined to make my point.  “We all die,” I continued.  “But if we’ve formed a bond in life with another person, call it love, call it friendship, call it whatever you want, then their death hits us harder than the death of a stranger.  It’s a perfectly normal way to think, so don’t pat yourself on the back for being so clever.”

The secret agent was unimpressed.  He said, “Just ask yourself, what’s gonna upset your so-called friends the most, your death or the loss of their property?”

“I hear you read all night and don’t sleep.”

“Yeah, sometimes.”

“Well, I read too, and I can tell you that you’ve just mangled a quote from Machiavelli.  The proper quote deals with the loss of your father and the loss of your inheritance, and which one drives you to despair.”

“Same difference.”

I shook my head.  “No, it is not the same.  Everyone loses their parents, but not everyone loses their inheritance, so don’t go around making up trite comparisons to impress your friends.”

“You’re not my friend, and l don’t have any friends if that makes you feel any better.”

It occurred to me in that moment that I’d been drawn into an annoying conversation by a kid I had known for all of five minutes.  I’d had enough, and it was time for the lecture.  “My feelings don’t matter here,” I said firmly.  “I’m a resident of the building, I’ve been elected to Council, and I’ve been appointed to enforce the bylaws.  I didn’t come down here to engage in idle philosophies with a boy who lives in a fantasy world.  You’re loitering down here.  I’m here to tell you to stop it.  Will you stop it, or do I go back upstairs to your mother?” 

“I told you, my parents gave up on me years ago.”

“Your parents didn’t give up on you,” I shot back.  I leaned closer to him to make sure he couldn’t slip away.  “They were unable to handle you.  Everyone gets to the point where they can’t handle something, and instead of running from it, which some people can’t do, they just leave it alone.  They leave it alone in order to preserve their own sanity, and if your mother has left you alone then she has a dammed good reason for it.”

The kid seemed intrigued by this reference to his mother, and he didn’t move.  I said, “Now I’m done with this discussion and I’m done with you, except for one thing…”  I was now carefully slicing each word off my tongue.  “One tiny, last little challenge.  You say you can read my thoughts.  You say my thoughts are as public as a walk in the park.  Okay, then I challenge you to read those thoughts.  I’m going to think of something and I defy you to guess what it is.  I have a picture in my mind.  I absolutely point-blank defy you to guess what that picture is.  And when you make the wrong guess, as you most certainly will, I’m going to tell you again to take your secret agent act out of the parking lot and go observe your own thoughts somewhere else and quit making your mother cry herself to sleep.  Do you understand me?  I’m thinking of something.  I have a picture.  Tell me what I’m thinking.”

The boy looked at me as a hunting dog might look at a squirrel.

“You have a picture in your mind of three oranges on a red tablecloth,” he said.

We stared at each other for the longest time and Gray Whipple never changed expression.  He still had the same look of sadness in his eyes that had struck me from the moment we began our strange discourse.  Even now, when he knew that he had been correct and had guessed exactly what I had been thinking, his expression gave up no hint of satisfaction.  If anything, his sad eyes seemed more deeply set into his skull and they looked sadder than ever before.

“That kid’s a mind reader,” I told my wife later that evening.  “For the life of me, I don’t know how the hell he did it.”

“Did you tell him not to loiter in the parkade?”

“I’m not sure what I told him.”

“I keep telling you, you need a holiday.”

I had assumed that Gray Whipple would be back playing his secret agent game the next day.  But I didn’t notice him in the underground after that, although he may have been more careful to hide behind the pillars and only dash out when I wasn’t around.  My wife hadn’t noticed him either, but I knew that all the remonstrations in the world from the bylaw officer could never intimidate this kid, or deter him from whatever secret mission his private demons had forced him to undertake.  Still, I didn’t see any more of him and I decided to leave well enough alone, which was a bit of a minor victory as far as I was concerned.

About a month after our little chat in the underground, I was driving by the high school and I spotted Gray Whipple on the sidewalk.  There was a group of kids marching ahead of him who were all involved in some sort of animated, frenzied discussion.  There was about ten of them pressed together in a tight pack.  They were flailing their arms and laughing and shouting furiously over each other as they hurried along, spilling onto the roadway, oblivious to traffic and anything else that was not a part of their exclusive little world.  Gray was not a part of their world either, but he was following close enough behind to give an onlooker the impression that he was a buddy trying to catch up.  A stranger would assume that he, too, would soon become one of the laughing kids without ever suspecting that he never intended to take those last few steps.  He was wearing a black hoodie-type jacket and he had the hood pulled tight over his head as if he did not want anyone to recognize him.  I slowed my car and I watched him walk along, hunched over with his hands in his pockets and his head down, staring blankly at the sidewalk, always keeping a few deliberate steps back from the raucous mob in front of him.  A part of me wanted to call out to him and ask him to read my thoughts, but I thought the better of it and kept driving.

Not long after that, I ran into Joe the building manager.

“You hear about that kid?” he said casually.

“You mean Gray Whipple?”

“Yeah, the secret agent kid.  Police came around here, told me the kid made his way over to Highway 17 and then walked right into traffic.  Tragic thing.”

At that moment, I had a vision of poor Mrs. Whipple in her hallway and all that static hair.  “Is his mother okay?”

“She doesn’t come out,” Joe said.  “Nothing much she can do.”

When I told my wife the news, she was saddened but not surprised.  There was a pause as we thought about the most appropriate thing we should say to each other.  Then she said, “He wouldn’t have had a happy moment, ever.”

“You’re a D.H. Lawrence scholar, aren’t you?”

She seemed baffled by my question.  “Well, give me your quote and we’ll see.”

“Do you think it’s best to go out of a life where you have to ride a rocking horse to find a winner?”

“You could get a PhD in Lawrence and you still wouldn’t know what it all means.  The highbrows say they know, but they’re full of it.  It’s cynical, and that’s all they know.”

I thought about this.  I said, “We don’t really know if both kids ever found what they were looking for, the kid on the horse and the kid in the parkade.”

“Maybe they did find what they were looking for, and they couldn’t deal with it.”

I thought abut this, too.  “You know how Paul and Peggy fuss about that cat of theirs?”

“That cat has nothing to do with D.H. Lawrence, and you desperately need a holiday.”

“Humor me.  I’m talking about our best friends who we’ve known for over thirty years.”

My wife nodded.  “Yes, yes, they’re our best friends.”

“You talk about the highbrows being cynical, but how cynical are you?”

“When you stop speaking in riddles I might answer you.”

I hesitated, and then popped the question.  “When you die on the same day as their beloved pet, who garners the most grief – you or the cat?”

My wife was never slow to miss the point, and she did not hesitate.  “The cat, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

I lay awake that night thinking about Gray Whipple.  I don’t believe he ever did find what he was looking for before he decided to step out into traffic and put an end to his own thoughts.  If he was indeed capable of observing those thoughts, all he would ever find was more sadness – exactly like the kid on the rocking horse.

We are all born into sadness, burdened by challenges known only to God, and tied together by secrets so deep that even a secret agent can’t find them.



BIO

Robert Collings is a retired lawyer living and writing in Pitt Meadows, B.C. The Secret Agent is Robert’s second appearance in Writing Disorder.  The Tears of the Gardener is archived in the Spring 2021 edition.  Robert has also published online in Euonia Review (eunoiareview.wordpress.com), Scars Publications (scars.tv), and Mobius magazine (mobiusmagazine.com).  His stories appear in print in cc&d magazine and Conceit magazine, and all are found in Robert’s collection called Life in the First Person

Robert has not won many awards in his lifetime, although he’s proud of a “Participation Certificate” he received for coming dead last in the 50-yard dash in the third grade. 







Vanishing Pop-Tarts

By Crystal McQueen



If you just ignore the hunger pangs, you can return to your dream. Your body feels sluggish as your brain tumbles out of sleep. You mentally argue with yourself. If you just ignore the cramping, it will go away. Your body takes no stock in such arguments and images of cinnamon rolls and tripled stacked pancakes and double-sized blueberry muffins roll through your mind. You flip onto your stomach with the hope that the pressure will suppress the gnawing pangs, but daylight creeps behind your eyelids, drawing you further out of sleep. But you don’t want to wake up. Not yet. You still feel so heavy, so sleepy.

Then, Pop-Tarts. Fresh from the toaster. The strawberry kind with icing, melted butter sliding off a browned edge. Your stomach turns, and you almost groan aloud. Last time, you slept too late, and all of the Pop-Tarts were gone by the time you made your bleary-eyed way out of bed.

You begged and pleaded with your mother to buy more on her next grocery run, but she insisted they were too expensive for breakfast and were gone in a day. A box of Lucky Charms cost less than one box of Pop-Tarts and would last three times as long. But what is money to you? You, whose life savings consists of $18.28, ten of which you found in the gutter as you walked home from the bus stop. So, you whined and complained that it wasn’t fair your sisters got some when you didn’t. It took most of the morning, but you convinced your mother to buy Pop-Tarts one last time.

So, you waited. You reminded. And you relished the moment your mother would come home from the grocery store. Two weeks of food for seven people filled her battered Cadillac to the brim and didn’t always last until the next grocery run. Four gallons of milk, half a dozen boxes of cereal, egg noodles, and mac & cheese pulled at the thin plastic as you heaved as many parcels as you can carry onto your bony arms, the handles digging sharply into your tender flesh. Your eyes roamed each sack, seizing your precious Pop-Tarts the moment you found them. But your mother forced you to wait until morning.

Now, the light insists you are wiling the daylight hours away. Still, you refuse, your bottom lip sticking out petulantly against your warm pillow. Reluctantly, you push yourself up, eyes resolutely closed, and feel your way down the metal ladder of your bunkbed. If you wanted the good stuff, you have to be quick. You can’t waste time sleeping when the sun is up.

You hold out a sluggish hand in front of you as toys bite at the soles of your bare feet like gnats. You stumble as you make your way to the door, the pale light highlighting the veins in your eyelids as you pass into the hallway.

Your hands trace the corduroy wallpaper on either side of you, some of the pastel strings loosening from the paper due to this very practice. But you like the way the texture massages your fingertips. Your mom says the hall is too narrow to carry anything straight, but you love it, the walls hugging you.

It’s darker in the hall, colder. The air conditioning raises gooseflesh on your bare limbs where your worn-out Beastie Boys t-shirt doesn’t cover. Its soft fabric is coming apart at the arm pits and fraying about your knees, but you love it anyway. Where it came from, you do not know. It’s yours now.

Slowly, you lay your head against the wall as you walk, your hair emitting a soft shush, your bare feet soundless vessels across the maroon carpet. The house is quiet. So quiet, you believe you must be the only one awake.

But, a creak of the recliner stirs in your ears, and you freeze. Your eyes fly open, a sliver of moon through the skylight exposes your folly, and your heart pounds. You wait.

The hum of the air conditioner vibrates through the silence. You hold your breath. Your skin tingles. You pray you misheard.

There was no sound, you try to convince yourself.

The recliner footrest slams into place, and a cough like ground up gravel echoes through the hall.

Your body trembles.

This is a mistake. A terrible mistake. You thought it was morning, but he won’t care. You’re out of bed. That’s all that matters. You want to run back to your room before he catches you, but it is as though the carpet has a hold on your feet.

You’ll say you were sleep walking. Or maybe you’ll say you had to pee. But, why hope? He won’t listen to your excuses.

The scent of whiskey precedes his heavy footfalls.

You close your eyes, regressing to that childish belief that if you don’t see him, he can’t see you. You swallow a whimper as he takes the corner too wide and thumps into the wall. You cling to your nightshirt, the fabric a crumpled mess in your sweaty hands.

You wait for him to jerk you out of the shadows. You can feel the ache in your shoulder as though it has already happened. His hand clenched on the back of your neck. The bone-rattling shake. You promise yourself you won’t cry this time. But you know will.

You want your mother, but even if she were here, it wouldn’t prevent the beating. But it would be less.

Please let it be less.

You hear the flip of a light switch, and you flinch, your eyes clenching tighter as blood pumps through your racing heart.

The bathroom door slams, and your eyes fly open. You stare in disbelief at that beam of light under the door. Your mind races, celebrating, screaming in relief.

He didn’t see you. He didn’t see you.

You hear his pee hits the toilet water and on the floor tile where he misses. You back away from the light, your fists still clenched in your shirt.

You don’t look away from that gleam until you slip into your room.

You are careful to avoid toys on the floor, the streetlight – your false sun – illuminating teddy bears, and building blocks, and half-filled notebooks that litter your floor. Any other time, finding a spot of carpet to step on would be a great game. Any time but now. You have to get back in bed before he finishes in the bathroom. Before he checks on you.

Your two younger sisters sleep peacefully in the bottom bunk, curled together like tiny dolls, blissfully unaware, and you envy them.

You step on the first rung and ease your body up, your mind screaming at you to both go faster and not to let the bed creak.

Again, you hear him cough, and you race up the last steps, flopping on your mattress. The bed, like the streetlamp, betrays you, jiggling long after his coughing fit stops.

You hold your breath, not daring to move. You wish you could climb under the covers, but you can’t move. Your muscles ache, your stomach twisted in knots as your breath comes in shallow spurts.

You wait. You wait and you hope, holding your little body as still as you possibly can.

Footsteps in the hall. Are they coming toward you or back to the living room? You can’t tell. He coughs again, a hacking cough, a cough you’d know anywhere. Closer than before. You wish you can turn away from the door. You try to relax your face, but spiders with their icy legs crawl across your skin.

Your chest hurts. It screams for air, but still, you don’t breathe.

You just want it to be over.

Let it be over.

And, then it is.

A familiar metal clanks from the recliner footrest, and your whole body relaxes. Your breath comes in and out in haggard gasps.

Still, you do not crawl under the covers. Still, you wait as your heartbeat struggles to right itself. Only when you hear the resounding snores do you allow yourself to draw your knees to your chest as one hand flings your wolf blanket over you and the other draws the pillow more evenly under your head. You promise yourself you won’t open your eyes again until morning.

Sleep eludes you. So, you sink into daydreams. Dreams where you slay dragons. Dreams where you are brave. In your dreams, you’re never afraid. You’re never a coward.

You lose yourself in these fantasies because anywhere is better than here.



BIO

Crystal McQueen lives in the suburbs of Northern Kentucky with her husband and two children. She attends classes at EKU’s Blue Grass Writer’s Studio, pursuing a MFA in Creative Writing. She finds inspiration for her writing through her passion for adventure – whether it be backpacking through nature, exploring the secrets of the city, or traveling to far off lands. For more information, please visit crystalmcqueen.com





SOMETHING, SOMEWHERE ELSE

by Margaret E. Helms



Eleanor Trask clung to the notion that one day she would become somebody. Now, somebody was standing in the frozen foods aisle of Lucky’s Supermarket wearing an army green coat with a hood of matted fur. She recognized me before I did her. 

“Goodness gracious me, is that you Terry?” Eleanor aggressively shook my shoulders and drew me into a nonconsensual hug. “You’ve developed such a pretty face.”

“It’s been so long,” I began, “and thank you?” 

The only things in her cart were bananas and cough syrup. Eleanor had dyed her hair the color of lukewarm beer in a red solo cup. It was still cut short, like it had been our whole childhood, but it had turned brittle and stringy. By the brand-name rainboots and her designer purse, I could tell she had gotten a sliver of the life she had wanted. Eleanor had modified herself. Her breast implants looked like two hot air balloons, but she had dark circles the size of golf balls under her eye sockets. Not even Botox could save Eleanor from Lucky’s LED lights. In her hands was a bag of frozen carrots. 

We talked about her husband, Bill, and how they were coming up on their fourteenth anniversary. There was much to brag about, like Billy Jr. being almost five feet tall. 

“Where’s Charlie at these days? Is he doing well?” 

My questions must have overwhelmed her because she squinted at her bag of frozen carrots and bit her bottom lip morosely. “Charlie?” Eleanor hesitated.

Charlie was her older brother.

“God only knows where Charlie is. Last I heard, he was in Atlanta. Did you know Atlanta is the next Hollywood?” Eleanor began to beat the bag of carrots against her shopping cart. “You know, a production company wanted me to audition for a tooth whitening commercial, be the after in a before-and-after, but I just told them I was way too overcommitted.” She continued to smack the frozen carrots against her cart. An older woman at the end of the aisle looked at us with a concerned expression. “But enough about me,” Eleanor raised her voice. “Bill says that him and you are both in the Christian book club together?”  

“Me?” I rubbed the back of my neck. The only version of her husband I’ve ever known was the one from their biennial Christmas card.

“These carrots!” Eleanor cried. “They clump together into one gigantic frozen chunk, and you have to break them up yourself. Every bag is like this. It’s exhausting.” 

Mustering up all the empathy I could, I began to do the same with a bag of diced hash browns. It dawned on me that Eleanor Trask was no longer Eleanor Trask. Now she was Eleanor Trask Smith. The realization was disappointing. In fourth grade, she tried to change her name to Gwendolyn. She was sick of our male classmates waving their small boney fingers in her face and croaking, “E.T. phone home.” Eleanor didn’t realize that changing her name to Gwendolyn wouldn’t stop the teasing. She would still be the shortest kid in class. She still wore pink converse, and thick headbands and had a cheetah print backpack. Every cooties-fearing boy dreamed about teasing her. At the top of every “fill in your name” blank, she wrote in pink ink, XOXO Eleanor Elaine Trask, a.k.a. Gwendolyn.  

“It’s funny. I can’t remember much about our childhood,” Eleanor lied. The carrots sounding like a maraca as she dropped them into her cart. “Not the little things or the big things. I wish I did, but I don’t.” She looked past me, her eyes far-off, amid the galaxies and supernovas. “And for Charlie,” her penciled in eyebrows pulled together. “I’ve loved him seventy-seven times, but seventy-eight times was just too much. Some days, I wake up and wonder if he’s all alone with no one who loves him even just a little.” 

“I’m sure that’s not the case,” I looked down at my feet. 

“Well, if it was, I wouldn’t mind. He deserves whatever he gets. I’ve known that for a long time now. You’ve known it too. Wouldn’t you like to be proved right?” 

My silence was validation enough. For years, I had wondered what all Eleanor remembered, but she was a master in self-deception. She always knew more than what she told herself and others. Surfacing her delusions required psychological warfare, but it was too late in the afternoon, too cold and rainy, to battle with Eleanor. 

#

The summer before our seventh-grade year, Eleanor and I stole the bunny from Courtney Billingsley’s front yard. Our bodies were slippery from sweat and river-water. The smell of sunscreen and my mother’s banana scented tanning oil trailed behind us as we soared home on our bicycles. Eleanor’s bike was pink and blue, with a basket and a bell.

The heat index was over a hundred degrees, and Courtney Billingsley was reclined in a striped lawn chair, looking dehydrated. The girl was a year younger than us and had the loudest walk in Alabama, according to Eleanor. Instead of a lemonade stand, Courtney had a cardboard box with the phrase “Dutch Rabbits for sale” painted on the side. The green paint was runny, so Courtney overcorrected by adding a dozen dollar signs like some type of diversion. As we peddled by her house, she bobbed her head at us as if to prove that she was conscious. 

“How much you think they are?” Eleanor’s bike made a screeching bark as it came to a halt. She put her hands on her hips. “You know there’s a law against that?” 

“What?” I was a few feet ahead—always faster. 

“You gotta name the price. Everyone knows that.” Throwing her index finger to the sky, she swung one leg over her bike and marched towards Courtney Billingsley. The backs of her thighs were blood splotched from her seat. Her bulky blonde hair bounced as she pranced through the yard, her pink Soffe Shorts swaying side-to-side. For a second, I watched her, then I followed. 

By the time I reached them, Eleanor had seized a bunny, holding it in her sunburnt arms. The bunny had a blackish-blue stripe on its back, but the rest was white. One of its ears dropped while the other shot up like it had just heard something outrageous.

“How shillyshally,” Eleanor exclaimed. She thought words like shillyshally made her sound smart. “Look at its floppy ears. Little thing must be a mutt. Oh Terry, I think I’m in love.” 

“The others have stripes too,” Courtney tried to strike a conversation. 

Eleanor acted like she did not hear, “What should we name him?”

“Name him? You gotta buy him first,” the girl protested. 

Everything about Eleanor was childlike. Her wrist was jam-packed with Silly Bandz, and her short blonde curls were pinned back by butterfly clips. Yet, her poised lips and milk-white teeth teased maturity. With a smile like that she could convince anyone of anything. One devilish grin was all the insight I needed. The idea was mutual. The performance was sporadic. Together we darted off like a pair of madcap mice. Out of her chair flew a Courtney Billingsley, puking up her lunch mid-scream. The bunny’s feet wobbled in the air. It had no say in the matter. Eleanor threw its limp body into her basket, and I swear, at that moment, that bunny and I made eye-contact. 

It must have been the adrenaline that had me imagining sirens, but I kept looking over my shoulder, expecting a patrol of cop cars in hot pursuit. Houses morphed together, and the street names twirled as we peddled farther and farther away from the scene of the crime. 

Once we reached our street, we stopped to check on our new friend. Eleanor was already embellishing the story. Apparently, the Billingsley girl had barfed Cheetos all over her favorite pair of shorts. The bunny squirmed as I held it in the air, trying to identify its gender. 

“His name is George,” Eleanor declared. 

“George? That’s a stupid name for a rabbit.” My criticism fizzled under Eleanor’s confident glare. “I guess he sort of looks like a George.” 

“George sounds like royalty.” 

“Well, George needs a home because he ain’t staying with me.” I had nothing against the bunny, except that it wasn’t a dog. If I went home with a stolen bunny, my parents would never let me get a dog. George would always feel lesser under the shadow of my almost-to-be dog. “I got to be home for dinner in like thirty minutes. You take the bunny.”

“George,” Eleanor corrected me. “And the survival rate at the Trask household is under five percent. If you care anything about George, you’ll take him.” 

“If he goes home with me, he’ll just die of boredom,” I rebutted. 

“If he goes home with me, he’ll die of neglect and starvation. So, try to top that, Terry.” The way she flicked her tongue when saying my name and tilted her chin with a smile made me uneasy. It was if my name was a joke that everyone else understood except for me.

The Trask household lay ensnared by thickets at the end of the street. The grey-wood shack was balanced on a hill and had a basement, which I had always envied. There was nothing desirable about the basement. It was full of cobwebs and aged hunting gear, humid from flooding. There was an old cistern that was both arousing and petrifying. My favorite thing in the basement was a freezer stocked with an endless supply of ice pops. The bulk packs could fuel us through any summer activity. 

Sometimes, I’d fantasize the basement was my own. The walls would be painted dusty red. There would be a pool table and an expensive leather sectional. While Eleanor would sing into her hairbrush, I would circle luxury bath towels from home décor magazines.  We often pretended we were something, somewhere else.

As we approached the house, I could see her brother’s Mango Hellcat parked in the gravel driveway. How he got the money for a barely used sports car at seventeen was a mystery to me. However, this kind of unexplained materialism was a Trask Family trademark. Each of them lived out their separate indulgences, but Eleanor’s were by far the most glamorous. Every year, her first day of school was treated as a grand entrance into society. Her phobia of being late to a trend left her with a closet full of Webkinz.  One Christmas, it was Ugg Boots, then a year later it was the Nintendo. She was dissatisfied with everything but the moon.  

#

We walked our bikes around the side of the house. The Trask’s backyard consisted of a shed cloaked in kudzu and a spoiled hammock. There was no guard dog since Mr. Trask hated noise. The house reeked of something burning all-year-round. 

The mission was to shelter the bunny in her basement, but we were blocked by Charlie, who was basking on the concrete steps. 

Fearlessly, Eleanor demanded he move.

“Where’d you get the bunny?” Charlie took a sip from his Styrofoam cup. Charlie was always sipping on the same purple drink. 

“His name is George,” Eleanor huffed. Unable to get past him, she began to throw elbows. I wondered if she had just realized how stupid the name George sounded. 

 As a baby, Charlie had a split in the roof of his mouth. Despite being fixed in one surgery, his upper lip had a slight but permanent hook to it. There was something alluring about the Trask boy. It was the same kind of allure one gets while driving past a car wreck. Once, he took Eleanor and me on top of the high school so we could watch him set off his car alarm as people walked by. “Always keep the simpletons on their toes,” he would say. A week after getting his driver’s license, he ran over our neighbor’s mailbox and made one of his girlfriends pay for it.

My parents would talk about Charlie, thinking I wouldn’t know who they were talking about. “He’s a reckless insubordinate thug with no future,” they’d say.  

To the world, he was the scum of society. To me, he was Eleanor’s older brother. Sometimes before school, he’d braid her hair so that her short blonde hair would look like dingy shoelaces in his double French braids.  

“Just give me the bunny,” Charlie spoke warmly. 

“What are you going to do with him?” Eleanor yanked the bunny away from his reach. 

“Put him in a box or something. I haven’t thought that far ahead. Listen, keeping a bunny is a lot of upkeep. You’ve got to feed it, and entrain it, and clean out its poop. If you pay me…” 

“Pay you?” I intervened. 

“I’ll take care of it, and you can see it during visiting hours,” Charlie said. 

“We don’t want no visiting hours.” I shook my head.  

“But Charlie…” Eleanor squeezed the bunny and looked up at him with pouty lips. “I don’t have any money.” When Judy Stern sold her world’s finest fundraising chocolate at lunch, Eleanor was never short of money. 

“You can pay me back later,” Charlie said. 

It was almost time for dinner. Eleanor held the bunny tightly to her chest. The bunny’s eyes caught my attention. They looked like two smooth marbles, perfectly round. Eleanor and I used to compete to see who could draw the roundest circle. One of us would always win, but neither of us were ever perfect. George, however, had won effortlessly—with his two perfect eyes. His little bunny nose began to twitch in anticipation. With a sigh of defeat, Eleanor handed the bunny to Charlie, who promised to take good care of him. 

#

At dinner, I ate quickly, anxiously awaiting a call from Mrs. Billingsley. It was just me, my mother, and two bowls of beef stroganoff. Of course, my mother had no idea of my misconduct, but she would once Mrs. Billingsley called. Then she would throw a fit. My father would march me over to their house and make me apologize. I always thought he was too conventional. When I tried to quit basketball, he forced me to play until the end of the season. Eleanor never had to do things like that. 

Our mothers were friends, but our fathers hated each other. My father would say that Mr. Trask treats children like dogs. So, logically, Eleanor would be an inside dog, and Charlie would be an outside dog.

A carousel of scenarios was turning inside my head. Images of transforming my father’s tool shed into a bunny crib spun into mental plans. I’d paint the walls blue and hang up an informational poster about bunnies. I began to theorize over why George had one good ear and one floppy ear. If Mrs. Billingsley called, I’d have to return him. 

When it had seemed that I had dodged the inevitable, the home phone rang. 

 Avoiding my mother’s eye-contact, guilt began bubbling inside of me. My mother called my name. It was Eleanor. She wanted to know if we could have a sleepover. 

“Please Mom, I promise I won’t ever ask for anything again,” I yelled from the kitchen table. Bounding out of my chair, I found my mother’s arm and begged to go. 

My mother agreed, so I mounted my bike and fled back to the Trask home. By the time I reached her house, the sky had just begun to fill with orange and pink clouds; the sun hung just above the tree-line. Charlie’s Mango Hellcat was gone, and Eleanor sat at the street’s dead-end with a box of chalk. On the asphalt was something red and yellow. As I approached her, the blob took shape. She was drawing Saturn with all of its eight rings. 

“Where’s the bunny?” I asked. 

“You mean George? He’s with Charlie.” She began to shade the edges of the planet with purple chalk. “Him and Daddy got in a fight, so he left.” 

Their fights often occurred at the end of every month and always on Christmas. Charlie was always getting into it with his mother, though. Often, he provoked her. Once I witnessed her chucking all his dirty laundry in the front yard. Another time, she slung a cutting board at him, so he had to get one single stitch above his right eyebrow. Mrs. Trask was a small woman, but she had a fierce throw. 

“What if we spent the night in the hammock?” Eleanor began filing the chalk box to match the colors of the rainbow. “That way, we catch him when he comes home.” 

“Sure. I wonder what he’s doing. George the bunny, I mean.” I looped my finger in my braid. “Not Charlie. Who knows what Charlie is doing.” 

“I do.” Eleanor raised her head with a face of disgust. “He’s with Sandra,” she murmured. Last week it was Elise. 

It wasn’t our first night spent in the hammock. There was a thin navy blanket designated just for these special summer nights. Anything thicker would be too hot. We’d wrestle over it, trying to protect our legs from the mosquitos. “Next time, we’ll use bug spray,” we’d always say.

That night Eleanor told me that Venus was almost 200 million miles away from earth and that Jupiter was a beautiful tornado that no one could approach. We drew animals from the stars: elephants, jellyfish, and dragons. To her, the galaxies were expanding like a balloon, but in my world, there were only crickets and an obnoxious toad. 

For an hour, we twisted and coiled until the wind finally rocked us to sleep. I was always jealous of how Eleanor could remember her dreams. They were so outlandish while mine were plotless. I’m sure that night was no different—no flying or falling. Instead, I thought about the things I read of. Toxic algae in Botswana, angry Sea Turtles, and the Cheng Han Dynasty. Alone, I floated throughout the oceans of Europa— a shell of ice above me and bottomless waters below.   

#

It must’ve been 2 a.m. when headlights peered around the corner of the house. I woke in a cold sweat. It took a few nudges to knock Eleanor out of whatever comical dream she was having. I remembered our poor George, probably in the trunk of his car suffocating in a duffle bag. 

“Wake up. Charlie is home,” I whispered. 

Eleanor leaned over me for proof. Then she gasped. 

There was a girl pressed up against the hood of his car. Eleanor ducked behind me as if she had got caught doing something wrong, but I watched. Something inside of me detested her, but at the same time, I was her.  My heart was racing and torn and fearfully excited, just like hers. With quiet giggles, the couple began to shift towards us. As they stumbled down the hill, I realized that their destination wasn’t his room. They were walking in our direction. A more awful realization then came to me. This was Charlie’s sex hammock. Chill bumps crawled up my body as the beef stroganoff cycled round in my stomach making me nauseous.

“Oh, please no,” I shrieked. Then in one compulsive motion, I flipped out of the hammock, bringing Eleanor with me. We hit the red dirt with a thud.  

The girl squealed, and Charlie stopped eating her face. With catlike movements, Eleanor sprung to her feet. Charlie began swearing at us while the girl gripped his arm awkwardly. The whole time I sat on the ground uselessly. 

“We want George back,” Eleanor crossed her arms.

“The bunny?” It seemed as if he had forgotten. “Grow up, Els. I swear you’re such a pest. You’re really going to ruin my night over a rabbit?” 

“His name is George,” she yelled.  

“Shut up. You’re gonna wake Mom and Dad.” With a finger over his lips, Charlie looked over his shoulder nervously. The house was silent. “Look. Let me take Sandra home. Ight? Just wait in your room till I’m back, and then I’ll show you the bunny. Just don’t go in my room.” 

Inside the house, Mr. Trask was passed out on the recliner. ESPN was running its Games of the Century. Once inside her room, we leaped into her bed and were back asleep within seconds. While sleeping, I scratched one of my misquote bites until it bled. We would’ve never admitted it, but we were glad to be back inside. 

The best part about summer was sleeping late into the morning. This time when I awoke, Eleanor was propped up on her elbow, staring at me. 

“I think George is in his room,” she alleged.

“Is he not home yet?” I sat up in bed. My hair was a bird’s nest.  

Eleanor nodded her head towards the window and said, “His car’s not here. I bet he stayed the night with Miss What’s-Her-Face.” 

“Why don’t we just go in his room?” 

At first, the question was preposterous. Over the past year, Charlie’s room had grown increasingly guarded.  At the end of all his sentences was, “Just don’t go into my room.” Eleanor was highly aware of this, yet her reluctance to the idea softened. We talked about George. We planned to feed him carrots in the mornings and celery at night. Eleanor would buy a cage, and I’d buy a water feeder. Our plans were simple. George was one of us now. Eventually, we gathered up enough courage to get out of bed and go to Charlie’s room. 

One might have thought we were entering Chernobyl. With precaution, we gently pushed the door open and tiptoed in. The smell of AXE deodorant and dirty cleats was intoxicating, so I held my breath. Above his bed was a poster of Muhammad Ali beating his chest over a fallen Sonny Liston. Under the window was a dusty keyboard. 

“Make sure you look everywhere,” Eleanor ordered. 

Scavenging through his room, I found Rambo and The Sandlot on videotape. Under his bed, I discovered a hoard of dollar store love roses. The glass tubes were stacked neatly while the paper roses were discarded in a pile. Inside his Algebra textbook, I also found a creased envelope addressed to Tampa, Florida. 

George was nowhere to be found, and I could tell that Eleanor was upset. Her cheeks started getting pink, and she began to pace around the room.

“I don’t get it. Where could he be?” She sounded exasperated. 

To know everything was a goal of hers. That’s why she wanted to go to space one day. Yet, Charlie was always out of her reach, and that drained her. With slumped shoulders, Eleanor walked to the keyboard. Blue sunlight bounced off the creamy keys. 

“You know Charlie taught me to play a few years ago,” Eleanor said. She poked at the power button. “But I was little, so I don’t remember much.” Then she pressed down on a key. The note was sharp and low. “He tried to teach me how to play ‘Don’t Stop Believing,’ but I was so bad he gave up. He’s really good, you know. You wouldn’t think it, but he is.” 

She was trying to find the right notes, for the right tune, to bring back some ancient memory of her and her brother. I watched her fiddle through bad chords and hand slips. 

“What are you doing in my room?” 

Leaned up against the door frame was Charlie, twirling his car keys. 

“I’m fed up, Charlie,” she shook her fist. “I want to see George. I know you have him. Where is he? Is he at Sandra’s? She can’t even dress herself, let alone take care of a…” 

“Why are y’all in my room?” Charlie scowled. 

“We want our bunny,” I yelled. “We stole him, okay? I didn’t want to, but it happened, and we got to take care of him. All your sister wants is to see him. That’s all. If you didn’t want to take care of him, then you shouldn’t have taken him in the first place.” 

Now he was looking at me. 

“Next time ask before going into my room,” he said. 

“We’re sorry,” Eleanor looked at her feet. 

The two stood across from each other. Eleanor’s back was to the piano, and her hands were behind her back. Uncomfortable from the silence, I began to rock on my heels. Then Charlie asked her what she was playing. After admitting she had forgotten how to play, he offered to reteach her. Together, Eleanor and I peeked over his shoulder. We watched his hands hop across the board effortlessly. While his fingers danced, Eleanor laid her left hand on his back tenderly. With a soft grin, he started the song over from the beginning. 

It sounded like funeral music to me.

“No, no, no,” I lunged over the keyboard, ripping the cord from the outlet. “Stop it. Just stop. You can’t just keep on not telling us where George is. I want to know where George is.” 

Eleanor backed away. This time she was sore at me. 

“You really wanna know, then fine. You asked for it—just remember that. I gave it away. I gave your stupid rabbit away. There was no way y’all would be able to take care of it. You know that. It’s better off where it is now.” 

There was nothing more chilling than an Eleanor Trask tantrum. It was the kind of wailing that involved fingernails, runny noses, and the gnashing of incisors. Trembling, she told him that she’d never forgive him—as long as he lived. We then watched her scurry out of the room, howling the name George down the hallway. 

“How could you be so cold?” I asked him.

“What’s it to you? It’s just a bunny.” In an effort to stay assertive, Charlie tossed his hair back, but I could tell by the hot tears in his eyes that he was miserable. 

“Who did you give the bunny to?” I asked. 

“No one.” Charlie turned his face away. 

“Do they go to school with you?” I pressed on.

“Leave it, kid. Just leave it alone, alright.” His ears were turning red. 

“Do I know them? Is that why you’re not saying anything? I’ll find out. You can’t hide it from me. Me and George have a connection.” 

“I lied, okay,” Charlie flapped his hands forcefully. “I lied. You caught me red-handed. I didn’t give your precious bunny away. You happy?” 

“Well, where is he?” I twisted my lips. 

“You really want to know?” He waited for me to respond before he repeated himself. 

“Yes,” I replied quickly. Of course, I wanted to know. 

With a quick gulp, his face twisted, and his dark eyes caved like a sinkhole. Someone once told me that confidence was being detached from one’s fears. For the cold-blooded boys like Charlie, the rules were flipped, and it was fear that bred their confidence. I followed him out of the room. The house was lifeless, and the screen door swayed from the breeze. Walking behind Charlie, I realized how small I was. We went outside to the concrete stairs—the only way to the basement. The sun was directly above our heads. 

The basement was soured by mildew so that when I inhaled its dense aroma, my nose and throat turned cold. One beam of light entered from the dimmed window—clashing with the floor. Under its spotlight, Charlie stood in the center of the room with his hands in his pockets. There was no cardboard box, no iron cage, no sound of breathing. With a tight chest, I looked at the well and then Charlie. Biting the inside of his cheek, he denied my speechless accusation.

Dragging my feet, I walked towards the freezer in a daze. There was no distinction between my heartbeat and breathing. There was only the echo of my steps. It was only a bunny, and it was ours for one fleeting moment. The freezer lid popped as I thrust it open. As the white mist began to clear away, all my chaotic thoughts were silenced. 

The bunny’s round eyes were frozen. Its arms were overextended, but its legs were curled into its prickly chest. When Charlie lifted the bunny from the freezer, its body went limp. I was too shocked to cry.  

“He’s all yours now,” Charlie scoffed. With a frown, he shoved the frozen bunny into my chest and walked away. I pleaded for him to take the bunny, but Charlie was already up the stairs. My body began to revolt. The bunny was stiff. Appalled, I began to gag. It was so cold—so dead. A fraction of me wanted to toss it down the well, but I couldn’t. This was my first-time holding George. Staring down at the lifeless creature, I pictured a dozen Dutch Rabbits skipping through the snow with little rabbit tracks tracing behind. “So long George,” I shuddered. Something odd possessed me, and I kissed the rabbit’s pea-sized head. 

Then I laid George back in the freezer.  

#

With her knees drawn to her chest, Eleanor sat on the curb by her fading Saturn. Her face was puffy, and her nostrils were rosy. Still stupefied, I sat down beside her. 

“This is all your fault you know,” she sniffled. 

There was no way to respond to this. My hands were still cold. 

“I said that he should have stayed with you, but you didn’t listen,” Eleanor started. “I knew that something like this would happen, but no. He went with me and now he’s gone. Now he’s happy with some other family that’s not us. They’re going to give him a new name, and we’re never going to see him again. George is lost forever, and it’s all your fought.” 

A peculiar image of George sipping tea with my mother and my father popped into my head and made me chuckle. He wore a red suit like The White Rabbit from Alice in Wonderland. My parents were both teachers. Back home, my father was probably trying to fix the drainage problem, and perhaps my mother was folding clothes while listening to talk radio. In the summers, we would stay up late and play cards. In the mornings, my father would scramble eggs for my mother and me. 

“What are you laughing about?” Eleanor got defensive. 

“You know my parents think you’re a bad influence on me,” I lied. As soon as the words slipped my mouth, I regretted it. It wasn’t true, but Eleanor believed it in her fragile state. 

“It’s not safe,” Eleanor sobbed. “It’s not safe here. And Charlie. I hate his guts—I really do. I hate him so much. You’re lucky you know that, Terry? You have people that love you. What I would give just to have one person who loves me back.”  

That was the first time I pitied Eleanor Trask. 

I should have said that I loved her, but I didn’t. When she tried to bury her tears, I should’ve put my arm around her. Instead, I thought about George. 

Could a rabbit love, I wondered? Craning my neck backwards, I looked up to the sky. An omniscient Charlie was looking down on me with a smile. As the freezer door began to close, I had no thoughts. The four walls that trapped me were replaced with blackness so that there was nothing to observe but darkness. It wasn’t the cold that killed me. I died from suffocation. 

The bunny was never spoken of again, so I knew that she knew. I wondered how long it took for her to find out. She must’ve been reaching for an ice pop one afternoon only to feel an ice-block of fur. What had transpired in the basement was a mystery to her. At first, I felt guilty for all our silent lies, but over time it became another one of our games. We were too stubborn for honesty and too deep in our pride. As time elapsed, the memory became another one of our forgotten dreams. We were Pangea, two continents drifting farther and farther apart. 

#

It was sleeting when I left Lucky’s Supermarket. It was the middle of the afternoon, but the sun was already setting. Little pellets of ice beat against the rows of cars. Water trickled off the hood of my jacket and onto my face. It took three forceful twists to crank the ignition. I rubbed my palms together until the air vents spat out warm air. On my windshield, small snowflakes were swept away by small steams of rainwater.

Maybe, somewhere in Atlanta, the Trask boy is playing Journey on a grand piano. After the show, he’ll call his younger sister Gwendolyn. They’ll talk about secret clubs with elevated platforms and truffle butter—vaunt the life they now live. Gwendolyn will tell Charlie about a supermassive black hole caught on a telescope. She is an astrophysicist with Hollywood hair. They’ll reminisce over their childhood crimes, curse all their exes, then promise to call next week. Two hundred miles away, I am renovating their basement. The concrete floor is stained. Upstairs, my paintings are framed on freshly painted walls. My name is monogrammed on their kitchen towels. On the doormat are my pink bunny slippers.

What a beautiful façade it all was.

How we all wanted to be someone else.



BIO

Margaret Helms was born in Texas but grew up in Decatur, Alabama, where she draws inspiration for many of her stories. She is currently working towards her undergraduate degree in Journalism while studying creative writing at Murray State University. When she is not writing, Margaret baristas at a local coffee shop where she spends the bulk of her free time reading. This is her first publication. 








Dr. Rocktopath’s Horror-Style

by Nabho Banerjee


I

With graduation and MaskEx just a few weeks away, there was little else in those days that I had on my mind besides entering the good graces of Dr. Rocktopath. I’d made it through school more comfortably than most thanks to my alignment with a major crew, and soon, I’d be able to leave most of my more uninteresting responsibilities behind. And as I had always presented myself as quiet and diligent in front of Dr. Rocktopath, I couldn’t have been more optimistic about my chances given the past few years. So, while I didn’t allow it to show on my mask, it was quite jarring to hear my corpsebrooder Mike start talking to me about Ouranos.

He said, as I walked into sensecraft class still empty but for him, “Hey, corpsebrooder, you notice Ouranos has been looking at the poster for the graduation speech lately?”

I replied, “What do you mean? Like as if he wanted to apply?”

“Yeah man, I’m sick of it. He thinks he’s being real wormfashion about it, but I wasn’t born yesterday. And he has the gall to harbor a look of sorrow in those penshade eyes.” Mike’s spillshade eyes twinkled with anger as he said this. My stomach sank.

“So what do you think? Is it serious enough to tell Joey? To be honest with you, I don’t think Ouranos will be too much of a problem. Keeps his head down well enough. I think telling might even end up being a bit wormcrooked and may not be worth the trouble.”

“Trouble? You’re a Reapsake, aren’t you? ‘Trouble’ sounds like something those worms in That Freaky Vibe would say. Well I’m going to tell him. I’d rather claim the recognition than see an opportunity go to waste. You can understand that, can’t you?”

Though disturbed, I nodded and turned forward. Class was filling up and from what I had heard, today Dr. Rocktopath planned to give a lecture about history relevant to sensecraft, some of which I had heard before in his freshman artcraft class. This was one of my favorite things to hear spoken about; the topic exhilarates my intellectual curiosity like nothing else, so to speak, and since now it would be in my favorite class, I was all the more eager.

Immediately after Joey and the other Reapsakes arrived and sat down, Dr. Rocktopath walked into the classroom handsomely disheveled and slouching as usual. His swordshade eyes were cast down, as if shrouded in a veil of nightish mist. I had seen him quite late in the evening before and his mask had a much sprier disposition then. I assumed he was up late pretty often.

Dr. Rocktopath said, “Today’s topic may not end up being all that accessible for many of you. That’s ok. This is the beginning of a new direction I’ll be taking this class and since you’ll all be graduating soon, you’ll be perfect for allowing me to experiment for next year’s seniors.”

He turned on the projector and, while narrating, he started to flip through many familiar graphs, diagrams, and lists of axioms children are exposed to at very early phase of their schooling. They are rarely ever deeply understood by the youth at large—memorization is the focus—but, from my own research, it seems that higher authorities consider this facet of instruction essential for promoting the assimilation of foundational concepts encountered in formal artcraft and sensecraft studies.  The class sat bored until he reached a slide titled “Kaali.” A murmur buzzed through the room. Most of the students looked up.

“Kaali—most of you have heard about this before. But, also for most you, this is the first time you’ve heard it mentioned in school or in any sort of academic context. I’ve decided to introduce you to this now, rather than let you get to it for the first time in college. I don’t know why more educators don’t do it like this, but I’m positive that you’ll be incentivized to go much farther and faster with your sensecraft in the long run this way. MaskEx will also be far more enriching for you all.”

I had a good idea of why. Dr. Rocktopath is no ordinary teacher, though he is certainly an extraordinary person. I have no way of knowing the way he looked before MaskEx, but now, at least, he has a pulse to his eyes and an asperity about his mien that I find quite compelling. He is a man of intellectual qualification far above the likes of Springside Prep—rumor has it that he is really a National agent working on a secret project and furthermore, that he enjoys special research privileges (though I had never seen any having been used at the time). There were other rumors, but none quite as wormshadow, and I cheerfully installed this rumor’s essence as part of my private image of him. He is a brilliant mathematician and is reputed to be a fine engineer, but he is truly gifted—as much as any savant—at artcraft and sensecraft. Some of his personal presentations of artcraft he had shown us in class freshman year had pretty severely put to shame industry standards—I had never before felt the pain of laughter in such abundance. But beyond these details, I don’t know too much else for certain, as, truth be told, I’ve always been rather intimidated by him. Nevertheless, I knew that if I could acquire Dr. Rocktopath’s tutelage after graduation, nothing could ever make me happier.

He went on, “There are two theories about the origin of our word ‘Kaali.’ One is that ‘Kaali’ comes from a linguistic heritage that implies the thesis, ‘the land that causes sacrifice.’ Interesting, eh? The other is that the meaning (usually taken to be at the same peg of the conceptual hierarchy) is more accurately, ‘star brain.’ Maybe you think that we would have settled upon one of these theories by now, but you’d be surprised at how genuinely bimodal the space of ‘expert’ opinion still is.

“Personally, I think there is likely no way to resolve this particular issue and that it is not necessarily important. Cause? Effect? Does that really matter to us? Looking at things on a bigger scale, in fact, can reveal the differences between these theses to be meaningless in a functional sense—and they are certainly not antithetical—convergence!

“But it’s still important to keep in mind, this is another triumph of the development of Language studies through past generations and into the modern world. The discourse about the theory-level nomenclature has honed in on the most interesting aspects of cause and effect: the physical source of the outcome and the physical outcome itself. Of course, discussion about the source in this case is more abstract. We can talk about numbers all day, but knowing a distance to a place is not enough to know or predict qualitative details. All we really have to go off of is Incursion!

“At any rate, don’t get too bogged down in all of this background. What you need to remember is that, when we practice sensecraft, we are able to do so only because we have knowledge that Kaali exists. The principles to which we are thus given access allow us to control our experiences in ways that may be quite difficult to realize under not-so-different circumstances. Unfortunately, according to my analysis, understanding of these principles have done nothing constructive for the state of our youth up to the point of MaskEx.”

A bolt of hysteria flashed from his eyes and briefly quivered upon his mask. This was likely lost on most, but certainly not on me.

“OK, now we’re going to practice spectrum inversion, which we’ve done many times before, but now we’re going to think about it with Kaali in mind. Take out your screen-sheets, everybody.”

Screen-sheets are panels of clear plastic, each a different plain, pure color.

“We’ll be using nightbracket and sunpetal. We’re going to do the usual. Nightbracket to sunpetal, sunpetal to nightbracket. But now (and I admit this is still relatively hand-wavy, but bear with me, it works), we’re going to think about Kaali. The ‘folk’-level impressions you likely have currently will be sufficient to begin. Think about that place and what it could really ‘mean’ as far as the existence of your life and your mind are concerned. Then shrink that area of relevance to your cognition and senses. Again, we’re not really embarking on anything new in principle; but now use Kaali as your starting point—as if you had a sort of psychic connection to the place…because, of course, you do, in a way, at least.”

I forced my mind to set aside what Mike had said earlier and did as Dr. Rocktopath instructed. I achieved the inversion with unprecedented ease, which both unsettled and delighted me. I looked over at Mike and saw that he was still struggling. As a corpsebrooder, I was obliged to offer assistance, though I was careful to be particularly wormfashion about it in the presence of Dr. Rocktopath.

II

As I recount the events that preceded my class’ pivotal MaskEx, it’s occurred to me that, you, the reader of my thoughts, may very well inhabit a region of existence that’s, in some ways at least, “different” from mine. But what does “different” mean on a fundamental level? I’d be a liar if I said I understood the answer, but I think know the answer, and it is this: things may not actually be so different in a material sense—what I’m getting at has to do with the cardinality of our abstract ideals. In other words, while our corresponding stations in nature may obey the same transcendentals bound to counting, resulting in mutual decodabilty of thought and language, our lived experiences may still differ in terms of barest meaning—matters concerning sense of proportion, direction, fundamental attribution—these sorts of things.

Of course, a possible consequence is that our school lives might differ. At Springside Preparatory Academy for Boys, we study mathematics, physics, chemistry, artcraft, music, sensecraft, Language, and physical education; each student has his own schedule of classes. But besides academic subjects, the most important lesson children learn from a young age is that to err in front of adults is fine, for the most part—it’s among other young people that standards of behavior must be strict. Therefore, by teenage years, before adulthood and MaskEx, a set of crews fills out a copious and rigid social structure. Defiance of this structure is dealt with swiftly and mercilessly. So too is solicitude.

Now, to my dismay, Ouranos apparently dared to oppose these strictures. I’d met Ouranos in freshman artcraft class. The guy was absolutely brilliant at it and his enthusiasm was infectious. I don’t know how he did in his other classes, but he was so talented at artcraft that Dr. Rocktopath took a personal, vested interest in Ouranos’ education. I admit I was slightly jealous of him for that, but I could sense Dr. Rocktopath saw a bit of himself in Ouranos, and I liked Dr. Rocktopath enough to be happy for him for that. I even worked it into my internal narrative that Dr. Rocktopath had looked somewhat like Ouranos before MaskEx.

It wasn’t too bad of a look: ellipsoid mask, long hair, just a trace of pudginess in the lower wormjacket. But besides a rather arresting voice, he had nothing that quite turned heads. His eyes were common penshade and his mask was not defined in the least. There was even a faint air of meekness about him, somewhat like a puppy that gets bigger in size, but is incapable of fully maturing. Lastly, he had a sort of jolty fidget about his manner that often confused me because it seemed so subtle, yet so striking at the same time—I was never completely sure whether or not anyone else had ever noticed, as I had never heard anyone comment about it—and, if that was because it was, in fact, so obvious, I would have felt silly in having brought it up. But all in all, he did not experience too many problems in his daily life. A new mask would certainly put him in a fantastic placement in society post-MaskEx, I was positive.

But now, all sorts of complications arose. If Mike was right that Ouranos was gunning for the graduation speech, it was only a matter of time before he was in serious trouble with the Reapsakes. And as it would surely displease Dr. Rocktopath to see Ouranos come to harm, that bothered me greatly.

***

In the evening, under a darkening sky strewn with stars seeming as flecks of bone, we gathered at our usual meeting place behind the school. The stiff smell of pine perfused from the blackness beyond encircling bushes.

Joey, leader of the Reapsakes, began, “OK corpsebrooders, Mike says he saw that worm Ouranos looking at the poster for the graduation speech. That’s not going to fly. I didn’t spend a week torturing Kelp over there for those dollfashion lines for nothing. And I don’t need people getting the wrong idea now that I’m about to experience the apogee of my time at this fine institution, especially just because that trash is about to be rescued by MaskEx.

“So I think it’s important we don’t waste this opportunity. This has got to be used to send a message. We’re going set an example for any other Inferior who thinks he could ever experience the position of a Superior. I want the adults hearing about it too.”

Joey’s best corpsebrooder, Reza, said, “Yeah, that sounds wormshadow. Ouranos is unaligned, which means we don’t even have to be too wormfashion about how we do it.”

All the Reapsakes nodded eagerly, their eyes sparkling in many hues of bloodshade. I tried to look the same way as my peers, but I felt my mask tremble as I thought about what was going to happen to Ouranos. And as I was a known corpsebrooder of the Reapsakes, Dr. Rocktopath would surely hold me just as culpable as any of the others.

“Kelp!” Joey barked, “I want your serpent and I want you to steal your mother’s tube-cartridge maker and lighter fluid again. We’ll also need something for scraping. Besides the serpent, I mean.”

Kelp said, “OK, sure thing.”

“Yeah, it had better be a sure thing. You know, it makes my blood boil when people act this way. Ouranos appears a touch too fain to view his life as part of some kind of adventure—as if his existence is seasoned by some ‘special’ sort of contingency. Or some such nonsense. Well, I’m going to make sure no one will forget who’s who or what’s what around here again.”

Everyone clapped.

“Oh, and one more thing. Will…” Everyone’s eyes turned on me.

“I’ve received word that you may have some differing views about this.”

“No, I—“

“Now, I really hope you haven’t been a spy from those worms in That Freaky Vibe all this time…or could it be that your corpsebrooders with Ouranos?”

“I assure you—“

“Enough. Hey, don’t worry, I for one trust you. So guess what? You’re going to be the chief Executor during the session. And everyone’s going to know about it. Even that blowhard Dr. Rocktopath.”

“…No problem,” I said.

***

After reflecting for some time after the meeting, I decided to find Ouranos to at least give him whatever warning I could. Cutting off Ouranos’ ambitions at the source would be risky, but most efficient.

But it was not long after I began my search for him the next day during our daily break time that Joey entered my mind.  Joey was a natural-born Superior. That’s not to say I think there can be any other kind of Superior. But Joey’s mask was especially lean and fierce-looking and he often wore outside of school a wormshadow outfit comprised of denim shorts, sunpetal sneakers, and a large doubledark t-shirt.

My own relationship with Joey and the Reapsakes had started a year and a half ago through my brother. Spotting me walking home with him one bracing, cloud-painted day in the spring, a senior Reapsake had caught up to us and said to me, “Don’t tell me you’re Kelp’s brother or something. Not just dragging him around like the trash he is? He’s ours you know…no one enthralls him without our authorization.” He knocked the pear on which Kelp was munching out of his hand.

“Indeed I am. Don’t ask how I got such a wormshadow draw of the—”

“I guess it happens. Hey. So we have an opening in the Reapsakes and you look like you could be a pretty wormshadow corpsebrooder.”

I didn’t think long before I agreed to join.  I’d spent enough of my life unaligned to find a good measure of satisfaction in that immediate moment of Acceptance.

But I soon found that my responsibilities to the crew took a bigger toll on my life than I’d imagined. Time I could have spent developing my natural aptitude at sensecraft and building a bond with Dr. Rocktopath went instead into meetings and strategy sessions. That I was so close to escaping the responsibilities of my position in youth and finally being able to approach Dr. Rocktopath had been shedding light on an ever-wilting outlook on life. But now, if I crossed Joey and my other corpsebrooders, I shuddered to think of how even MaskEx could save me from the memories of the consequences.

***

Though my thoughts continued to trouble me, I persisted in my search. I simply couldn’t let Dr. Rocktopath come to think ill of me. Too many are blinded by his light, but not I! I had to make him know that one day.

I finally spotted Ouranos in the lunchroom. There was considerable bustle and cheer about the place, which wasn’t surprising given the time of the year. I walked past congratulatory banners and through festive paper streamers of black, white, and freshfall to reach him at a table in the far corner of the room.

 Dr. Rocktopath was just getting up from talking with him and I saw that his eyes looked easier than usual, as if a major tension had been released from some internal wire from which they hung. He gave me a small nod as I passed him to join Ouranos.

Ouranos did not seem very surprised to see me. We had never been the closest of corpsebrooders, but we had always gotten along.

“What’s up, Will? Long time no see.”

“Yeah, I’ll say.”

“What brings you over to boring old me?”

I veered from telling him the real reason immediately and said, “Oh, uh, mainly just curious what’s up with you. We haven’t talked since freshman year, can you believe it?”

“Yeah, we were in artcraft, weren’t we? That was such a wormshadow class to have freshman year.”

“…I agree. It was fantastic. And I saw you were talking to Rocktopath just now. You two seem to have quite the relationship.”

“Yeah, it’s one of those mentor-disciple type things, all right. Tomorrow he wants me to give a presentation in senior sensecraft.”

“Oh, no way! I’m in that class! What are you going to present about?”

“It’s going to be about my independent research this past year. I’ve been studying Incursion in depth and I’m going to give your class a sort of primer on its history and what we’ve been able to learn from it. Don’t be too impressed, though, Dr. Rocktopath gave me all the materials I’ll be using and he’s going to be coaching me some more tonight. As I’m sure you’re aware, Incursion is really discussed as more of an artcraft thing at such a basic level, but Dr. Rocktopath says he’s been developing a more integrated approach to his teaching methods that features Incursion at the forefront of both artcraft and sensecraft. He calls it “horror-style.” Not sure what his proofs are yet, but it sounds pretty wormshadow, doesn’t it? He’s fucking brilliant.”

I swelled with anticipation and said, “Now I’m really looking forward to that. That’s exactly the kind of stuff I wish we spent more time on.”

He said, “Yeah, I guess a problem is that so many aspects of this subject area are so abstract that it’s easy for young people to tune out, let alone comfortably process even more fundamental knowledge. It’s a question of educational direction. If we focused more at a young age on how to think abstractly—if there was a field of ‘abstractology’ for example—”

“You mean something like…semiotics?”

“Nah, I mean something a notch more general and directive. That would be a separate didactic effort.”

“How so?”

“Consider PE. The point isn’t to teach you a particular sport or anything. When done right, the point of PE is to get your wormjacket to kind of “know” how to function properly. The specific activities are just used to teach toward that goal. So if, just for example, semiotics is swimming, epistemology is track, and hermeneutics is sprints (and so forth), ‘abstractology’ (there’s an ideal name for this somewhere) would be PE.”

I thought for a few seconds and was impressed at how much his framing helped me understand his point. It was no wonder Ouranos was so good at artcraft, with skills like that.

Then, at that moment, I spotted Mike and Reza on the opposite side of the lunchroom prowling behind one of the few female teachers at the school. They were looking lustfully after her and trying to be wormfashion about it. Joey was trailing them, observing, but also keeping his eyes on some corpsebrooders of That Freaky Vibe.

“Ouranos, sorry to change the subject, but listen. I’m actually here for another reason. Some of the Reapsakes are saying you’ve been considering applying to be the graduation speaker.”

Ouranos looked down and away. He said softly, “Yeah. I knew it was only a matter of time before one of them noticed. What can I say? If I’m ever going to be a public speaker after MaskEx, I need to practice. I’ve got plans! Ambitions! I’m sure you can understand that. Don’t you?”

“Understandable, Ouranos, but as much as it doesn’t bother me personally, that’s not going to fly. You know you’d trounce him. Joey will literally have your head.”

He didn’t respond for a few moments and kept looking at the floor. Then he said, “I know. Believe me, I’ve thought about the consequences of challenging Joey. But for me, even the fantasy of prevailing worth it. When I think about seizing this opportunity, I actually feel happier. As in, that happiness plus the despair of the truth does more psychic good for me than to live with the despair alone. The effort of putting up those mental barriers just hasn’t proved worth it to me and I doubt they will. I fucked up, corpsebrooder. And I know not to be sad about what’s going to happen. Now that you’ve so compassionately let me know my suspicions were true, I’m going to give that presentation tomorrow everything I’ve got. I’m going to make sure Dr. Rocktopath, at least, will never forget me for who or what I really I am.”

I didn’t know what to say next, so I leaned back and stared up while Ouranos gazed blankly into space. My thought processes slowed considerably.

Suddenly, Ouranos’ eyes became fearful, then indignant. He said, “Hey! Come on, leave me alone. I don’t know what you’re talking about, so stop making my life hell.”

Joey, Mike, and Reza slinked to our side from my rear. They looked angry.

Ouranos continued, “Come on Will, I thought we were corpsebrooders. I haven’t done anything against you or your crew.”

I knew what I had to do. I said in a hoarse hiss, “Just be glad you’re not suffering yet. Yeah, in fact, you owe me. If those teachers weren’t over there, I’d—”

Ouranos got up with a look of frenzy over his mask and said, “Spare me, buddy. I know how to make your heart drop. And the only conversation we’ve ever had that I in any way enjoyed was the one during which you offered me your rather farcical explanation for ghosts. I had a good laugh afterwards, it ended up really helping me along with my artcraft.” With that, he walked briskly away.

Mike broke out of a frightful stare at Ouranos’ distancing back and said, “Nice, Will, you did that real wormshadow and wormfashion.”

Reza said, “Indeed. Intimidation is most effective when the subject is made to realize it will result in a consequence that’s inevitable, insurmountable, and unknowable. That worm is going to suffer.”

Joey patted my breast, saying, “I knew all along that sanctioning your recruitment would turn out to be a wise decision. Tomorrow afternoon will be productive.”

I glanced across the checker-floored way to the foyer and saw Dr. Rocktopath speaking with Ouranos with an arm on his shoulder. Ouranos did not appear as if he wanted to talk. They were speaking so quickly, I discerned only the words “wormcrooked” and “desolation” from the lip movements of Dr. Rocktopath before I had to look away. I smiled back at Joey, Mike and Reza, trying hard to project that all was wormshadow, but internally, I felt as though I may as well have never had any crew of corpsebrooders at all.

III

As you may have surmised, members of our community receive new, flawless masks at the end of our time in high school. Our custom has been practiced since time immemorial and is intended to alleviate the turmoil accrued in the minds of the more troubled ones of the youth, like Kelp. Many have attempted breeding the importance of masks out of us, but in our recent history, the more we’ve tried to stray from our present nature through conscious effort, the more our in-born predilections have intensified.

However, if one’s original mask is damaged too greatly before MaskEx, it can be impossible to complete the ceremony and ritual of MaskEx. If not for Ouranos’s action upon seeing the Reapsakes the previous day, someone like me would have been doomed just as gravely as Ouranos was given the severity of an indiscretion such as mine.     

As I sat in sensecraft amongst my corpsebrooders, macerating in this rather unfavorable reflection, Ouranos walked in. He looked ready to deliver one hell of a presentation. I started again to become excited in spite of myself, though hearing the sniggers of Joey and the other Reapsakes behind me still sustained the pit in my stomach.

Dr. Rocktopath helped Ouranos set up the projector and soon he was ready to begin. Ouranos said, “Hello! Today, Dr. Rocktopath has asked me to talk to you in some detail about Incursion. Most of you, no doubt, know what Incursion is on a basic, ‘folk’ level, but today I’m going to tell you what’s important about it for your educational objectives. And if you’re wondering about my own purpose, let’s call this a personal exercise, or something maybe just a bit more than that.

“To give you a brief description of Incursion in case you need a refresher: it is essentially the deployment from a long conjectured but relatively (with regard to our recorded history) recently verified origin (Kaali) of (what you could think of as) predatory pieces of Entertainment. Since it’s utterly useless to speculate about the beings or agencies that create these projectiles, you can say, as such, that our world is a place where Entertainment comes to us as a natural phenomenon. This Entertainment cannot be used and is not intended for mere recreation, however. All Incursive specimens instigate feelings of unbeatable despair within unsuspecting viewers. Depending on the composition of the specimen and on the individual audience member’s biology, there can be stages leading up to the final psychophysical disintegration. Bowdlerizing is not really effective since there are rarely scenes in particular that we can pick out as being pivotally offensive or harmful—we can spend hours on analysis and remove a scene or section we are sure is the ‘culprit’ only to find that the effort has proven futile. Thorough training and mastery of sensecraft is necessary before Incursion can be properly digested. The training requires a rather hardy mindset, however, and most people choose to forego it unless they are pursuing higher levels of directly related study. Things have gotten much safer this past century in any case, so this is understandable.”

All the while, Ouranos flipped through slides showing images of archaeologically groundbreaking examples of Incursive projectiles. Some of it looked even newer than the glimpses of contemporary stuff I had seen.

“So, it may be somewhat confusing that everything we know about how to do artcraft (and, as I hope you’ll see, sensecraft) has been derived from the axioms we’ve been able to establish from studying Incursion. The reason for this, which I’ll return to, is that, because the results of viewing Incursion by regular people are predictable, studying it can lead us to extrapolate general theories and eventually build formal systems.

“I’d now like to go through three examples in detail. Afterwards, I’ll say a few words about how this is relevant to sensecraft, though I’ll let Dr. Rocktopath elaborate more thoroughly on that discussion tomorrow. Of course, since I’m a student just like you all are, I won’t be offended if any of you decide to leave.”

I heard the scrape of two or three chairs directly behind me, but Ouranos didn’t pause. The next slide popped up immediately.

“The first example of Incursion I want to talk about is a film, originally found as a tube-cartridge, called Psychopathic Chump. This film concerns the life of a young man named Liam. We don’t know anything about where the man is from, but, as you can see, his eyes are nightbracket, not any kind of bloodshade. Same with his love interest, Wendy; neither are her eyes any kind of bloodshade. Actually, in most Incursive projectiles, eye color tends to be freshfall, nightbracket, or deadpetal, but oddly, never bloodshade, doubledark, sunpetal, or burnglower. The reason for this specificity is unknown.

“From the onset, Liam sees himself as a thoroughly unlucky person. Most experts agree that he does not have anything exceptionally ‘wrong’ about him, especially to an extent so as to warrant the kind of behavior patterns he displays in the film. But it seems to be the case that wherever Liam is from happens to exert some kind of pressure, either through society as a whole or some particular branch of society, which influences Liam to gradually turn from a troubled but well-liked student into a delusional, privately crazed, and eventually megalomaniacal deviant. After humiliating himself at a college party, he decides the “final straw” has been drawn. Enough is enough, so to speak. He also becomes fixated on the only girl there who didn’t participate in the ensuing mockery, Wendy. He becomes convinced that his future happiness will be forged out of the agglutination of some sickly wormfashion attainment of his ‘professional goals’ (which by now amount to planetary domination—retribution for his perceived negative life experiences) with his success in having a genuine relationship with Wendy. From here to the end, we will come to see that there is something catastrophic about witnessing and falling into empathy with the afflictions of Liam. He ends up rebelling against his parents’ wishes, drops out of college, and starts a cock-fighting operation in an attempt to raise money for an “impactful” trip to his nation’s capital. After a series of increasingly poor business decisions, however, he gets into a fight after being confronted by a childhood enemy-turned-partner, is horribly beaten up in front of Wendy on the night he had planned to ask her to be his one and only beloved, and subsequently falls victim to a spiral of hopelessness that eventually drives him to suicide. At the end of all this, for reasons that aren’t so clear, even to me after hours and hours of study, Wendy becomes insane with sorrow after hearing about Liam’s demise and it is implied that she lives the rest of her life suffering incurable, insoluble misery.      

It may sound like quite a ludicrous reaction, a device you may expect to find in second-rate artcraft, but in this case, the laughter that might be induced in viewers does not tend to last long.

“The best framing to communicate the ensuing feeling I can think of is this: imagine someone slit your throat and pushed you off a cliff. You fall, but somehow, the way you were pushed and the tumid bulge of the rock-face make it so that you catch every single nook and cranny on the way down. And all the while, you’re picking up speed, spraying on the stoneshade. And that’s really what this is. It’s a jagged kind of assault, as if that sort of thing squeezes the most possible negativity and hopelessness out of mental space as one can imagine.”

The screenshots on the slides had been, for the most part, unexceptional, even boring looking. I struggled to determine how this film could be so dangerous as to be classified as Incursion.

“Next, I want to talk about another film called Eclogue of Aldebaran, The Follower. Again, the location of this film is not clear, but it is theorized to take place on a planet either in the solar system of the star Aldebaran or in some vicinity thereof. The characters, as you can see, look much like those from Psychopathic Chump, but the setting is more rural, dim, and antiquated. The main characters are named Ero and Zelmgorsutrix. Besides one spoken line, the film is entirely silent.”

Apart from his eyes and clothing, I thought that Zelmgorsutrix bore a strong resemblance to my own Kelp.

“Anyway, Zelmgorsutrix, a young independent farmer, falls in love with Ero, a beautiful girl from a noble family. To the audience, it is obvious that this love is puerile, unhealthful, and destined to fail. Still, as we’ll see, the trick of the film seems to be to unfold the story in such a way as to deprive the audience of choice in how they hope the film will end. No doubt thinking he’s being brilliantly wormfashion, Zelmgorsutrix bonds himself to Ero’s elder brother, Kin, in a pathetic effort to get closer to Ero herself. This fails immediately, as Kin puts Ero (who has committed some unexplained indiscretion) to work in the castle morgue, spraying corpses with a kind of magical solution that prevents maggots from hatching under their skins. The number of corpses is apparently so absurdly massive that Zelmgorsutrix never has a chance to make himself seen by Ero. Knowing her to be working in such an environment also has a profound effect on Zelmgorsutrix’s creative impulses, as he starts to compose what he calls ‘criminal’s poetry’ as his only leisurely amusement. When he at last gets close to Ero one evening in a hidden, labyrinthine garden, under a naught-bound sickle moon, Kin stumbles upon them and cuts off Zelmgorsutrix’s nose for daring to approach a female in his family. In fact, thanks to a spy, he had known about Zelmgorsutrix’s feelings and intentions all along. He had lied about putting Ero to work in the morgue, and was just waiting for the right moment to deal punishment for Zelmgorsutrix’s impropriety. His words to Zelmgorsutrix as he hobbles away in agony are, ‘Serves you right, you peasant. I’ll have your parents hunted down for giving you that showy name.’ All the while, despite ourselves, we are compelled to root for Zelmgorsutrix, rather than to write him off as the blithering, delusion-driven fool he clearly is.

Instead of satisfying this coerced desire, the film has Zelmgorsutrix hang himself in Ero’s garden with his pockets stuffed with his unpublished manuscripts. As the denouement proceeds, we are shown Ero grown up, with an adopted daughter; but, for no given reason, she is so ridden with anguish over Zelmgorsutrix that the only thing she can do to equal in expression her feelings for him in her fantasies is to read her daughter the things he wrote before he died. In a final montage, we are shown an alternate reality in which Zelmgorsutrix and Ero had successfully run off together to what looks like a deserted region of their planet. There they are depicted to be exceptionally happy.”

There was a break in the slides.

“So now I’ll say a bit about why these two films are important. Both of them engage in an offensive maneuver against our nascent cognitive wiring in a manner such that we often come to sense some underlying mechanism of damnation unfurling against us, but that we are nevertheless ultimately unable to resist or rebuff. Notice, in particular, how the instances of suicide in both films are resolved not with derision, but, rather to the contrary, with glorification and indulgence. And yet, it is naïve, at best, to categorically dismiss the material on critical grounds. From these two examples, we see that the presence of (and integration with) genuinely captivating filmmaking technique—from syntax to dialectical dynamics to aesthetics, and so forth—transforms what we would perhaps otherwise evaluate as crass and amateurish artcraft into fatal poison. National research has confirmed this to be the case for the vast majority of untrained people both pre- and post-MaskEx. In fact, research of that type could only commence once protocols were developed to make sure advanced researchers were not permanently damaged. But since those protocols had to be developed from scratch and need to be updated periodically…well…you all know what that means. And further, to reemphasize an especially important point: because Incursion is reliant upon and emblematic of natural laws that force predictable outcomes, we’ve been able to use it to develop a logic-pointed technical field like artcraft. And as I’ve already alluded to, we eventually got to sensecraft too.

“Now, for my last example of Incursion, I want to talk about an Incursive chapbook titled A Linearization of Nonlinear Space-Time: Reduction to a Vile Creature.” He flipped to a slide showing a triptych of pages with blocks of ordinary-looking text and pulled out some notecards to read off of. “Immediately, you can see that this title attempts to be both jeering and alarmingly all-encompassing.

“Now, I’ll admit that even I’m not overly familiar with the history or extent of this piece, and am considering this specimen for the first time along with the rest of you. But according to Dr. Rocktopath, it’s especially valued among experts for its literal purity. The characters are denoted only as letters and all descriptions are, from what we can tell, universal. As in, given the qualifiers or descriptors used in the text, there’s nothing we can imagine that would be divergent in relatablity between different intelligent interpreters. The only meaningful differences between subjects are (again, from what we can tell) their gender categorizations and name-letters. Seemingly solely through their arrangement and order, the individual fragments of text generate what we call a ‘dramatic progression’ as the output of their integration. In this way, the example demonstrates that it is possible to devise a system of symbolic objects that invokes irreducible ‘feelings’ by drawing from an idea-bank populated only with conceptual constituents subject to quantitative decomposition, like the material precepts of chemistry or the hard logic of digital computing. From a place of pure intuition, this area of investigation may seem paradox-ridden and, for all intents and purposes as far you’re all concerned, it is. As you can see, it can be difficult to imagine how this text could even be compared with the previous examples—you really don’t possess the tools or experience needed to understand what exactly you’re looking at.

“And that’s why there’s no point in trying to summarize this one. I’d have to invent and use a different level of vocabulary in order to describe what’s going on here without you all having dedicated your lives to deep, intensive study. Maybe we can conceive of some true adept managing to do this in a successfully relatable way, but no one has yet unraveled that part of the code of nature that would make such conceptual commutableness possible at a secondary school level. But therein lies the inscrutable beauty we wanted to expose you to with this piece.”

He glanced at the clock readied to make a final statement. “Now, seeing as this is sensecraft, I think I owe you a few additional words before Dr. Rocktopath takes back over tomorrow. It turns out that the formalism we’ve been able to extract from Incursion can, in concert with recognizing and understanding the implications of Kaali’s very existence, be used to develop ways to control our subjective sensory experiences. Since Incursion has demonstrated that Kaali knows our species’ neurosensory processes to perfection, we can deduce that the machinations that empower Incursion can be analyzed and repurposed so that, with thorough education with a well-devised praxis, you will all, should you desire and in case the refreshment of MaskEx fails you, be able to create a world of your own, through the power inherit in your very own biology. Most importantly (perhaps), with enough practice, you’ll have a means of self-rescue should you ever be unwittingly exposed to Incursion.” At this point, something prompted Ouranos to look around the room and he nodded off at a slight angle toward the floor. Then, a look as if he had a sudden realization quickly flashed on his mask.

He quickly recovered his composure and with a bit more haste (and, looking back, perhaps with a hint of reluctance), he went on, “As a last point, I’m not sure if Dr. Rocktopath has mentioned this to you before, but I feel obligated to tell you: if you want to practice sensecraft to its full effect and efficiency, use the thought of Kaali, the source of Incursion, as your starting point—as if you had a sort of psychic connection to the place…because, of course, you do, in a way, at least.”

The bell rang. As gripping for me the period had been, I was still surprised that no one had ended up leaving early, given that it had been a student lecture. When the bell stopped ringing, it was so silent that the room felt almost empty.

Dr. Rocktopath looked winded with satisfaction. His eyes scanned back and forth over the class and he said, “Well there you have it! Now that’s what I call horror-style! Let’s have a round of applause!” Everyone started to oblige well enough.

“Mike? Joey? You two doing all right? Starting to feel a bit— different?”

I turned to Mike and, though he clapped and smiled, the spillshade of his eyes shone diligently, fierce and cold. But I discerned a twitch in his mask as I looked back up to see a wash of pride erupting over Ouranos’ juddering mask.

Then, as I came to grasp the situation at hand, a wave of anguish overcame me and caused me to keel. In hindsight, it was so obvious! After all, unlike the first two examples, there was no indication that the last example had been merely a fragment. And Ouranos’ unflagging exuberance gave his words such sway and momentum, that nobody had come to question him. Furthermore, since Ouranos had had his eyes set on his notecards, it was no wonder why he had remained unaffected.

I craned my neck up and behind me and saw that Joey and the Reapsakes were also on the floor, along with the rest of the students, their masks contorted into unspeakable formations and unable to let out any noise. Joey was trying to keep his eyes trained on Ouranos, but I could tell his will was failing him.

Dr. Rocktopath said, “Don’t worry about your other classes, I have pre-written slips for all of you. You’ll be spending the rest of the day with me. Your parents have been informed as well. I hope that by the end of our time this afternoon and evening, we can all move in a new direction together. You should all be compelled to work for a more constructive state of the youth after MaskEx. Won’t that be nice?”

Though my heart reeled and my mind sizzled, I was thankful more than anything. After all, what an opportunity I now had to get closer to Dr. Rocktopath! Indeed, in the coming days and weeks, and especially into and after MaskEx, I came to truly cherish Ouranos’ lecture and the advent of Dr. Rocktopath’s horror-style.



BIO

N.J. Banerjee resides in the SF Bay Area in California. He holds a BA from UC Berkeley in Molecular and Cell Biology and an MSc from University College London in neuroscience. This is his first published work of fiction.







Orphans of the Savannah

By Adam Matson



I went to Kenya to avoid mating rituals. The year I was twenty-six about half of my friends got married. I went to weddings all summer. Sat at the singles tables, wondering if this was all there was to life. You can only browse so many Williams and Sonoma wedding registries before you start to feel the choke of settled life.

I was living in Boston, working in a marketing firm. I had a tiny apartment. Cubicle in a downtown office. It was the life high school and college had prepared me for, and it left me feeling utterly soulless. I showed up to work every morning and immediately felt tired. The window beside my desk looked directly into another office building. I watched the people sitting in cubicles in the adjacent building, wondering if their lives were any more interesting than mine.

Every Thursday my friends and I gathered at a bar on Beacon Hill to drink and discuss our dynamic and accelerating lives: engagements, internships, jobs, promotions. We called this meeting the Thursday Club. Week after week we toasted and laughed, ordered $16 martinis. I felt like a mouse running on a wheel.

On a Thursday night in October I left work and shuffled up the hill. The group was already a round deep at the bar. Brendan and Mary announced their engagement, and Tyler Dunn knocked over his chair jumping up to buy their next drinks. As we toasted the happy couple, I thought: what crap will I order them from Williams and Sonoma?

Then I made an announcement of my own.

“I’m going to Africa,” I said. “To work with elephants.”

Everyone stared at me. Why? was the primary question. And for how long? And what the hell for?

I was going for three months, volunteering at a wildlife orphanage in Kenya’s Tsavo National Park. Why for so long? Because I didn’t think a two-week vacation would cure my cubicle blues. I knew nothing about elephants, except that they were mercilessly slaughtered by poachers for the ivory in their tusks, sometimes leaving their baby offspring to fend for themselves against predators and the elements. In my mind I pictured an orphaned elephant stumbling across the savannah, lost, hungry, alone, and for some reason I felt a deep kinship with the animal.

None of my friends could believe that I would quit my job. They knew how hard it was to find that good job, that downtown job we’d all dreamed about in college.

“So you’re just leaving everything?” my friend Julie asked. “Everything you’ve worked for?”

I shrugged. Everything what? I had no answer she or any of them would find acceptable. Julie and I had been officially broken up for about six months, though there were still occasional late-night text summons. We would quickly hook up, and watch long hours of insipid television.

“I might be back,” I said to the table. Nobody bought my next drink.

My plan was to arrive in Kenya in November, during the shorter of the two rainy seasons, volunteer with the elephants until February, then spend a week at the beach in Mombasa, before returning home. But as I rode the bus through lush terrain on the road to Tsavo, I started to suspect my stay might be longer than a few months. I had spent four years in Boston, suffocated by traffic and humanity. The grasslands in Southeast Kenya seemed to spread out forever, rolling upward in green hills to the mountains. The pressure in my chest began to loosen.

The Tsavo Elephant Orphanage was owned and operated by a British couple, Alice and Donovan Price. Donovan was a veterinarian from a wealthy family, and had lived in Africa most of his life. Alice had originally wanted to be a painter, attended art school in Paris, then inherited some money and went to Africa seeking adventure. In Kenya she met her future husband while out painting in the bush. At the time Donovan was tracking lions, before he switched his focus to elephants. I was surprised to learn the Prices had no children, and unsurprised later when Alice told me, while sitting in a mud bath with a baby calf, that the elephants were her children. If anyone in the States had said this to me, I might have laughed. But Africa was different. The land was ancient and truthful. It had been around long before humans, and would survive long after we followed the many species we had already crowded out.

For the first few months I slept in a bunkhouse. Employees and volunteers lived, ate, and slept on-site. There were no two-bedroom apartments with a pool and a gym nearby. The nearest large town was Voi, a rambling two-hour drive from the orphanage.

The manager of day-to-day operations was a Kenyan named George Odhiambo. George lived on the grounds in a small, one-story house with his wife and four children. He spent much of his time taking the orphaned elephants out for walks in the park, where they would meet, and hopefully bond with, the wild elephants that lived there. One of my duties was to join George on these walks. We were sort of chaperones, taking the young ones out for day trips, then rounding them up, and bringing them back to the orphanage at night.

            “Are you married, Jeffrey?” was the first question George asked me when we met, followed by: “Do you have children?”

            “No, and no,” I said.

            George introduced me to his family before even taking me to see the elephants, and his wife Sophie fed me lunch. His children roped me into a game of soccer in their dusty yard. From then on George seemed to take a personal interest in my lack of spouse and offspring, coaching me on the importance of perpetuating the life cycle.

            My primary duty at the orphanage, as I had sort of expected it would be, was to clean up shit. Elephants produced biblical quantities of excrement, which I had to scoop out of their living areas. The shit was then packaged up and transported to various locations for use as fertilizer.

            “This will be your best friend in Tsavo,” George said, handing me a shovel.

            “The shit is actually very important to us,” Alice Price explained to me, one day when I was covered with excrement. “It tells us whether the animals are healthy or sick, if they are dehydrated, if the food we give them is providing proper nourishment.” She listed all the ways in which animal excrement could be abnormal, and told me to keep an eye out for aberrations.

By the second month I did develop a keen eye for elephant feces. I sent a long email home to my friends in Boston detailing everything I had learned about excrement, and its animal health implications.

“Sounds like you are full of shit, Jeff,” Tyler Dunn replied.

Julie asked when I was coming home.

            Most volunteers stayed at the orphanage for a week or two, before returning to wherever in the world they kept their real lives. Some just seemed to want to get their picture taken with an elephant. Many arrived assuming that the elephants would take an instant liking to them, that they would make lifelong friends with a majestic, ancient beast. Americans especially were miffed that the elephants could be shy and aloof.

            Elephant babies were like human babies, in that they primarily responded to, and wanted to be around, their mothers. When they were orphaned, they often had to learn to trust humans as surrogate parents. Many of the young elephants suffered from serious emotional trauma, having witnessed their mother being slaughtered by poachers. They were wary of humans. They didn’t want to be petted. Very young babies often did not survive their transition to the orphanage. The first time I saw a baby elephant die I felt a deep emptiness, like a profound personal rejection. Alice told me that the baby died because it did not recognize me as someone it could trust to feed it. So it did not eat. It died because it missed its mother. I cried in my bunk that night, and called home to my own parents the next day.

            “Life is fragile, sweetie,” my mother said. “All babies need to know they have a mother.”

            Then she passed me off to my father, who recommended I send my resume to a consultant, so I could present “this elephant thing” in the most advantageous light.

            In the wild, elephant families were oriented around the females, with the leader of the family group generally being the oldest and wisest cow, the matriarch. Aunts and sisters helped raise the young calves, and together the group traveled and nurtured each other, the mothers teaching the children how to find food and water, how to survive. When a young male reached his teenage years, he usually turned sexually curious and aggressive, like humans. Unlike humans, the teenaged males turned their sexual attention on their sisters and cousins, at which point the mother would expel them from the group, leaving them in the wild to fend for themselves. Males were welcomed back during mating season, but otherwise they were basically encouraged to get lost. Sometimes they formed their own groups, passing the days fighting for status and the right to impregnate the females. Or they became loners, rambling the plains on their own, guided by an inner spirit and agenda.

            After the rainy season the nights turned warm and dry. George and I often roamed the grounds of the orphanage after dark, smoking a joint, checking to see what nocturnal activity might be astir.

            “How many brothers and sisters do you have, Jeffrey?” George asked.

            “One brother, one sister.”

            “Why did your parents give up?”

            “Children are expensive,” I said. “We live in Boston. There are too many people already.”

            “I have thirteen brothers and sisters,” said George. “I don’t even know all their names.” He laughed. “Of course I do. We live in Nairobi. And I always know when they are nearby. It is the same with elephants. They always know who is here.”

            I thought of my own siblings. We were not close. My brother and sister could have worked in the cubicles on either side of me, and I still wouldn’t have seen or heard from them until Christmas.

            George stopped to listen to the breeze. “Wait a minute,” he said.

            I stood perfectly still, thinking I was about to be mauled by a lion. George walked quietly through the darkness toward the facility’s perimeter fence.

            “I hear my old friend,” he said.

            Assuming it was safe to move, I followed George to the fence. I could feel a significant presence, like a large area of warmth, wafting toward us. Normally I would have attributed this feeling to the weed, but after two months, I could easily smell the earthy musk of an elephant. I could even tell it was a male.

            “Do you see him?” George asked.

            “I smell him.”

            “He is ten yards away.” George leaned on the fence. “Kamari. Come to us, my good friend. Kamari!”

            Vibrations rippled through the ground. Against the navy blue glow of the star-dotted horizon a great blackness formed.

            “There is my boy,” George said.

            I knew the elephant stood right in front of us, but I could not see him. Instead I felt the soft thud of his trunk against my face. I froze. The rough skin wormed over me, and then a large blast of air hit me in the face.

            “He is checking you out,” George said.

            “He doesn’t think I’m food, does he?”

            “Jeffrey. They only eat plants.”

            “I know.”

            The elephant huffed, a long, deep exhale. The trunk poked me a couple more times, then vanished back into the darkness. The vibrations rippled again beneath my feet.

            “That is Kamari,” George whispered. “He is like you, Jeffrey, a lone bull. But gentle. His name means moonlight. We call him that because he usually comes at night. Two months since the last time I saw him.”

            “I didn’t even see him,” I said. “He felt big.”

            “He is the biggest elephant you will ever see.”

The end of three months came quickly. Just when I was starting to become a real connoisseur of elephant feces, I found myself pricing tickets for a flight home. I still planned to spend a week at the beach in Mombasa, now that the weather was hot, but I did not look forward to returning to Boston. A few of the orphans were starting to recognize me. One or two would trumpet at me when I took them for their afternoon walks.

            I roamed the grounds of the orphanage, listening to the night sounds of Tsavo. There were no grinding machines, no honking traffic. I could breathe. Thinking about Boston conjured nightmarish visions of cubicles, wet asphalt, crowded subways. I did miss my friends, and I badly wanted a pizza. But I did not want to give up the open spaces.

            A few days before my departure, Alice Price called me into her office.

            “So you’re leaving us?” she asked.

            “I don’t really want to,” I admitted. “I like it here. I feel like I’m just starting to understand things.”

            “You’re good with the elephants, Jeff. You are patient and gentle. They respond to you. Many people think they like animals, but not everyone can connect with them.”

A warm breeze wafted through the open windows of her un-air-conditioned office. Outside I could see two orphans playing with an old tire.

“If you want to stay here,” Alice said. “We can hire you. It would not be a Boston salary, but you could live here at the orphanage, and there are not many expenses.”

I stared out the window, watching the young calves rolling the tire through the orange dirt. I wanted to join them, see if they would let me play.

Alice smiled. “What do you think?”

“What if you get sick?” my mother asked, when I called home with the news.

“I’m surrounded by veterinarians,” I replied.

My father put it more bluntly. “We didn’t put you through college so you could babysit animals, Jeff. Tony and Sharon are working their asses off. What’s your problem?”

After law school my brother had landed a job at Leechman and Cross, a downtown firm, while my sister was quickly ascending the communications ladder with the Boston Bruins.

“Two out of three ain’t bad,” I told my father.

I didn’t make it to the beach at Mombasa either. Alice set me up with a small room in the bunkhouse, where half a dozen of us lived full-time. I began spending nights with the baby orphans, sleeping on a cot next to a new arrival, sometimes for months at a time. The babies required feeding every three hours, even at night, and they needed to know that a warm body was nearby, for comfort. I learned to sleep with my arm dangling off the cot so that a baby could nudge me with its trunk. I even crawled off the cot and slept beside them on cold nights.

            For two years I slept with baby elephants. After a couple of months I no longer noticed their overpowering smell. Nor did it occur to me that I had developed that smell myself. I did not interact with many female humans at the orphanage, especially any close to my own age. So I did not think about my smell. Mostly I thought about the babies, and focused on feeding them milk and Similac, getting them past those crucial early months until they could finally eat grass and tree bark.

Not all of the babies brought to the orphanage survived. Generally the younger the calf, the less likely it was to live. Many came in weak or sick. Others refused to eat. Some had injuries from poachers or predators. One morning I awoke to find my charge had died during the night. We had named her Kala, and she had only been with us for two days. Her eyes in death were gray and filmy. I sat on the floor and leaned against her for a long time. Even though I had only known her briefly, her passing felt like my own child had died in its crib. I often cried when the babies didn’t make it. Alice later told me that she couldn’t sleep the night after losing a baby. George kept a list of all the elephants that passed through the orphanage. He made sure each one had a name, and he could recall each of their stories. I learned to carry the deaths as a compromise, a tradeoff for saving the others.

Every afternoon I walked the orphans in the park. The wild elephants found us easily, lumbering over to greet the orphans with trumpeting or trunk-hugs. George and Alice could recognize many of the elephants in the park by sight, and by many I mean hundreds. Sometimes they could pick out an ex-orphan from a long distance. There goes Lucia, we raised her twenty years ago. There’s Alphonse, he always comes around when his friend Sydney is nearby.

One afternoon George and I were watching an elephant family playing in a mud hole with a few of our orphans, when George spotted a giant on the horizon. It was a bull, and an old bruiser from the looks of him; his tusks were only short nubs. A typical elephant his size would have tusks five feet long.

“There is my old friend!” George cried, and he began walking toward the giant. He cupped his hands to his mouth. “Kamari!”

To my surprise, the elephant started walking toward us. I expected the ground to shake, and puddles to ripple, like when the T-Rex shows up in Jurassic Park. But when the old bull arrived he greeted George by trumpeting and flapping his ears. He draped his trunk over George’s shoulders, and George clapped the rough skin with a dusty hand. Kamari stood almost thirteen feet tall, well over twice my own height. After inspecting George he threw his trunk over me. The tips of his snout gummed my face like a pair of fat fingers.

“He remembers you,” George said.

I was mildly flattered. I had only met him once. In the dark.

“He does not forget. He’s a good man. Aren’t you, my old friend?”

Kamari stood with us for a while, watching the babies in the mud pool. The adult females watched Kamari attentively, but did not seem too concerned about him. Eventually the elephant family moved away, and George and I rounded up the orphans. Kamari waited until the mud hole was empty, then waded in himself.

During my third year in Kenya, there was a terrible drought. The land turned a crispy golden orange. Grasses shriveled and disappeared. Streams and watering holes vanished like dreams upon waking. In the park, and elsewhere, animals died by the thousands. It was boom time at the orphanage.

I started traveling across Kenya with Donovan to retrieve orphaned elephants from various wildlife refuges. While riding the bumpy rural roads Donovan religiously applied sun tan lotion (he was a melanoma survivor), and educated me about the troubling history of human/elephant relations in Africa.

“Droughts force the animals to look for food anywhere they can get it,” he told me. “They raid farms, destroy crops. A single elephant family can consume a farmer’s entire crop in one meal. Understandably, the locals become agitated.”

“So their solution is to shoot them?” I asked.

“It’s their livelihood,” Donovan said. “Would you starve an elephant or your own child?”

“My child, probably.”

He grinned. “This problem will likely never be resolved. Elephants are like jet airplanes, they require lots of fuel, and lots of space to move. The human population grows, and cuts into their natural habitat. We save what we can.”

Tsavo was located in one of Kenya’s more arid regions. We felt the drought harder than many places. Alice spent weeks at a time overseas, fundraising, and contracting with bottled water corporations to import water for the orphans. Still, many of our charges died from dehydration, and every day we found corpses in the park, not just of elephants, but birds and other animals. Donovan told me that the drought was nature’s way of culling the population, but that didn’t lessen the tension at work. We all spent many sleepless nights attending to malnourished orphans. Everyone grew restless, waiting for the rain.

On a scorching afternoon I hiked through the park in search of Barnaby, a five-year-old calf who had wandered off during the previous day’s walk. By now I felt fairly comfortable in the bush, keeping a vigilant eye out for snakes. With the drought many plants and trees had died, and visibility extended for miles. I stopped every few hundred yards to scan the horizon with my binoculars. I could hear George in the distance calling Barnaby’s name. Barnaby had been with us nearly since birth, so we assumed he would not know how to find water in the wild. If we did not recover him within a day or two he would die.

After two hours of searching, I had seen no live animals, just one or two carcasses. Many of the herds had left to look for water. Where they expected to find it was anybody’s guess. Elephant matriarchs could remember the paths to watering holes for years, even decades. The family groups relied on the matriarchs to survive. I relied on my canteen, which was almost empty, and I was three or four miles from the orphanage. I leaned against a tree to catch my breath.

My first indication that something was wrong came as a feeling, like when the pressure drops right before a storm. I was sitting at the edge of a cluster of trees, not far from a dry creek bed. The air suddenly seemed devoid of all life.

I heard a rustling in the tall grass, thought it might be Barnaby, and called his name. Waited. Barnaby would come crashing out of the bushes, anxious to be led home. But the grasses remained still. I could no longer hear George crying out.

“Oh, shit,” I whispered.

The lion stepped out of the grasses, his enormous head and all-seeing eyes turned directly toward me.

I had no weapons, and little strength. I thought about climbing a tree, and if I hadn’t been exhausted I would have probably remembered that climbing trees was no problem for a lion.

This one looked starved and emaciated. I stood up, tried to straighten my posture. Animals needed to know who the alpha was, who was master of the territory. I thought maybe I could bluff the lion.

But looking into his eyes I could see there would be no bluff. A lion’s stare was non-negotiable, his intent uncompromising. This was his yard. I was the intruder. He would go for my throat. I would die under the scorching Tsavo sun.

Then I felt vibrations in the ground. The grass parted, and out stepped an enormous elephant. The lion and I both turned at once.

It was Kamari. I recognized him by his bulk and his lack of tusks. Incredibly, sheltered beneath Kamari was Barnaby, hiding from the sun under the bull’s stomach. Barnaby stumbled and dragged his trunk. He was dehydrated, close to death. But he let out a fearful trumpet when he saw the lion.

The lion growled back. Kamari stamped the dirt with his foot. Slowly he stepped into the clearing beside the creek bed and stood between my tree and the lion. He extended his ears and lowered his head. I whispered his name, my throat parched and dry. The lion backed off toward the grass. He growled over his shoulder at Kamari, before skittering back into the brush, his body lowered to the ground like a scolded housecat.

When the lion was gone Kamari turned to me, lowering his ears. Light-headed with relief, I peeled myself off my tree and approached him. Barnaby trumpeted weakly. Kamari poked my shoulders with his trunk.

“Thank you, Kamari,” I said in a low voice. “Thank you, my friend.”

Kamari nudged Barnaby and they started walking. Sighting the horizon through my binoculars, I saw that he was leading the calf toward the orphanage.

“Think I’ll tag along,” I said, my heart rate down-shifting to normal.

We reached the orphanage around sundown, and I returned Barnaby to his pen. I met George by the fence. Together we watched as Kamari stood off in the distance, staring at us with quiet nobility.

“He saved my life,” I said, after telling George what had happened. “Barnaby’s too. If not for that elephant I’d be dead.”

“He’s a good man,” George agreed.

“Why doesn’t he have any tusks?” I asked. “What happened to him?”

“Poachers. Shot him and cut off his tusks with a chainsaw. Left him for dead. We found him in the savannah, hundreds of miles to the west. Years ago.”

“And he still trusts humans?” I asked. “If I were him I would step on every human I saw.”

It was shockingly easy for an elephant to kill a person. A strong swipe of the trunk would do it.

George shrugged, watching as Kamari ambled back into the park. “Maybe he forgives.”

The drought eventually gave way to a generous rainy season, raising the spirits of everyone at the orphanage, humans and elephants alike. Kamari remained nearby for most of this time period. George said that he probably wanted to be near a reliable water source. This gave me the opportunity to learn a bit about the elephant everyone called “the old man.”

Nobody knew for sure how old Kamari actually was, but Donovan estimated that he was around 40, judging by the progression of his teeth. Despite the fact that Kamari had been viciously shot and maimed by poachers, he seemed relatively at ease around people. He allowed Donovan and Alice to perform periodic wellness checks, inspecting his mouth and trunk and feet. Kamari’s favorite treat was apples and strawberries chopped up and mixed together. Once he had his snack he would let the orphanage staff inspect him.

For weeks I made an effort to ingratiate myself to the gentle bull that had saved my life. I fed him apples, rubbed his trunk, doused him with cold water from a hose. Once or twice I cleared the orphans out of the park’s better mud holes so that Kamari could have a mud bath all to himself. Despite his enormous size, which generally would have given him status, he remained deferential to his peers, allowing other animals to eat, drink and bathe before he took his turn.

“Tell them to get lost, Kamari,” I implored him as he stood patiently watching a trio of calves rolling in the mud. The young ones had more than adequately covered themselves, and now seemed to be playing for fun.

Kamari walked over and nudged me with his trunk, then stood there like a big, dumb dog, sort of wagging his tail.

“Okay, old man. Have it your way.”

It was almost by accident, however, that I discovered Kamari was far from dumb. During my lunch breaks I liked to take a sandwich and a beer out just beyond the camp’s perimeter fence and sit in the shade of an acacia tree. There I would read the many books I ordered online. One afternoon I was reading a collection of humorous essays, and laughing to myself in the shade. I was so engrossed in the book that I did not notice Kamari had snuck up on me, until his hulking mass blocked out the sun.

“What’s up, my friend?” I asked. He was staring at me curiously, his trunk raised up to scent the air. “Listen to this.”

I read him a particularly funny line from the book and, unable to help myself, burst out laughing. Kamari lowered his trunk and made a low groaning sound, like a trombone.

“I don’t have any apples,” I told him. I read him another passage from the book, again laughing to myself. Kamari repeated his trombone call, then stepped forward and wrapped his trunk around my shoulders.

“You have a sense of humor, don’t you?” I said. Every time I laughed Kamari trumpeted at me, which made me laugh even harder, at the absurdity of carrying on with an elephant, like a couple of playground chums.

From then on I continued to order humorous books off the internet, and whenever Kamari came around, I read them to him. I even started to believe that the big bull genuinely liked me, for something other than my apples, or the refreshing blast of the hose. He would listen to me read and laugh, blow his trombone, and poke me with his trunk. Sometimes he stood listening to me read for over an hour.

But Kamari lived on Tsavo time, and as often as he would show up to say hello, he would also vanish, wandering back into the park, sometimes not returning for weeks or months.

The year after the drought I went with Donovan Price to Amboseli National Park, to advise a group of park rangers how best to approach and handle orphaned elephants. We trekked out into the savannah on a breezy afternoon, under a sky so vast we could see many different weather systems. To the east the sky was crystal blue, but on the western horizon the blackish clouds of a storm gathered over Lake Conch. To the south stood the arresting majesty of Mt. Kilimanjaro, crowned with snow, clouds swirling over the purple peak.

The grasslands extended in all directions. A herd of zebras galloped to safety away from us. Across the plains, clusters of elephants lumbered toward water, like diesel trucks grinding along a distant road. We did not encounter any orphans on our expedition, and the elephants we did come upon kept a cautious distance. But as we set off for base camp in the late afternoon, one of the rangers literally stumbled over the carcass of a lion. Everyone gathered around the corpse. It was uncommon to come that close to a lion under any circumstances, and unless the animal was sedated or dead, you didn’t want to.

Immediately we noticed that the lion was female, and that it had not died of natural causes. A bullet hole oozed drying blood at the base of the animal’s skull. Donovan and a senior ranger knelt by the lion and inspected the wound.

“Just shot,” the ranger said to Donovan.

Together we fanned out to search the tall grass. It was illegal to shoot lions in the park, but poachers, and unscrupulous game hunters, did it anyway. It was not long before I heard the hooting signal of one of the rangers. Following the calls, we found two men crouching beneath a cluster of trees. One was a bearded white man holding an enormous rifle, and I recognized a Dallas Cowboys tee-shirt under his camo vest. The other was black, probably a local tribesman, likely the hunter’s guide.

The senior ranger spoke to the local man in Swahili, a heated conversation, culminating with the guide surrendering a weapon of his own.

“Now wait a minute,” said the white man in a thick American drawl. “I paid good money to come out here. And I don’t plan to return without my prize. Maybe there’s some way we can work this out.”

To my surprise, everybody in the group turned to me. The rangers knew I was American, and maybe they figured I could decipher the hunter’s intentions. I shrugged and stepped up to him. He was bigger than me, and older, but my blood was boiling from the sight of the dead lioness, and I was in no mood to negotiate.

“You broke the law,” I said quietly.

He smiled at the sound of my voice. “From what I hear the law is open to interpretation, partner.” He reached into his vest and pulled out a leather wallet, stuffed with American hundreds.

I spat on the ground. The man’s smile vanished. One of the rangers noticed the money. He took the man’s wallet. The cash disappeared into the senior ranger’s uniform, and now a new conversation began, in Swahili, much less hostile than before.

“Looks like there won’t be an arrest,” Donovan muttered behind a swig from his canteen.

Another ranger called out a greeting from the brush, stepping into the clearing to join us. Grinning, he cradled a yawning lion cub in his arms.

“Well, look at that,” the hunter said.

Donovan walked up to the American. “So you killed two lions today,” he said. “Where’s the rest of your money?”

The hunter made no reply. The ranger set the lion cub down, and the senior officer announced in English that it was time for everyone to go. The cub sat shaking on the ground, crying out for its mother. The rangers began walking away through the bush, leading the hunter and his guide back to their kill. Donovan Price frowned at me.

“My country, not my blood,” I said.

He turned and followed the rangers, shaking his head.

I bent down and picked up the lion cub.

I named him Max, short for Maximus, after the fictional Roman gladiator from the Ridley Scott film. It could not have been a less appropriate name. My adopted lion, whose upbringing I had undertaken personally, was not a warrior, a fighter, or even a scrapper. He was a gangly, dim-witted kitten, and I had no doubt that he would grow up to be a big, dumb, tail-chasing lummox- the fool of the animal kingdom, rather than its king.

“What did you bring that home for?” George asked me when Donovan and I returned to the orphanage. “That is not a house kitty. Do you know what he will grow up to be?”

“When he comes of age, I’ll turn him loose,” I said, as George’s children crowded around to fondle a real, live lion cub.

“He’ll kill you first,” George said. “It is sad what happened to his mother, but you should have left him to die. You deprived another animal of a meal.”

“Just be glad your mother didn’t leave you in the bush, George,” I muttered.

George laughed at me. In fact, everyone laughed at me, in between warning me that my new best friend would one day grow up to kill me.

It did not take long before we all came to suspect that something was wrong with Max, besides his unprecedented affection for other creatures. When he initially arrived at the orphanage he was sluggish, listless, and his appetite waxed and waned. He would collapse at, or on, my feet, and lie there for several minutes, eyes pinched shut, mouth wafting open and closed. Donovan took Max to a veterinary clinic in Nairobi. When he returned he informed me that Max had cardiomyopathy, an enlarged heart.

“He won’t live, Jeff,” Donovan told me. “I’m sorry. We saved him from one death, but we cannot prevent the other.”

I took the news with the same feeling of rejection I always felt when one of my elephant babies passed away. Nature was either mercilessly fair, or pitilessly unfair, depending on how you looked at it. One thing we had all come to understand was that death would come when it wanted to. But as I took Max back to my room in the bunkhouse, and laid him down in the used dog bed I had stolen from George, I told myself that Max didn’t know he was sick. He would not understand that he was supposed to die, not like a person would when diagnosed with terminal heart disease, or cancer. He was an animal. He would grow up however I raised him. And so I decided to see him through to his natural end, however soon or distant that might be.

 Nobody at the orphanage wanted to adopt a lion.

“When he grows up, he’ll want to kill the elephants,” Alice Price told me as we discussed the cost and logistics of raising Max. “In the meantime, I’m worried he will stress them out, making their survival in the crucial early months that much more difficult.”

“If we socialize him, the elephants may accept him,” I theorized. “Like they do with rhinos, or George’s dogs.”

“A dog is a domesticated animal, Jeff. Elephants will know what Max is. Many of them have already seen lions in the wild. Some have had family members killed by lions.”

I was under no delusion that I could train Max to be a big, cuddly housecat. Playful though he was, in time he would grow dangerous. His instincts would kick in. He was a predator, not a pet.

“If he wasn’t sick, I might feel differently,” I told Alice. “I know our animals sometimes die. I accept that. But nature seems determined to kill Max. That’s why I want him to live.”

Many at the orphanage were determined to let nature kill Max, including Donovan Price, who was more pragmatic than the rest of us. But I could tell Alice agreed with me on some level, that none of our charges were inherently worth less than any others. None were to be outright abandoned. We had several discussions about Max before reaching an agreement. I agreed to help pay for Max’s housing, feeding, and medical costs out of my own salary. Alice agreed that we could keep Max for as long as he wasn’t a problem. And so, despite the majority view that I was an idiot and my pet should be euthanized, I began the long and tedious process of trying to civilize the young lion cub.

For the first few months of Max’s life I kept him with me at all times. He slept in the dog bed in my room in the bunkhouse. I bought a collar and a leash, and brought him with me wherever I went. I kept him well-fed. Because of his heart condition, he needed medications frequently, and it fell largely to me to provide him with them. In the evenings I talked to him and played with him, and tried to socialize him to the other staff members at the orphanage, most of whom, including George, looked at him like they wished they had a rifle.

My first concern with Max was the safety of the elephants. I was not sleeping with the new arrivals as much anymore, but I volunteered to resume this duty, reasoning that I could take care of two babies at once. Max could spend time with the elephants, and they with him, and hopefully they could grow accustomed to each other. The older orphans at the facility, as Alice had predicted, were wary of Max. Some were terrified of him. I tried to reason with them by showing them that Max could be pet and handled and fed, and that he wouldn’t kill me, but there was only so much I could do to convince an elephant to disregard millions of years of evolution.

For his part, Max seemed to like the elephants. He would rub up against them, and try to convince them to play. I kept him away from the larger animals that I thought might step on him out of fear or anger, but I found that he enjoyed being near the babies. He crawled into their pens and slept beside them, and they seemed grateful to have a warm companion to sleep with. He licked and cleaned their faces, and shared bottles of milk with them. His favorite trick was to lie on his back while a young elephant rubbed his belly with its trunk. The first time I saw him receiving this treatment, I immediately grabbed my camera so I could film it.

“You see?” I said, showing the video to George. “He’s just a big kitty.”

“He’s going to be much bigger soon,” George said.

Max grew up to be a slightly undersized adult lion. His heart condition made him smaller and weaker than he should have been. He often had trouble eating, and he developed asthma, which kept him laid up and sluggish for days, especially during the rainy season. When he reached the age when I became concerned that he would rip off some part of my body while trying to play with me, I took a chunk out of my meager savings and built Max a holding pen near the facility’s bunkhouse. We all decided he should not live near the elephants, as many of them were still (or more) afraid of him. Soon we had a regular schedule of feeding and cleaning him. Donovan took over the more complicated medical duties, giving Max injections of the medications we couldn’t mix into his food. The other staff members grew to not hate Max, and since I spent all of my free time hanging out with him so he would grow accustomed to humans, he even allowed a few of the other staff to pet him or feed him his meals.

But a remarkable bond formed between Max and several of the orphans he had cuddled with as babies. There were about a dozen elephants that grew up thinking Max was one of them. His best friend was a gregarious male named Burton. Sometimes in the afternoons, when I took this particular group for a walk in the park, I brought Max along with them (now walking him on a chain). I made sure he was well-fed and well-medicated. Max would walk alongside Burton with the gentle canter of an aging horse, the two of them nudging each other and stopping to inspect things like bugs and grass. Together we rambled through the park on our walks: a naïve American, a happily-stoned lion, and a cohort of half-tamed elephants, none of us ready for the wild in the strictest sense, but all of us following the path back to our origins.

*

In the summer of my eighth year in Kenya, changes began to take place at the orphanage. Donovan Price’s melanoma returned, and he went to England for several months of treatment and rest. Alice spent about half her time in England with him, and the other half trying to balance all the responsibilities of the orphanage. George took over some of her administrative duties, and I stepped up behind him to take over maintenance. With Alice gone much of the time, fundraising for the orphanage suffered. Max regularly needed costly trips to the veterinarian in Nairobi, and I worried that budget cuts at our facility would ultimately hurt him.

There was another complicating factor that nobody could control.

“Farmers are taking over the elephants’ natural habitat,” George told me, as we received more and more orphaned and refugee animals. “The government, of course, supports the farmers. Sympathy for the elephant is declining.”

Sympathy for the elephant had earned a victory in Kenya in 1989, when many African nations officially admonished the ivory trade. Kenyan President Daniel arap Moi publicly burned thirteen tons of confiscated ivory. Still, poachers continued to hunt and kill elephants, and this problem resurfaced as rapid population growth created more sympathy, as it were, for humans.

Reluctantly, Alice Price cut several staff members from the orphanage, even as we continued to take on more animals. She kept me on, telling me over the phone from England that I was an asset to the elephants, and that my status as a westerner could help with fundraising from the United States. She expanded the volunteer program, and opened the facility to tourists.

“So now we are also a zoo,” George told me.

The orphanage became a regular stop on the safari circuit, especially among wealthy families with children. Children could touch and play with real, live elephants. And for many of these new western visitors, I became the unofficial guide.

Several of our older orphans could be relied upon to play their part for the fundraising effort. Burton, perhaps the friendliest elephant I had yet encountered, even let kids ride him. Marina, a playful seven-year-old female, seemed to relish performing the mud bath routine for camera-happy onlookers. Other elephants earned brownie points simply for touching tourists with their trunks. The interspecies curiosity, it seemed, was mutual.

One old man who did not seem interested in the onrush of strangers was Kamari. He came around the orphanage less and less, usually only during droughts, often arriving at night. I would encounter him out by the fence on random evenings, his hulking warmth a welcome presence. I did not mind performing PR for the good of the company, if it helped raise donations for the cause, and helped keep my job secure. But I had not come to Africa to be surrounded by Americans, with their compulsive need for attention and receipts.

Kamari seemed to sympathize with my feelings. He met me at the fence and clamped his big trunk over my shoulder, releasing epic sighs of breath.

“The times they are a-changin’,” I told him, assuming he would appreciate the wisdom of Bob Dylan. “And we don’t need a weatherman, do we?”

The tourists were naturally drawn to the elephants, but they were also curious about our resident lion. Everyone wanted to see Max, especially children, even though many of them ran from his cage, screaming for their parents. I did not let anyone touch or pet him, for liability reasons. But when a crowd gathered, I would saunter into Max’s pen myself, roll the big doofus onto his back, and rub his belly, while he purred and flicked his tail.

“How do you keep him so docile?” a pretty Australian volunteer asked me, as I was talking her through Max’s feeding routine.

“Heroin,” I said. “Max is a serious junkie. Mostly he just sits around and watches TV.”

My joke got a laugh, and for a moment I remembered what it was like to flirt with someone, but the truth of my comment wasn’t far off. As Max’s heart trouble worsened, his circulation grew poor, and he often staggered around on aching joints. I would find him sitting down early in the morning, licking his elbows and feet. Donovan gave him morphine for the pain, and Max’s demeanor, if not his health, did seem to improve. He drooled a lot, but at least we could approach him.

At some point, amidst the onslaught of tourists, I became fixated on the idea that I could train Max to do tricks, make him perform a sort of circus act, and that this would help lubricate the wallets of park visitors and would-be donors.

“Bad news,” I told Max as I walked into his pen with a bag of his favorite jerky treats. “You have to earn your keep.”

I made sure he’d eaten his breakfast each day before beginning our training, hoping he wouldn’t mistake my hand for a snack. But even though I plugged him full of jerky, and took many time-outs to rub his belly, Max proved a mostly incompetent disciple. Unlike dogs, who responded to verbal cues, and had a natural inclination to please their masters, cats responded only to food, and didn’t have the slightest interest in pleasing anyone. I tried to get Max to do basic tricks, like turn a circle, stand on an elevated platform, and roar on command. But the only “trick” he truly excelled at was lying down so I could tickle his fur.

“He’s too old for tricks,” George told me, repeatedly. “And he’s a wild animal, as you keep forgetting.”

“But he listens to me,” I protested, even as Max lay sprawled in a shady corner of his pen, mouth open as he snapped at imaginary bugs.

“It is you who does not listen,” George said.

So what, I thought. The orphanage was full of doubters. Alice Price came around for my morning training sessions and stood silently outside Max’s pen, arms crossed. Donovan was only slightly more encouraging, admitting that I sure could make Max lie down. But everyone’s skepticism only made me more determined to tame the wild beast. I could not explain why it was so important for me to do this. I just had to make Max obey. Nobody I had ever known had tamed a lion. It was not something they taught you in college.

After months of training, I managed to teach him one new trick. He could sit down, most of the time, if I raised my arm and held a piece of bacon jerky. But once I had given him the jerky he would simply remain seated, sometimes licking his paws, usually just staring out toward the grassy hills of the park.

“Max, you have to do more than just sit there and look stupid,” I told him.

He yawned at me.

“I see you’re making progress,” George said, leaning against the wood frame of the pen.

At the edge of the facility I saw Kamari standing by the fence, flicking his tail and staring at me. George turned and waved at the elephant. Kamari released a deep sigh, and walked back into the park.

“Another critic,” I said.

The rainy season brought fewer tourists, which was all right with me. Tsavo was alive with the scents of healthy flora, and I spent long afternoons taking the orphans for walks in the park. The wild elephant families welcomed the newcomers into their groups. One by one we released our orphans back into the wild. They joined the herds, roaming across their territory, visiting us once in a while, if we were lucky. Occasionally we would get a particularly aggressive cow who would attempt to adopt an orphan as her own, although “kidnap” might be a better word than “adopt.” In these cases George and I would have to approach the group and separate the calf, which usually caused the adult cow much distress, and more than once I worried that I would be stepped on or trunk-swiped.

“You would fight too, if it was your child,” George said.

I nodded. “I’m sure I would.”

“Soon you will have to choose a mate, Jeffrey. Start making babies of your own.”

“Someday, George,” I said, playing out our old joke.

Sometimes I wondered what would happen if I returned to Boston, to the American dating scene, after spending nearly a decade interacting primarily with large, non-verbal mammals. I had not “dated” a woman since leaving the States, and in Tsavo there were very few women around. I had no interest in tourists, and I was often too busy to consider hooking up with a volunteer. I was long out of the game. American women would eat me alive.

But this was exactly the type of concern I had come to Africa to escape. News from back home featured an avalanche of weddings and birth announcements. My nominal salary at the orphanage prevented me from attending any weddings. Every Christmas when I went home it seemed there was a new baby to meet, all identically cute, each making me miss my elephants, while feeling relieved that I personally did not have to take care of any human babies.

Meanwhile babies continued to arrive at the orphanage as well. George and Sophie welcomed their seventh child, a daughter, and we had our own celebration, hosted by Alice and Donovan. George’s younger children rode elephants. His older children came home from school in Nairobi.

It was not uncommon for relatives in Kenya to come for long visits when a baby was born. Among the extended family came George’s youngest sister, Rashida Odhiambo. Rashida was two years older than me, had studied both in the United States and England, and was so beautiful she shocked my dormant longing for The Female back to life. George, once again a happy father, ensured me that Rashida was single, and would enjoy being entertained while she was in Tsavo.

Suddenly I was unable to concentrate. The presence of Rashida wafted around me like a lightning storm on the plains. Desperately I combed the dusty attic of my memory for any salvageable romantic souvenirs. In Tsavo it was not really possible to date in the American sense. There was a village near the orphanage, but dinner and a movie were out of the question. If I wanted to spend time with Rashida, there was really only thing I could do: invite her on my walks with the orphans, and converse with her in the park. So that’s what we did. Every day. Until finally I decided to impress her with Max.

“What’s the closest you have ever been to a lion?” I asked her about a week into her visit.

“I have seen them in the savannah,” she replied. “But not close enough to worry.”

“Well, I have a lion here that’s too dumb to be dangerous.”

She had seen Max a couple of times, of course. He was impossible to miss. But with all the baby celebrations and family time, she had not yet been properly introduced to my own adopted son.

I took her to Max’s pen for his evening feeding. She watched from outside the cage as I fed Max a heap of meat, mixing in his nightly pills. Meanwhile, I explained how we had found Max, and the efforts I had made, largely unsuccessful, to civilize him.

“Mostly he’s like the orphanage mascot,” I said.

“Except instead of waving a flag, he eats you.”

I fed Max another sizable helping of meat. When I was confident that he was adequately stuffed and medicated, I invited Rashida inside the pen.

“Oh, my goodness,” she whispered as she carefully stepped inside.

I closed the gate behind her. She smiled nervously, glancing between Max and me, and I wondered if this was actually a good idea. Normally the only people allowed near Max were staff at the orphanage familiar with his handling procedures. I took Rashida’s hand and led her over to where Max lay, flicking his tail beside his food dish. I pulled a handful of jerky from the bag of treats I always brought into his pen and set them down in front of him. He gobbled the jerky down in one soundless bite, then, as I crouched beside him, flipped over onto his back. I rubbed his sturdy chest. He opened his mouth and purred, a strange habit he had developed, which I thought meant that he was both happy and perhaps having difficulty breathing. Gently I guided Rashida’s hand to his belly.

“Oh, Jeffrey, he is so strong,” she whispered, her fingers dancing across his coat like a breeze tickling grass.

“He’s basically a big pussycat,” I said, as Max nuzzled my hand. “I don’t usually bring people in here. If he had not been raised in captivity, we couldn’t do this.”

That’s when I heard the hiss.

My hand froze, and Rashida froze, and Max’s whole body went stiff. He suddenly flipped over onto his paws. I stood up, stepping in front of Rashida.

“What is it?” she whispered.

I glanced around the pen. It was dusk, and blue pools of shadow covered the ground.

“Easy, Max,” I said.

The hiss came again. There was only one thing in the world that absolutely terrified me, and that was snakes. In all my years in Kenya I had miraculously avoided encountering a serpent, even while out in the bush, a winning streak I attributed to vigilant, maybe even paranoid, attention.

I followed Max’s gaze, and saw the snake coiling against the wall of the pen, not fifteen feet away. Max’s pen was not impenetrable. It was encircled by a three-foot concrete base, and encased in wood framing with steel wiring. He could not escape, but there were many ways for other creatures to sneak in.

“Oh my god,” Rashida said when she saw the snake. It was three or four feet long, and as it uncoiled and raised its head to challenge us, I saw the steely dark scales of the black mamba. Silently I cursed myself. There was no excuse for my stupidity. Now I was locked in a cage with an innocent woman, a poisonous snake, and a lion.

Max lowered into a crouch. All traces of food- or drug-lethargy vanished. His eyes became orbs of deadly truth. I had never seen Max in attack-mode before, had erroneously allowed myself to believe he did not have an attack-mode. Now the wild had taken hold of him.

I backed slowly away from the confrontation, steering Rashida toward the door of the pen. Feeling the latch with my fingers, I tried to open the gate without taking my eyes off Max.

The snake opened its mouth and hissed, then lunged forward. Max pounced, swiping with his paw. The blow sent the snake flying through the air. It clattered on the ground, and Max pounced again, his jaws snapping at the snake’s head.

Rashida buried her face in my shoulder. I turned and threw open the lock on the gate. We both jumped out of the pen. I slammed the door shut behind me, locking it.

“Will the snake’s venom kill him?” Rashida asked. We watched as Max slapped at the snake with his paw.

“Shit, I don’t know,” I said. Another wave of panic swept over me. “Are you all right?”

“Yes,” she said, wiping her brow.

“I’m going to get Donovan,” I said.

Heart pounding, armpits pouring cold sweat, I ran across the facility to Alice and Donovan’s house.

When we returned to the pen, not even two minutes later, Rashida was standing beside the gate, smoking a cigarette, and Max lay calmly by his food dish, flicking his tail.

“Where is it?” Donovan asked, clutching a long pole and a net.

“It was in there,” I said. I looked at Rashida.

“He ate it,” she said.

Around the same time I developed a crush on Rashida, Kamari developed his own crush on a young former-orphan named Nara. When nature informs a bull elephant it is time to mate, he enters a state of testosteronic frenzy called musth. Estrus, the cow’s period of fertility, sometimes only lasts a few days a year, and this tight window of opportunity can turn an otherwise reasonable male into a menace. Bulls will engage each other in vicious, tusk-thrashing combat for the right to chase down a cow, mount her, and deposit his seed, with all the speed and romance of a college freshman. The cow then rejoins her family group, whereupon the matriarch encourages the proud bull, in no uncertain terms, to fuck off, while the females celebrate the hopeful pregnancy with trumpeting and the flapping of ears. Over the years I witnessed the elephant mating ritual many times, and it always made me wonder what would happen if the same dynamic was adopted by humans. Every month when the moon was right all the men in a given area would gather in a pit, or an arena of some kind, and fist-fight each other until one lone bloody survivor was left standing. This champion would then run after the ovulating woman, corner her somewhere, and subject her to a hurried bout of consensual (or non-consensual) sex. Forgoing all the sticky social components of the long human mating process, the happy couple would return to the woman’s family, whereupon her mother would kick the strutting suitor out of the house, then shower her hopefully-pregnant daughter with kisses, cake and mimosas.

Neither the traditional, prolonged human method, nor the blunt, expedient elephant method of courtship and reproduction seemed quite right to me. I could not imagine fighting another man for the right to essentially rape a woman I liked. But the minefield of human social relationships seemed equally daunting. The lonely hours surfing dating websites, the asinine conversations over sushi and wine, the silent inadequacy of knowing you didn’t make enough money- all seemed like proof of a rigged game. I thought of Rashida, a beautiful, intelligent, dynamic woman, and I could easily see myself falling in love with her. But just as easily I saw her feeling unsatisfied by me: an asocial wanderer with no money who felt more comfortable around elephants than people. I almost wanted the simplicity of the elephant mating ritual. I could have sex with a beautiful woman, then her family could tell me to get lost. With no other choice, I could return to the jungle and continue to live quietly among the animals.

            Nara, the object of Kamari’s affection, was a gregarious female who frequently acted as a liaison between younger orphans and the elephant groups in the wild. We first noticed that Kamari was interested in her when her family group approached a popular watering hole, and was soon accosted by a bull in musth. Kamari appeared and stood guard over the watering hole, and the other male eventually backed off, deferring to Kamari’s hulking size. Kamari then assigned himself to bodyguard duty, and continued to watch over Nara whenever she and her family were drinking and bathing.

            “I have never seen him pick a girl before,” George said, as he and I and Rashida watched Kamari lingering off to the side of the watering hole, like a shy boy at a middle school dance.

            “Do you think the old man has a chance?” I asked.

            “I don’t know. He may have to fight for it.”

            “All men are the same,” Rashida scoffed.

            Kamari’s crush came to a head a couple of days later. Another male, younger than him, but armed with a full set of tusks, challenged Kamari near the watering hole. I had seen bulls fighting and play-fighting before, but this was the first time I felt scared by a fight. Kamari’s mangled tusks were only stubs, and though he was bigger than his opponent, he could easily be impaled in combat.

            Nara’s family group watched with what was either mild concern or solemn disinterest as Kamari and the other bull tore up dust. Kamari was indeed a fearsome warrior, his mighty feet shaking the ground when he stomped. But the other bull deflected his lunges, shoving Kamari away, prodding him with his tusks. For a moment I thought I was going to watch one of my best friends in Tsavo die a brutal death. There was nothing I could do to stop the fight. George and I were working hard to corral the frightened orphans, and in any case there was no way a person could break up a grudge match between two bull elephants.

            The fight ended with the other male pinning Kamari’s head and trunk to the ground. Shaking and flailing, Kamari failed to throw his opponent off, and eventually he bowed in submission. From a distance I could see that his body was bleeding from several puncture wounds, but none of the gashes seemed to be pouring blood. The other male stepped back and Kamari stood up and moved off. He lumbered away into the bush without even a backward glance, and this effectively ended his would-be courtship of Nara. The victorious bull approached the awaiting female group and mounted the young cow.

            “It’s not his fault he cannot fight,” George said when we were back at the orphanage. “If he had his tusks he would be like Alexander the Great.”

            “Instead some Chinese trinket shop is selling his ivory,” I said.

            Rashida was more circumspect. “Maybe he can find another girlfriend,” she said. “One who likes a gentle man.”

            “That’s not how it goes in the wild,” I said. “The females always end up mating with the biggest assholes. Boston is the same way.”

            “Nature favors the takers, Jeffrey,” George said. “You see what you want, you take it.”

            “That’s what a bully does.”

            “Shut up, George,” Rashida said. “You asked Sophie to marry you four times before she finally said yes.”

            “But I did not give up,” he said. He gave me a nudge. “It is a good thing a poacher did not take my tusks.”

            Kamari did not return to the orphanage after his defeat by the watering hole. He went off to wherever it was he always went. I often pictured him in some distant corner of the park, living among other elephants, venerated for his age and wisdom. Or perhaps he spent his nights ravaging the crops of local farmers, waging war against humans as vengeance for taking his tusks. Wherever he went, I knew I would never see it. I respected Kamari’s privacy. We should all be allowed a corner of the world where we could disappear.

            Two weeks after the birth of George and Sophie’s baby, the happy couple finally ran out of food to feed their visiting relatives, and most of the relatives left, taking with them the air of celebration. I returned to nursing baby elephants, to shoveling shit, to quietly begging American tourists and visitors for donations to support the orphanage. The usual functions of the job now seemed less important to me, like the air of purpose had been let out of the balloon. I realized that it was not going to be easy for me to go through the routine of my day, thinking about Rashida, but not seeing her. Once my eyes had been opened it was impossible to pinch them shut.

            Rashida remained at the orphanage longer than her relatives. I saw her speaking with Alice Price a few times, and I started to hope that she might join us permanently. She continued to observe me feeding and caring for the young orphans, and watched me interacting with Max.

            “Do you like it here?” I asked her one afternoon as we took the orphans into the park.

            “I do,” she said. “I have been visiting many of the national parks, seeing many animal rescues. I am preparing for my new job.”

            “What’s your new job?”

            “I am going to help run a rescue,” she said. “Not just elephants. All kinds of animals.”

            “At one of the parks in Kenya?”

            “No,” she said, smiling. “South Africa. I leave in a month.”

            I felt the rest of the air squeeze out of the balloon, the familiar combination of rejection and fate, like when one of the elephants died, only deeper- the certainty that the course of nature did not steer itself through me.

            “That is why I came to visit George and his babies,” she said. “I will not see them for a long time. I will miss my family.”

            “I’m sure they’ll miss you,” I said. “It’s been fun having you here. I know I-”

            I stopped, caught myself, thought of how ridiculous I sounded. Then decided to tell her anyway.

            “I don’t meet many women here,” I said. “Mostly elephants. They’re friendly, but it’s not the same.”

            Rashida laughed, touching my arm. “Jeffrey, you can come visit me in South Africa. You know how to save elephants. We would welcome you.”

            I nodded. It was a familiar promise I had heard many times in Boston. Let’s meet up for drinks. Translation: we will not see each other again.

            We walked on under the afternoon sun. Rashida would leave Tsavo, and my life would go on as it had been before she came. Maybe George was right, that life favors those who take what they want, not those who wait around for the rain.

The SUV arrived at the orphanage in the height of the dry season. A black Mercedes, only the tires smeared with orange dirt. Government.

            Alice and Donovan had worked a long time to ingratiate themselves with the government of Kenya. The Tsavo Elephant Orphanage, from a PR standpoint, was good for the powers that be. Wealthy foreigners worked together with native Kenyans to preserve nature’s bounty. Even more convenient, the orphanage largely footed the bill. We received minor subsidies from the government, but the real privilege they granted us was the opportunity to locate our facility in the national park. It was not often that they came around to remind us that we were ultimately their guests.

            George summoned me to Alice’s office after the official had already been in there for about half an hour. Normally I was not privy to the Prices’ interactions with the government. I quickly ran to the bunkhouse and changed into a fresh shirt, washed my face and hands, then joined George in the office. Alice was seated behind her desk, her face a mask of dissatisfaction. Donovan leaned against the wall behind her, staring at the floor.

            The official did not rise from his chair in front of Alice’s desk, but instead flashed me a curt grin. Sweat beaded his forehead. He did not introduce himself by name.

            “Jeff is Max’s primary handler,” Alice told the official. “He oversees feeding, administers medications, and serves as host to tourists who wish to see Max. In this capacity, Jeff has fostered a great deal of good will, both for the orphanage, and for Kenya.”

            “Tourism is important,” the official said. “But you have always been clear about your purpose here, Mrs. Price. You are running a rescue operation. Not a zoo. A zoo is different.”

            Alice sighed minutely. “You are correct, sir. This is not a zoo. Max is merely a guest. An exception, not the rule.”

            “An exception. The lion is a dangerous exception, yes? A lion can kill a man.”

            “An elephant can kill a man,” George said quietly. Alice glanced at him, and he said nothing further.

            “This is a special case,” the official said, smiling at Alice. “You do good work here, Mr. and Mrs. Price, and we would like you to continue to do good work. But for a special animal, there will be a special fee.”

            “What special fee?” I asked.

            The man smiled at me, but did not answer.

            “We run on a shoestring budget, sir,” Alice said. “Perhaps you mistake us for wealthy, but most of our funding comes from fundraising.”

            “We also provide veterinary expertise to many other organizations,” Donovan added. “For which we are not compensated.”

            The official stood and adjusted his suit. “I will return next week to conclude our discussion,” he said.

            He did not shake any hands on his way out the door. Alice, Donovan, George and I stood silently in the office, listening to the SUV rumble away.

            “Another smiling thief,” said George. “My country is full of smiling thieves.”

            “What did he want?” I asked.

            “Thirty thousand,” Alice said.

            “What? Is he out of his mind? That’s two salaries.”

            “It’s more than that, Jeff. It’s many elephants.”

            She looked at me, and I could see that she was not pleased by the situation. I had never considered that any government official would have a problem with Max. He cost a lot of money, yes, but he also raised money, and the good will he extended as an ambassador to Tsavo was immeasurable.

            “What are we going to do?” I asked.

            “Unfortunately we need the government to be friendly,” Alice said. “Without their permission, we do not run an orphanage at all.”

            She leaned back in her chair, but did not look away from me. I saw that this was not a negotiation.

            “You’ve given him a good life, Jeff,” said Donovan Price. “We all have. I never thought he would live this long. You have both impressed me.”

            I looked at George, who was shaking his head. I had begun to sweat again. I wished I had not changed my shirt for that smirking bureaucrat.

            “One thing that is better about the United States,” I said. “There you can choose to bribe someone.”

It was a long, silent drive to Nairobi. I doped up Max more than usual with painkillers for his aching joints, and he snored peacefully in the trailer behind Donovan’s truck.

            When we arrived at the hospital Max was pacing anxiously. He knew about the vet. He’d had many visits over the years, had received many shots. The standard procedure was for a veterinarian to come out to the trailer and give Max a sedative. Only when he was unconscious would they bring him inside the facility for care.

            The doctor shook hands with Donovan, and nodded at me. I kept my arms crossed over my chest. Both Max and I saw that the doctor had a lengthy syringe in his hand. Two medical assistants wheeled a gurney outside, and parked it beside our truck.

            “Is that it?” Donovan asked the doctor, indicating the syringe.

            “This is it,” the doctor said.

            “You’re just going to do it in the parking lot?” I asked. “Like shooting a damn horse behind the barn?”

            The doctor looked at me, but did not say anything.

            “Perhaps we could give a Jeff a minute,” Donovan said. “Max is a special friend to him.”

            “I can bring him inside and sit with him,” I said. “He won’t hurt anyone.”

            The doctor, his assistants, and Donovan spent several minutes in conversation, before reluctantly agreeing to accommodate my request. One of the assistants went inside the hospital, and came out a moment later holding a shotgun. I shook my head, and fed Max several handfuls of his favorite jerky. Then I attached a chain to his collar.

            “Come on, bud,” I said. “Let’s walk.”

            Max stretched his long, slender bulk, and the medical assistants took a precautionary step backwards. I felt strangely validated by their caution, proud that they respected Max’s power. It was safer and more practical to euthanize a lion in his cage, where the situation could be controlled, but it was also cowardly, I thought. You didn’t shoot a king through a set of bars. You granted him his dignity, let him walk to the gallows.

            I led Max through the hospital parking lot. Drivers stopped their cars to stare. Inside, activity came to a standstill. Doctors, technicians, and surprised visitors watched as the lion strode coolly through the corridors. Max glanced around like a kid being brought to a new school. In all his life he never seemed to fully understand his own power, that he could command any creature on earth with a simple stare. Instead he only seemed to want to not disturb anyone.

            We took him into an examination room, and attached his chain to two steel locks on the floor. Max made a cursory sniff of his surroundings, then lay down, looking to me for guidance. I gave him another handful of jerky.

            “That’s it, bud,” I said. “Look at me.”

            I continued to feed him while the veterinarian gave him the shot. Donovan leaned against the wall, shaking his head. “Safe trip, old boy,” he murmured. Max glanced briefly at the prick of the syringe, but turned back to my hand and the jerky.

            “We should leave him now,” the doctor said. “It is safer.”

            “I can stay,” I said.

            No one argued with me. They left me sitting on the cool linoleum floor. I fed Max the rest of the bag of jerky, and he nuzzled my hand with his nose. He tried to flip onto his back, but the chain kept him fixed on his stomach. He rested his head next to my leg.

I thought about the empty pen back at the orphanage, now a useless structure. Five useless years spent trying to save a sick animal, only to have a government conman drive up one day in a fancy car and tell us it was all for nothing.

Max was going to die anyway. I had always known this. I thought about his enlarged heart every time I looked at him. But we were all going to die one day. Given the certainty of death, why not live?

It was October when I returned to Boston. October was my favorite month. Sunny days and cool nights. I went for long walks at night. Glanced into bars, but didn’t enter them. Passed street vendors, and drug dealers, and panhandlers, and crowds of yuppies staring at their phones. All the predators of the urban jungle. I tried to walk off the shame I felt for betraying Max. At the same time I wished I had my lion to walk the streets with me. Boston, a city that parted for no one, would have kept a respectful distance from the king.

Alice and Donovan told me when I left Tsavo that I could return at any time, and my job at the orphanage would be waiting for me. I told them I was going to Boston for at least a month, but the truth was I didn’t know how long I would stay, or what I would do.

My father wasted no time making me an appointment with a job consultant. I visited my brother in his South End apartment, and my sister in her Newton home, and did my best to play uncle to my nieces and nephews. Children were certainly louder than elephants, and I preferred quiet.

The Thursday Club had long since disbanded. I made some effort to track down my old friends. The ones I found were invariably busy. They invited me to meet for drinks at 9:15 on a Wednesday night, but told me they had to leave by 10. Between their jobs and their kids they just didn’t have any time, they all said. It was my obligation to understand this.

I met Julie for lunch at a coffee shop near her office. In the span of ten minutes she threw more words at me than I had heard in any given Tsavo week, pouring forth about her current job, her former job, her marriage, her divorce, her lack of children.

“So you’re back,” she said, taking a deep breath. “I can’t believe you were gone ten years, Jeff. Didn’t it just fly by?”

I told her I didn’t think so actually.

“It’s the next ten I’m worried about,” she said. “My twenties? Fine, I admit it, I did not strategize. I picked the wrong guy, the wrong job. I was young. But now I know what I want. It’s time to get it. You wouldn’t believe the dating scene, Jeff. It’s horrendous. It’s a full-time job.”

“Sounds like no fun,” I said.

“What are you going to do now that you’re back?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know that I am back.”

“You can probably spin the Africa stuff to your advantage. Some employers love that shit. Everybody has the same resume anyway- college, Master’s, internships- it’s like, how do you distinguish yourself?”

“Do you like your job?” I asked. I was having trouble concentrating. A flood of people washed in and out of the café.

“It’s good,” she said. “They give twelve weeks maternity leave. That’s what I’m focusing on now. I’ll be thirty-five in December. I need to be married in a year, first kid nine months after that, second kid within fifteen months after that. Still up in the air about the third kid.”

I noticed her coffee mug was already empty. I was just starting to sip mine.

“It’s time that’s the problem,” she said. “You go to work every day, and then you wake up, and bam: you’re forty. I wasted five years with Scott. Now I know better. I just wish I hadn’t spent so much time learning my lesson, you know?”

I didn’t think she would understand that in Kenya time was more of a theory than a fact, so I didn’t bother saying so. She glanced at her phone, typed a hurried text message.

“My break is almost up,” she said. “I have to go to Neiman Marcus to return a sweater. We should meet again, Jeff. I can do lunch on Thursday. Or dinner next week? Can I let you know?”

“Sure,” I said.

“I can’t believe you don’t have a phone. That’s crazy. I’ll get you one next time I see you. You’ll be back to normal in no time.”

She laughed, and about fifteen seconds later she was gone. I stared down at my coffee. The cup was still half-full, so I decided to stay and finish it. A young couple stared at me the way a lion would stare at a snake. After a moment I realized they wanted my table.

That night at home my mother gave me a lecture on time that was virtually identical to the one Julie had given. There seemed to be this wall that one hit at some point in adulthood, and I was approaching it. Once you hit the wall, everything was too late. The good job, the wife and kids, the IRA- too late.

“You should ask Sharon about online dating,” my mother said, meaning my sister. “That’s how she met Jim, and it’s worked out very well.”

“You really don’t own a single suit, Jeff?” my father asked me, glancing up from his MSNBC.

“Oops,” I said.

“Well, we’re glad you’re home, Jeffrey,” my mother said. “I’m sure you’ll always remember your African adventure.”

*

I flew back to Kenya in November. It was the rainy season, the quiet time, when the land focused on nourishment and life. Alice gave me back my little room in the bunkhouse, and George greeted me with the news that Sophie was pregnant with their eighth child.

Soon I was once again sleeping with the elephants, shoveling out their shit, taking them for long, leisurely walks in the park. Keeping an eye out for snakes. After a month or two, I finally addressed Max’s empty pen. George helped me dismantle it. We sold the materials for scrap.

Time stood still in Kenya. Boston time obviously was a straight line, an express train, and you had to try to leap on to get to where you were going. As I stared at the distant mountains, I felt that my life had become a circle, a floating mass without direction, and while this theory promised a certain sense of freedom, it also lacked purpose. I felt like I had done this all before, and that when I did leave, ultimately, it would be like the passing of another elephant. I was here for a while, and then I would be gone.

In the evenings I walked the perimeter fence with George. We passed a joint back and forth, and I congratulated him on the coming of another child.

“Now we have to focus on you, Jeffrey,” George said. “Soon I will have eight children, and you will have zero.”

“You should just give me one of yours,” I said. “Not this one, obviously, but maybe the ninth or the tenth.”

George laughed. “By the time I have my tenth, it will be twenty years since the first one. That is a lot of life to give to the world.”

“Maybe you should give the next twenty years to your wife. What about her life?”

The stars began to dance on the horizon. A breeze picked up off the grassland.

“Wait a minute,” I said. “I know that smell.”

“Oh my goodness,” George said. He extinguished the joint, peering out into the darkness. “Is it our old friend?”

A hulking black mass shifted among the shadows.

“Kamari,” we both said at once.

I felt the tremors in the soil beneath my feet, and a moment later the giant bull was standing in front of us. He blew us a deep gust of breath.

“I have not seen the old man in months,” George said.

Kamari draped his trunk over my shoulder. I laughed, and Kamari sounded his deep trombone. I patted the thick coil of his trunk. “It’s just us now, old friend,” I told him. “Max is gone.”

He sighed again, and stood with us for a while beside the fence.

“Usually he does not come in the rainy season,” George said, rubbing behind the elephant’s ear. “Maybe he missed you, Jeffrey.”

The breeze picked up, and in the distance we heard the trumpet of an elephant. Kamari cast his all-knowing gaze on the bush. Seeing him again now, meeting an old friend in the loneliest hour of the night, I felt my old sense of purpose start to stir. I decided then that I would take a little more time to think about where I wanted to be. The orphanage in Tsavo was only one place, and there were many places in the world I had not seen. There were elephants in Thailand as well. Or I could visit Rashida in South Africa.

Kamari gave me a final poke with his trunk. Then he turned and lumbered back into the darkness, his husky silhouette shrinking before the stars. He would return eventually, when the voice he followed reminded him of old friends. In the meantime he would roam the savannah, in search of fresh grass or a cool watering hole, not beholden to any clock but his own. Kamari would always be a wanderer, sometimes happy, mostly alone, and I knew that in my own way, so would I.



BIO

Adam Matson’s fiction has appeared internationally in over twenty magazines including The Berkeley Fiction ReviewThe Poydras Review, Crack the Spine, and Terror House Magazine.





THE COLLIER KIDS

by Tetman Callis



            The Steins had a daughter who was friends with the Collier Kids and a son who was older and listened to rock-and-roll on the radio. Jeff Chorus was on his hands and knees in his front yard pulling weeds and heard Back in the U.S.S.R. coming from the Steins’ house next door. He whispered to the weeds, They’re Commies. A few weeks later he began listening to rock-and-roll on the radio and he became a Commie, too. But he was not a Collier Kid. (What is a Collier Kid? Jeff’s mom would say it is a child of between five and fifteen years of age and it lives on the block and its last name is Collier, Beausoleil, Wheeler, or Stein, and it is up to no good.)

                                                                             •

            The Girl in the Green Dress lived in a family that wasn’t on the block for long. If she had another dress no one ever saw it. When it hung out to dry on the clothesline in her back yard in the morning, no one saw her.

            Her mother got drunk one summer evening around sundown and got in a screaming match with the Beausoleils. Jeff’s mom came and got him and his brother John, who was a year older than Jeff.

            Come help me close the windows. Don’t dawdle. Do it right. Now, the two of you wait in John’s room until I tell you to come out.

            Later, the Collier Kids told Jeff what had happened.

            That lady? She was standing there on the curb.

            She had a bottle of booze in her hand.

            She went down in front of the Steins’ house and was standing there screaming across the street at us.

            We don’t know what it was. She wasn’t making any sense.

            We started screaming back.

            Yeah, you don’t scream at us and think you can get away with it.

                                                                             •

            The Stuarts’ father was Major Stuart, United States Army. He went to Vietnam. The mother was Bunny. The Major came back and he and Bunny sat on folding chairs in their carport and burned letters in a coffee can. She was young and he was young, too. They called each other Mom and Dad. She had black hair and white skin and was nervous. He never smiled and rarely spoke and was always somewhere else. He didn’t like kids, not even his own. They were Abel and Baker and were younger than Jeff. They played soldier and scientist and astronaut together.

            The Collier Kids came over.

            Abel and Baker, what stupid names.

            Your mom has a stupid name, too.

            Yeah, and your dad doesn’t even like you. I heard him say so.

            Bunny came out of the house.

            You trash get out of my yard!

            A ragged and dirty pair of panties was in the dirt in the yard. Where was it from? Grant Collier carried a long thin stick. He picked up the panties with it. He held them up, dangling from the end of the stick.

            You call us trash? We don’t leave our dirty underwear out in our front yards. Ooo, they smell bad, too.

            He flipped them at her. They landed on the porch at her feet. She started crying and went back inside.

                                                                             •

            The daughter of the Bridges was Viola and she wasn’t friends with anyone on the block. She went steady with Reggie Cotton when she was in sixth grade and he was in second.

             Someone set fire to the Bridges’ yard and burned one of their bushes. No one knew who did it and everyone knew it was the Collier Kids.

                                                                             •

            The Farmers moved out and moved back in three years later. The Farmer boys were friendly before they moved away. They came back and they were snotty and wouldn’t be friends with anyone.

            The Collier Kids passed by on the sidewalk and Mr. Farmer saw them. He stood behind the screen door.

            If you kids set one foot in my yard, I’ll call the police!

            The Collier Kids stopped. Grant Collier lifted up one of his feet from off the sidewalk and he put it down with the toe touching the Farmers’ yard.

            You mean like this?

            An hour later a police cruiser pulled up in front of the Farmers’ house. Two officers talked with Mr. Farmer.

            There’s not much we can do. Maybe you could put up a fence. Have you tried talking to their parents?

                                                                             •

            The Collier Kids knew what everybody did on the block. Sometimes they snuck into people’s yards at night and spied.

            Mister York drinks.

            So? Everybody drinks.

            No, he drinks booze, stupid.

            Lots of it, too.

            We seen him.

            Have you seen his wife?

            She’s huge!

            She hardly ever comes out.

            She probably can’t get out the door.

            Nunh-uh. I seen her come out. She came out through the door.

            Mrs. York slowly waddled to the car. Mr. York opened the door for her. The Collier Kids said Mr. York was taking her to the hospital.

            What other place could she go?

            The Collier Kids tittered and whispered and watched. Jeff watched and was quiet.

                                                                             •

            Mr. Collier was Sgt. Collier, United States Air Force, and he went to Vietnam. He was in the air force since World War Two. After he came back from Vietnam he retired and drove a long-haul truck. He had a plastic dildo and Penthouse magazines in the cab and sometimes he was gone for weeks. He and his wife had four kids. They all had blue eyes and blonde hair.

            The oldest was Rose. She never lived on the block. She was away at college when the Colliers moved in, then pregnant and married to the most acceptable likely suspect. They stayed married until the accidental baby graduated high school, then it was Splitsville for Rose and she left the country. Her bridal shower was at Jeff’s house. His mom sent him and John out to the front porch to play or read or whatever they wanted to do, just stay out of the way and don’t get in trouble. Rose was the most beautiful girl who had ever set foot on the block. Her beauty and her smile and her confidence stunned Jeff. She smoked long cigarettes and he almost couldn’t look at her.

            Ronny Collier smoked pot and played the drums in a rock band and football on the high school varsity team. He rode a motorcycle and hung out with hippies in the park. He sat on his motorcycle outside his house and talked to Denise Wheeler and Traci Stein and there was Jeff.

            Hey, Jeff, are you a pansy?

            Jeff had heard of reverse psychology and the soft answer that turneth away wrath.

            Yes.

            Ronny and the girls laughed.

            Grant Collier was a year older than Jeff and was the leader of the Collier Kids. He had the same innate confidence his siblings had. Several of the girls were in love with him.

            Simon was the youngest and was a year younger than Jeff. He stood in a little red wagon and wore one of the Wheeler girls’ bikinis. From a string around his neck hung a homemade sign that read Come See Twiggy. Grant Collier and Mary Wheeler pulled the wagon down the sidewalk.

            Yes, ladies and gentlemen, it’s the world-famous model Twiggy! Come see her, only a nickel!

            A transistor radio played and Simon danced.

                                                                             •

            Jeff mowed and edged the lawn and swept the grass and dirt on the driveway into a pile. Bobby Stein and Charles Beausoleil ran through the pile and kicked it around. Jeff yelled at them and swept it up. The boys ran through it and scattered it again. Jeff grabbed them and pushed them. They fell down in the grass.

            He pushed us!

            Ow! That hurt! Mommy!

            The Collier Kids crossed the street from the Beausoleils’ front porch and surrounded Jeff.

            What did you do?

            Those little boys! You just pushed them down!

            You bully! Pick on someone your own size!

            Yeah! How would you like it if someone grabbed you and threw you down?

            Somebody should do that!

            We should teach him a lesson!

            Grant thrashed Jeff and held him down and punched him in the forehead and raised a welt. Jeff lay on the sidewalk and cried after Grant was done. The Collier Kids went back across the street. Jeff got up and went home. Later the doorbell rang. It was Mary Wheeler and Francine Beausoleil. Mary had been his girlfriend the year before, for a few weeks.

            We’re sorry, Jeff.

            Yeah, Grant said he didn’t really mean to hurt you.

            Jeff said, Get the hell out of here! which is what he had heard his mom say to them just the week before when they were playing on the Choruses’ front porch and raising a racket. He closed the door.

            He was eating his lunch and the doorbell rang again. His mom answered. Francine and Grant told Jeff’s mom what he had said. She thanked them and closed the door and beat Jeff. She sprained her wrist. That evening at Kingdom Hall she wore an Ace bandage.

            Oh, I did this spanking Jeff.

            She smiled the way people sometimes do.

                                                                             •

            The Beausoleils had six girls and a boy. The oldest was already married and gone. She had two miscarriages and kept photographs of them on a small altar in her living room. There were also candles and a photograph of Jesus Christ.

            The other five girls and their mother were loud and even when they talked they screamed. The boy was the youngest and stuttered. The father was sick and no one ever saw him. The Collier Kids said he had emphysema and was holed up in the back bedroom, hooked up to an oxygen tank.

            The Beausoleils had two Dobermans and a something else. John Chorus practiced for the cross-country track team. He ran down the sidewalk and the dogs burst out of the Beausoleils’ front door and went for him. He jumped and spun around whooping and sprinted for home. He vaulted over the chainlink fence around his front yard and collapsed on the lawn. The Beausoleils shouted and screamed at the dogs until they came home.

            Before the Beausoleils had three dogs, they had eight. Someone called the police who came and made them give four away. Before this they kept a horse in their back yard. The police came that time too and the Beausoleils got a ticket and had to stable the horse on the edge of town.

                                                                             •

            Jeff’s dog was Dog. Dog’s half sister one litter back was a dog with a real name and that was Calamity. She peed every time she got excited and she got excited a lot. She peed on Jeff when he was holding her on the patio.

            Ooo! Stupid dog!

            He threw her into the back yard. She landed and screamed. Jeff’s mom came out and the neighbor behind them came over.

            Jeff, what happened?

            I don’t know, she was just out in the yard and started yelping.

            Jeff’s mom and the neighbor picked up Calamity and looked her over.

            She must have stepped on a bee.

            Yes, that must be it.

            The neighbor looked at Jeff. Jeff knew he knew.

            Jeff’s mom gave Calamity to the Humane Society a few months later.

            She just wouldn’t stop peeing.

                                                                             •

            Topeka Sally’s family kept the dog that birthed Calamity and Dog.

            Mom, Topeka Sally says they’ve got a fertile bitch.

            Jeffrey, don’t you ever say that word!

            Jeff didn’t know which word and was afraid to ask.

            Topeka Sally had a brother whose name has been forgotten. He and she looked almost exactly alike although they weren’t twins. She was in Jeff’s second grade class and was his first girlfriend on the block. She and her brother and Jeff played Knights of the Round Table and used sticks for swords and round metal trash can lids for shields. Topeka Sally was the fair princess who had to be rescued. They made a hell of a racket with those trash can lids.

            You kids cut that out!

                                                                             •

            Topeka Sally’s family moved out and the Wheelers moved in. Dan Wheeler raced go-carts at the go-cart track and fired rifles at the rifle range and gigged crawdads and frogs at the reservoir. He gigged a racoon and skinned it and tanned its hide and hung the hide on his bedroom wall.

            If Jeff could choose his own big brother, it would be Dan.

            Dan’s sisters were Denise and Janet and Mary, in that order. Denise was the first leader of the kids on the block. She outgrew that and grew into boys and clothes and music, and Grant Collier took over.

            Janet Wheeler was not fat and she was not ugly. She was merely the plainest. Also, she didn’t have a belly button. When she had appendicitis and almost died, she was rushed to the hospital and cut open. When the doctors sewed her back together, her belly button was gone. She showed the other kids.

            See? I’m not really human. I’m an alien from outer space.

            Mary was the prettiest. She and Simon Collier started going steady when they were ten. All the kids knew they would get married when they grew up. None of them knew they would break up as soon as they got to high school, and that Simon would grow up to be more beautiful than any of the Wheeler or Beausoleil girls, a stunner in spiked heels.

                                                                             •

            Jeff’s mom put up a metal garden shed. She made it from a kit to replace one blown away in a dust storm. It was new and empty. Jeff was with the Wheeler girls.

            Jeff, let’s go sit in your shed.

            We can play spin the bottle.

            You’ll win every time.

            Jeff and the Wheeler girls closed the sliding door of the shed. It screeched. Light leaked in. They sat on the cinderblock floor and spun an empty Coke bottle, the glass kind with the shapely waist. The bottle rattled on the floor. Jeff won every time.

            The door screeched open and the light flooded in and there was Jeff’s mom. She was tall.

            You girls need to go home now.

            The girls left. Jeff’s mom took him into the kitchen and held him firmly by his shoulders.

            Look at me. Look at me! You must never, ever, be alone with girls again. Do you understand me?

            Yes, ma’am.

            Jeff was lying. He did not understand her. He never understood her.

                                                                             •

            Dan Wheeler told stories.

            We came from Arkansas. We called it Our Kansas.

            Our grandma used to sit on the front porch with a four-ten twenty-two over-and-under in her lap. There were gopher holes in the front yard and whenever a gopher would pop his head up, she’d blast him.

            One summer all the kids in our neighborhood had a war. We had firecrackers and sticker bombs and we built forts and dug trenches. We even dug tunnels that went up to the enemy lines. Then we put a whole bunch of firecrackers at the end of the tunnel and blew up the enemy trench. And we had a sticker torture chamber as big across as your back yard, Jeff. If you were captured, they made you run back and forth across it until you talked. If you still didn’t talk, then they rolled you around in it.

                                                                             •

            The Angelos were an older couple. They painted their lawn green in the winter. Nobody knew if they had any children. Nobody ever saw anybody visit.

            They had a low rock wall around their front yard and it was topped with a high wrought-iron fence painted white. Sometimes you could see Mrs. Angelo in a big floppy orange straw hat working in her flower beds up by the house. You could call out a hi to her and she would usually hear you and look up for a moment and wave. She wouldn’t come down to the fence to talk. The Collier Kids said Mr. Angelo painted her in the nude.

            You’re kidding!

            Does he really?

            He does not. How do you know that? I’ve never seen him painting anything.

            Me neither.

            We snuck in their back yard and we saw it.

            You did not. How did you get in their back yard?

            Yeah. Their back wall is like twenty feet high.

            No. It’s only twelve.

            It is not. How do you know that?

            Well, it’s not twenty.

            We measured it.

            You did not.

            Yes we did. You weren’t there. You don’t know.

            You saw him painting her and she was naked?

            Was he putting paint on her? Why was he putting paint on her?

            He wasn’t putting paint on her, stupid. He was painting her picture.

            Oh. Well why didn’t you say so?

            I did.

            He said he was painting her. That’s what it means.

            Oh.

            You’re so stupid.

            Shut up, I am not.

            So what did she look like?

            We only saw her back.

            Did you see her butt?

            No, she was sitting down.

            You guys are lying. You didn’t see anything.

            Yes we did. You don’t know. You weren’t there.

                                                                             •

            Every weekday evening at 5:30 Mr. Angelo’s boxy little four-door sedan turned onto the block. He drove slowly, hunched over the steering wheel, peering through his little round glasses and never turning his head either this way or that.

            The first kid to see him called out, Mr. Angelo! Mr. Angelo! The other kids took up the cry and dropped whatever they were doing and ran down the street to the Angelos’ house. The first two kids to arrive opened the gate to the driveway. Mr. Angelo drove in, smiling brightly and squinting through his glasses, looking neither to the left nor the right. The kids closed the gate behind him. He parked and went inside his house and came back a minute later with a bag of hard candy. He walked down the sloping driveway to the gate where the kids waited. He didn’t open the gate. He smiled and through the wrought-iron bars he handed each child a piece of candy.

            One for you. One for you. One for you, and one for you . . .

            Thank you, Mr. Angelo! Thank you, Mr. Angelo!

            When every kid had a piece of candy, Mr. Angelo went back inside. The kids unwrapped their candies and popped them in their mouths.

            Hey! Litterbug!

            We put the wrappers in our pockets!

            Yeah!

            No littering in front of the Angelos’ house!

            Pick that up!

            No one knew how the gate-opening custom had begun. Billy Johnson taught it to Jeff and in those days it was Jeff and Billy and his brother Mark and Topeka Sally and her brother along with Reggie Cotton and the Hausers and a couple of the Goldfarbs. They all moved out except for Jeff and Reggie, who handed the custom down to newcomers. With all the Collier Kids and Choruses and Ganders and Stepps there were sometimes a score of kids running down the street at 5:30, pacing the boxy little sedan and often outrunning it.

            Mr. Angelo! Mr. Angelo!

            There even were times the Collier Kids waited at the open end of the street for the first glimpse of Mr. Angelo’s car.

            Here he comes!

                                                                             •

            Across from the Angelos were the Beys. They had three kids. Marie was the oldest. Jeff thought she was fat and ugly and he did not like her. She thought herself fat and ugly and she did not like anybody. In truth she was not fat, only full-figured, and she was not ugly, but there was no one to tell her that, not even the mirror on her wall when she plucked her eyebrows.

            The youngest Bey was Cass. She was Debbie Gander’s best friend and was skinny and gangly and had a big nose. Often she could be found at church with her mom, religious in a Protestant way.

            The middle Bey was Peter. He was removed from the general student population when he was fourteen for bringing a gun to school. Ten years later he was sent to prison for a stretch for a string of residential burglaries. Thirty years after that, he was killed in a shootout with federal agents who had come to arrest him for smuggling guns to Mexico.

                                                                             •

            The Twins were friends with the Collier Kids but they weren’t Collier Kids. Their dog had puppies and they carried two of them, a black one and a white one, one day to every house on the block and asked, Do you want a puppy?

            The Colliers said, No, we already have two dogs.

            The Beausoleils said, No, we have way too many dogs already.

            Jeff’s mom was in the front yard when the Twins came by.

            Hi, Missus Chorus, do you want a puppy?

            Later that afternoon Jeff’s mom said, They’re such darling little girls, and those puppies are so cute, I couldn’t resist.

            She named the puppies Inky and Spook. They got along with Dog and were never allowed inside. Jeff reflected sunlight from a small mirror and moved the reflection back and forth along the back yard’s rock wall. Inky saw it and chased it. He ran and jumped but couldn’t catch it. Spook never saw it and chased Inky instead.

            The Twins threw a big birthday party and had a live rock-and-roll band in their carport. It knew only one song, the Birthday one by the Beatles, and played it over and over. Everyone on the block went to the party except for Jeff and John, who were Jehovah’s Witnesses and could not have gone even if they had been invited, which they were not, because everybody knew they were Jehovah’s Witnesses and didn’t celebrate anything, so why bother?

                                                                             •

            Nobody knew anything about the Two Guys. An immobile ‘54 Chevy lived on the street by the curb in front of their house. The Collier Kids said the Two Guys lived with their mother.

            I’ve never seen her.

            We’ve seen her.

            She hardly ever comes out.

            They had a fence like the Angelos’ but not as high. They didn’t bother anybody and nobody bothered them. They had two crabapple trees in their parkway. Summertime everybody pulled the crabapples off the trees and threw them at each other in crabapple wars. The hard little crabapples were thrown by their stems and stung when they hit flesh.

            Ow! I’m telling!

            No, you’re not.

            Yeah, don’t be such a big baby.

            After a crabapple war the street and sidewalk were littered with crabapples. The kids stepped on them and smashed them flat.

                                                                             •

            The last house at bottom of the block was often empty. No one knew why.

            It’s haunted!

            Yeah, that’s why no one wants to live there.

            You believe in ghosts?

            Sure! Everybody does.

            Everybody knows there’s ghosts.

            We went there one night and we heard it howling.

            You did not.

            You don’t know. You weren’t there.

            It’s a bad luck house. Ask Jeff. Isn’t it, Jeff? That house? The haunted one? Where you cut your leg that one time? It’s a bad luck house, right?

            I don’t believe in luck. It’s against my religion.

            Gah, I can’t believe that. That’s so stupid.

            Everybody believes in luck. You’re just making that up, Jeff.

                                                                             •

            The bottom of the block was a dead-end cul-de-sac everyone called The Bulge. The kids on the block, the Collier Kids and any of the other kids who wanted, played baseball there. Home plate was always on the south side and nobody knew why. Line drives could break a window at the haunted house or dent the fender of a parked car. Pop flies could end up in Mrs. Angelo’s flower beds or bounce around in traffic on the four-lane street that ran beyond the low wall at the base of the cul-de-sac.

            Go get it!

            Get the ball, Simon!

            No! Gah, I didn’t hit it out there. You go get it.

            Simon, you’re such a chicken.

            You shut your mouth, you bun-hugger! Or I’ll smack it shut.

            Jeff, will you get the ball? Mary, ask Jeff if he’ll get the ball.

            Jeff?

            Yeah, I’ll get it. Wait till these cars go by.

            Hurry, Jeff! It’ll get smashed!

            You guys! Let him wait. Jeff, be carful.

            Did you hear what Francine said? She said, Jeff, be carful.

            Be careful, Jeff!

            Don’t worry, guys, I’ll be careful.

            And so he was, and so he retrieved the ball, and so the game went on, until it was time to go home for dinner, time to start a new school year, time to take a summer job, time to grow up and move away and leave the block behind.

Summer is for Swimming, Shopping, and Stealing

            A loose clot of kids walked along beside the four-lane street. There was no sidewalk. A trail was worn along the shoulder, above the curb. The trail went through desert—pale brown and red sand and dust, small rocks and some gravel, mesquite and creosote and goat’s-heads, nightshade with blue flowers and yellow seedpods, stunted yuccas, tumbleweeds both rooted and free-rolling, and tufts of desert grasses and wildflowers. Across the street was the neighborhood of tract houses where the kids lived. On the side where the kids walked, the desert stretched almost a half-mile to a mobile home park. Four tall radio broadcasting aerials stood in the desert, arranged in a large diamond. Guy wires stretched at taut angles from the towers to industrial screw eyes anchored in concrete blocks on the desert floor.

            The kids wore swimsuits under their t-shirts and shorts, and flip-flops or tennis shoes without socks. They carried beach towels and suntan lotion; one or two carried packs of cigarettes and books of matches. They ranged in build from lanky to slender. The oldest was fourteen and the youngest was ten or eleven. Billie Jean Beausoleil was at that age where she seemed to have shot up like a weed after a summer rainstorm, her arms and legs long and rail thin. She was the youngest of the Beausoleil girls, the only blonde, and would grow into a stunning beauty. Francine Beausoleil was next-oldest and would be starting junior high in the fall. She wore glasses pushed up on her nose and always seemed to be squinting. Cindy Beausoleil was Grant Collier’s age and would come to be deeply in love with him, hoping they would marry, but Grant never married. Janet Wheeler, the girl who’d lost her belly button to emergency surgery, was also Grant’s and Cindy’s age. She would later be a bartending biker-chick riding Harleys in the Colorado Rockies. Mary Wheeler would start junior high with Francine and Simon Collier in the fall. She and Simon had been going steady for almost two years. They were the couple that seemed so natural, it seemed they would marry, but they broke up when they got to high school and, same as his brother, Simon never married. He and Grant carried themselves with an androgynous grace and assurance. They were not effeminate but they were not masculine. The only other boy in the group was Jeff Chorus. His parents were religious and strict. He was neither graceful nor assured.

            The kids’ destination was Crystal Pool, a private spring-fed swimming pool in a small and run-down park that had seen better days, its tall cottonwoods scattered over dried and dying Bermuda grass and a sparse array of battered picnic tables. It was a fifteen-minute walk from their block to the pool. In the summer, at least one and usually most of the kids made the walk at least once and sometimes twice a day, six days a week. The pool was closed on Wednesdays for draining, cleaning, and re-filling.

            Crystal Pool was large and circular. Its deepest point was in the middle and was over fourteen feet down. It was a challenge to reach the bottom and none of the kids ever did, which didn’t stop them from saying that they did. A dock stood in the pool to one side of the deepest point. Two diving boards, one low and one high, were on the dock. The deck around the pool was large and concrete; around that were grassy areas, with mulberry and mimosa trees around the perimeter. There was a raised lifeguard station, a kiddie pool, indoor showers that everyone was supposed to use before swimming and no one did, and an awninged area with ping-pong tables. Admission was by membership only and the number of memberships was limited.

                                                                             •

            Grant and Simon fought in their front yard. Simon was getting the best of it. Grant picked up a loose brick from the garden and tossed it at his brother. Their mother’s voice came through the opened kitchen window.

            Grant! You stop throwing bricks at your brother! And put that back in the garden where you found it! The way I had it!

            Yes, ma’am.

            Jeff walked over from his house across the street. He carried a beach towel.

            Hi, Grant. Hi, Simon. You guys wanna go swimming?

            Sure, Grant said.

            No, Simon said. I’m not going anywhere with Grant. He’s a futt-bucker.

            Their mother’s voice came through the window.

            Simon! Watch your mouth! Hi, Jeff!

            Hello, Missus Collier.

            You boys going swimming?

            Yes, Grant said.

            No, Simon said.

            Let’s go, Grant said to Jeff. I already have my trunks on underneath my pants.

            Me, too.

            I need to get a towel.

            Grant went in and got a beach towel, and he and Jeff walked to the pool. It was still early in the day. They swam for a while, then they stretched on their towels and took the sun. Grant had cigarettes and they each smoked one.

            Ohmagod, look, Grant said. Look—over there. The German Woman.

            Jeff looked. All the kids knew about The German Woman. She always sat in the same place, with a friend or two, on towels in the grass near the perimeter fence and the trees. She had a baby and sometimes she nursed it. Right there! She let down a strap of her bikini top and she did it! Jeff had heard about it but he hadn’t seen it until today.

            Wow! he said quietly.

            Did you see her nipple?

            Yes! It was as big as my thumb!

            It’s the baby that does that.

            Wow!

            On the way home they passed by a garage sale. Two card tables set up on a driveway, peppered with an array of stuff, all of it marked with homemade price tags and none of it worth anything. A woman sat in a folding chair. Grant and Jeff looked at the items on display. Grant asked the woman about a set of salt and pepper shakers and Jeff stole a necklace of fake pearls.

            Easiest job ever, Jeff said after they walked away.

            I didn’t know you were such a little thief.

            Sometimes.

            Have you ever shoplifted?

            Oh yeah. You?

            Yeah. We do it all the time, at Gibson’s and Northgate. Where have you shoplifted?

            I haven’t done it much. I stole a squirt gun from TG&Y right at the end of the school year. I was scared I was gonna get caught, but I didn’t. And before that, when I was little, I stole a little racing car from Sprouse-Reitz. That time I got caught.

            You did? What happened?

            I was only four. I really wanted that car. It was one of those little ones with a friction motor. You could see it through the body. I still remember it had a price tag on it and it was twenty-five cents. I asked my mom to get it for me but she wouldn’t, so when she wasn’t looking, I took it and stuck it in my pocket.

            Did they catch you at the store?

            No. I didn’t get caught till after I got home. It was winter and we were wearing our coats. When we got home, my mom took our coats to hang them up. She always checked our pockets in case me or my brother had picked up a rock or a bottle cap or a dead lizard or something. And she found the car. With the price tag still on it.

            I bet she beat your butt.

            No, she didn’t. I’m surprised she didn’t. But she took me back to the store and she got the manager and told him. He squatted down in front of me and grabbed my shoulders and told me what a bad boy I was and how I should never ever steal anything again. I was crying so hard.

            I guess the lesson wore off.

            Yeah. Have you ever been caught?

            Nah. It’s easy to get away with it, especially if there’s a bunch of us. The people in the store never know who to watch.

            This was true. Should they watch the skinny girl with the long legs? She didn’t seem to be any trouble, at least not yet. Those other two girls, the ones who looked like they could be her sisters—the older one seemed mostly interested in one of those boys. Interested enough to steal for him? Best keep an eye on her. But she’s talking a lot with that other girl who looks about her age. Damn, there’s a lot of kids in this bunch. Where’d the one with the glasses go, the one who was squinting? There, she’s down that aisle, with the other girl who looks like the little sister of that other older girl, and with that boy, one of the tall skinny ones. He looks a little, you know . . . that way. That other one must be his brother. Then that other boy—he doesn’t look like he really belongs with them. But it’s clear they’re all friends. Some little gang of suburban hoodlums. Spoiled rotten. Probably haven’t seen the inside of a church since they were baptized. Assuming they’ve been baptized. Little heathens. What are they doing? Those three are all clumped up there and whispering. And those other two are obviously up to no good. Best just to clear them all out of here, they’re not going to buy anything. You kids. Hey! Hey! You kids—you need to buy something right now, or get out. Don’t make me call the cops.

                                                                             •

            The Store—the term for teen shopping before there was The Mall, before The Internet was more than a dream. It was how they asked permission or flat-out said it—Mom, can I go to The Store? We’re going to The Store, okay? Mom—where is she? Where are you, Mom? Going to The Store! Sometimes their moms might ask, What store? Which store? How long are you going to be gone? Don’t be gone too long, okay? Okay, Mom! and they’d be out the door and down the street, to cross the four-lane and then the desert and descend upon the Gibson’s or the K-Mart or the Sears Roebuck, or the favorite shops at Northgate Center, stopping usually at as many as a half-dozen, buying what they wanted or what they could afford, stealing what they could get away with—and they always got away, until later—and creating the disturbance clots of teens are known for, a ripple or sometimes a rip in the bourgeois continuum.

            Grant Collier and his brother Simon, and Francine Beausoleil and her sister Billie Jean, and Jeff Chorus, the weird one, walked through the desert past the broadcast towers, on their way to The Store. Jeff  decided to start fires.

            It’ll be really cool, guys!

            Gah, Jeff! No, it won’t!

            Jeff had some matches and set three small bushes on fire. The winds were calm and the fires burned out before they could spread.

            Shit! I was hoping for something bigger.

            Jeff, you’re such a pyromaniac.

            You’re going to get us in trouble.

            This is boring. Can we go?

            Let’s go, guys. I wanna get to The Store.

            Grant led the way but Billie Jean held back.

            I’m going home. I don’t feel very good.

            The chili cheese burrito she’d had for breakfast wasn’t setting well, and she didn’t like Jeff. He was creepy. He wasn’t like Grant and Simon. He was always looking. And then writing things down in that stupid little notebook he always carried with that stupid little stubby pencil. And then doing idiotic things like setting bushes on fire in the desert. He was going to get them all in trouble.

            Billie Jean turned and headed back home and the others continued through the desert and into the mobile home park. They discussed the possibility of making easy money through door-to-door seed sales—These old geezers are always planting flowers, they’d buy everything we had to sell, Grant said, and Jeff said, Yeah! I sold seeds door-to-door the summer after second grade and it was great!—but Grant didn’t ask how much money Jeff had made and Jeff didn’t tell that he hadn’t made squat and it wasn’t great, the sun was hot and nobody wanted to buy seeds from some little kid knocking on the door and Jeff’s mom had ended up having to buy all Jeff’s stock, most of which she had no use for even though she gardened, just to pay off the company that had shipped the seeds to an eight-year-old boy and why had she agreed to let him do that, anyway? Sometimes she just didn’t know what she was thinking.

            First stop after the mobile home park was Sears. The Sears outlet was big and it had everything, except pants that would fit Grant and Simon. They looked and Francine told about a fight she’d had with Debbie Gander, and Jeff—what the hell was he doing? He didn’t have any money and his mom bought all his clothes anyway.

            Yeah, I heard that fight. I was in bed already but my window was open and I could hear you guys screaming at each other. What was it about?

            She’s just a scaggy bitch who thinks she’s hot snot on a golden platter, but she’s—Jeff, what the hell are you doing?

            I’m stealing rubber bands offa socks. Look—I’ve got five already. And these two demonstration polarizers off sunglasses. These are really cool.

            And he’s ripping price tags off pants, too.

            Jeff! Gah, you’re so—.

            Words failed Francine and she turned away from Jeff. What she wanted to do was smack him a good one. She had never liked him and she didn’t see how that was going to change. She wandered over to the socks display and picked out a pair.

            They left Sears and headed for K-Mart. On the way there they passed by the Taco Box and along a concrete flood control canal. Two bikes were parked in the desert above the bone-dry canal and two boys were down in it.

            Let’s see what they’re doing, Grant said. He led the way and he and Jeff scrambled down the steep side of the canal, Jeff almost losing his balance and having to run the final few feet and colliding with Grant to check his momentum. The boys in the canal were several years younger than Grant and Jeff.

            What’re you guys doing?

            Nothing. We’re not doing anything.

            It was hard to tell what they were doing. They were skittish. Who were these older boys who had come down and what were they going to do?

            Grant led the way and he and Jeff scrambled back up the side of the canal. Back at the top, Grant turned to Jeff and grinned. He had a subtle grin, his deep violet eyes hard to read.

            Let’s push one of their bikes down.

            He and Jeff grabbed one of the bikes and pushed it down into the ditch.

            Let’s go.

            Grant and Jeff caught up with Simon and Francine, who had continued on toward the K-Mart.

            What were they doing? Francine said.

            Nothing.

            Why did you push their bike down? Simon said. Did they say something to you?

            No. I just wanted to. It was fun. They shouldn’t have left their bikes up there.

            Yeah, that was stupid.

            Boner-heads.

            They walked on and approaching them were two girls crossing a large and open desert lot, coming their way from the direction of the K-Mart. The girls were no one they knew, a couple skinny blonde girls in shorts and simple tops and tennis shoes, passing by off the starboard quarter. Looks were exchanged and then words, in the manner common to groups of young and hormone-inflected bipedal great apes, their thumbs opposed to their fingers and their demeanor opposed to all strangers.

            What’re you looking at?

            I’m looking at you. Wanna make something of it?

            I’m seeing skinny ugly scags.

            Yeah, I’ll make something of it. Whadda you wanna make of it?

            You’re already made but you’re too dumb to know it.

            I’m seeing you and your face looks like the doctor tried to push you back in when he saw you coming out of your mother.

            You guys sure hang out with an ugly bitch.

            It’s the best they can rate.

            Jeff flipped off the girls. Any time, any time, one of them said. Jeff said, Yeah, any time, you whore.

            Same to you.

            You would.

            You whore!

            Like you!

            Fucking bitches! You’re the ugliest pieces of trash I’ve ever seen!

            White trash from the gutter!

            You bastards!

            Jeff continued flipping off the girls.

            Fucking whores!

            Come and say that to my face!

            Grant and Jeff started walking to the girls. One of the girls bent and picked up a rock. Grant and Jeff stooped and picked up rocks without breaking stride, then charged the girls at a run. The girls turned and ran away, not stopping until they had crossed a six-lane street.

            Jeff and Grant dropped their rocks and rejoined Francine and Simon. They continued on their way. Francine was upset.

            Those ugly pieces of cheap trash! Who the fuck do they think they are? We didn’t do a fucking thing to them!

            I know.

            And they walk by like they think they own the whole goddamn world and pick shit with us! Ooo, I wish I could get back at them!

            Simon had turned and was walking backwards.

            You’re gonna get your wish, they’re coming back.

            The four kids stopped, and Grant and Jeff ran through the desert toward the girls. This time the girls held their ground. Grant and Jeff stopped.

            You cheap whores!

            You fucking bastards!

            You can kiss my ass, you scag!

            You’re what your mom pulled out of the toilet after it got clogged!

            Grant and Jeff returned to Simon and Francine. The two girls walked by them, about thirty feet away, also headed in the direction of K-Mart.

            Our big brothers are going to knock the shit out of you!

            What big brothers?

            You liars! I don’t see any brothers, big or little.

            Who would want to be the brother to a scag like you?

            Oh, I’m so scared. Pretend brothers and real whores.

            When they got to the K-Mart, Francine stopped at the Customer Service desk to have her bag from Sears stapled shut. The two blonde girls were with three boys now, and they walked past in single file, boy-girl-boy-girl-boy. You sons of bitches, one of the girls said, and, Way to tell ‘em, one of the boys said.

            I want to look at tennis shoes, Francine said to Grant and Simon. She led the way to the shoe department, with Grant and Simon and Jeff in a loose formation trailing behind through the aisles. She looked at girls’ shoes while Simon and Grant looked at boys’ shoes and Jeff took out his little notebook and stubby pencil and wrote something down. The two blonde girls had followed them. One moved toward Grant as though to confront him. She didn’t see Simon standing at the end of the aisle she was passing by. He stuck a foot out and tripped her, and as she stumbled, Grant gave her ankle a quick, sharp kick.

            Whoops, he said.

            She started crying. The other girl said, You’ll see who you kick next time!

            I’ll kick you, Grant said.

            The three boys who had come in with the two girls approached. Grant said, Let’s go, and he and Simon and Jeff and Francine quickly left the shoe department. We can get out through the garden center, Grant said. They did, and as soon as they were outside, they ran across the K-Mart parking lot to a bank next door, saw they weren’t being followed, and walked the rest of the way across parking lots and a street to Northgate Center, where they stopped at the TG&Y.

            There was a soda counter and they sat on stools. Simon and Francine had money and ordered cokes. Grant had money and chose not to spend it. Jeff had no money. He and Grant ordered water. The woman working the counter said, I don’t give water but there’s a fountain around the corner.

            Grant and Jeff went around the corner to the fountain. They were in aisles stocked with decorative stuffs and started looking at them. There were polystyrene cones for making who-knows-whats. Jeff pinched the rounded pointy top off one of them. Grant frowned.

            Jeff! How would you like it if someone tore the end off and you wanted to buy it?

            Yeah. I guess you’re right.

            Simon and Francine finished their cokes and went to look at some rings in a pair of display cases near the store’s front door. Grant joined them while Jeff stayed in the decorations and used his stubby pencil to poke holes in small packets of glitter. He opened a small packet of six yellow plastic gems and took four. He walked to the greeting cards aisle and looked at cards for a couple minutes, returned to the decorations aisles and took the other two gems, then joined his friends at the rings.

            These ones are really neat, Simon said to Francine.

            Yeah. Look at this one.

            They’re sterling silver, Grant said. He studied one display case. There was a lever on the side. He moved it and it freed the rings to be taken out and tried on. Not all of the spaces in the case had rings.

            Jeff took a ring and tried it on. It was tight. He had trouble removing it. He got it off and put it back, then felt stupid when he could have stolen it. He made up for this mistake by stealing another, although it turned out to be too big. Grant stole one and Jeff didn’t notice. Grant told him about it later and showed it to him.

            It fits my finger perfectly.

            Cool! I didn’t even see you take it. That proves how smooth you are.

            Simon and Francine looked at the rings in the other case.

            Look, Simon. I want to try on one of the littler ones.

            Maybe them’s be the ones. We be see them’s be.

            Simon tried to move the lever on the side of the case. A man in a suit was there by his side.

            What are you kids doing?

            We want to see these rings.

            You should ask for help. Someone would be glad to help you.

            We didn’t see anyone here.

            The man said nothing to this. The floorwalker who was supposed to be working this department was—who knows where? He was going to have to have some words with the GM about her. This was not the first time she had wandered off during her shift without telling anyone where she was going. Bathroom breaks were fine, as long as she didn’t take an unreasonable number of them and she let someone know. And she secured her station before she left. She hadn’t. Those cases were not secured. They didn’t have alarms, but they had locks. And they were left unlocked. He hadn’t counted the number of rings in them before the store opened this morning—that wasn’t his job—but he wouldn’t be surprised if there were fewer there now than had been sold.

            You kids gonna buy anything? If you’re not gonna buy anything, it’s best you leave.

            Gah.

            Come on, guys. Let’s go.

            We don’t want your stupid rings anyway.

            Let’s go to Toys By Roy, Grant said. We need to get Tiffany something.

            Baby Tiffany! It’s going to be her six months’ birthday!

            She’s so cute!

            You guys, it’s so great you’re uncles. What’s it like?

            It’s not like anything, Jeff.

            We’re not any different.

            They spent ten or fifteen minutes in Toys By Roy.

            What do you get a baby? I can’t decide.

            She’s spoiled enough already. Let’s go.

            They stopped by a Hallmark card shop and spent a few minutes. It was a small shop with open views and several employees on duty. The kids quickly determined they would not be able to steal anything.

            Let’s go.

            We need to get some pants.

            They went to J. C. Penney, where Grant and Simon spent a while trying on pants till they could find some they liked and that fit them. They were long-legged and narrow-waisted. And the school dress code had changed. Vive la Revolution!

            I’m so excited! We get to wear blue jeans to school!

            Jeff, are you gonna wear blue jeans this year?

            I dunno. My mom doesn’t want me to.

            She dresses him in outfits.

            Why doesn’t she want you to?

            I dunno. She just doesn’t.

            Well, just do it. What’s she going to do, follow you to school and pull your pants off? I could just see it. Come here, Jeff! Take those off right now!

            The kids laughed. Jeff didn’t know about classes and class differences and class consciousness. He knew it was very important to his mother what other people thought. And not just any other people, but the neighbors.

            What will the neighbors think?

            It looked like the neighbors would all be wearing blue jeans to school come fall. At least the boys would.

            It’s so unfair, Francine said. You guys get to wear pants, and now you’re gonna get to wear blue jeans, but us girls still have to wear dresses.

            It’s because you little darlings look so sweet and innocent in dresses.

            Fuck you, Grant.

            Grant and Simon tried on pants and Francine told them if they looked good or not when they came out of the dressing rooms. Jeff tore price tags off pants.

            Jeff, would you stop that!

            Jeff did. He went off to another part of the Men’s and Boys’ section and stole a Boy Scout pin that he gave to Grant, and he passed through the Women’s and Girls’ section and stole a 14-carat gold-plated bracelet with two cultured pearls on it. Mrs. Collier had given her boys money to buy pants and when they finally found pairs that fit, they bought them and they and Francine and Jeff left and crossed the desert back to their neighborhood.

                                                                             •

            The Colliers had a camper in their driveway, up in front of the carport. It used to be mounted in the bed of Mr. Collier’s old blue Chevy pick-up, when the family were younger and the truck and camper were newer. Now the truck was more useful for hauling other things, and the camper was more useful as a clubhouse for the kids.

            Jeff sat curled on one of the small side bunks and wrote in his notebook. He wrote, I stole this notebook. Simon and Grant and Billie Jean and Mary Wheeler were on the other side bunks and the larger upper bunk. It was late afternoon and the sun shone in through the small windows. The camper door was open.

            You shoulda come with us today, Mary, we had fun.

            Sorry I missed it, Grant.

            Let’s play prostitute, Billie Jean said. You guys wanna play prostitute?

            Mmm . . . I dunno.

            Irtsquay eethey ooshday agbay at-they effjay, Grant said.

            Squirt the douche bag at Jeff? Why?

            He doesn’t know what it is.

            Jeff, do you know what a douche bag is?

            Yes.

            What is it?

            If you don’t know, Simon, I ain’t gonna tell you.

            Oh, you don’t know. He doesn’t know.

            Yes, I do. But I don’t talk about sex.

            Do you understand pig Latin, Jeff?

            No. What is it?

            It’s what I was speaking when I told Mary to squirt the douche bag at you.

            Don’t worry, Jeff, Mary said. We don’t have a douche bag.

            You guys, I don’t wanna play whore, Simon said.

            Then don’t.

            I’ll be a whore with you, Mary, Billie Jean said.

            No, thanks.

            I got a idea, Grant said. Pretend you’re thieves, like the normal life we live.

            There was more and Jeff wrote as fast as he could, but he couldn’t keep up. He was still writing when Janet and Francine came in.

            Jeff, why are you always writing in that notebook? Janet said.

            I want people to know. What it was like.

            What what was like?

            Us. What it was like for us, here.

            You want people to know? Francine said. What people? Who’s ever going to read that? That’s stupid. No one cares about us. We’re just a bunch of white-trash kids.

            A pack of thieving little heathens, Grant said.

            No one could read his handwriting anyways, Simon said. Have you seen it?

            No.

            Let’s see it, Jeff.

            No, Jeff said. He put his notebook and pencil in one pocket and started pulling things out of another pocket.

            Hey, I wanna give you guys this stuff.

            He pulled out the bracelet and the ring and the six yellow plastic gems.

            This ring doesn’t fit me, it’s too big. Whoever it fits can have it.

            The kids tried the ring on and passed it around.

            Hey, it fits me.

            Janet held up her hand and showed it. She had the ring on her thumb.

            Can I keep it?

            Sure. Francine, do you want this bracelet?

            Francine took it and looked at it and put it on.

            Sure, okay.

            She never grew to like Jeff, but she came to find him tolerable. The bracelet helped. It also helped that he thought they were all worth writing about, even if it was stupid and no one would ever read it.

            And here, Mary and Simon, these jewels are for you. Two for you, Simon, since you’re the guy, and four for Mary, since she’s the girl.

            Thank you, Jeff.

            Thank you, Jeff.

            Mmm, wow. Yellow plastic rubies. Don’t I get anything?

            Grant, I already gave you the Boy Scout pin.

            Oh, yeah. That’s right. I forgot.

            There was more, but before Jeff could write it down, he heard his mother calling him from across the street.

            Oop. Gotta go. Grant, you gonna go swimming tomorrow?

            Sure. Probably.

            Okay. I’ll come over and we’ll go.

            Okay. Not too early, though.

            Jeff went home and it was almost dinner time.

            Jeff, I want you to wash up and set the table. Did you have fun today?

            A little. We went to The Store. Grant and Simon got pants, and Francine got a pair of socks.

            Is that all ?

            That’s all.

Making Love

            It was early in the morning and it was quiet until Grant and Billie Jean set off a firecracker by the front door to the elementary school. Jeff and Simon were walking away from the school and the blast echoed down the street. Simon spun around to look.

            Ahmm, they’re gonna get in trouble.

            But they didn’t.

            Later Jeff saw that Grant and Simon and Francine had gone into the camper, so he crossed the street to go into the camper, too. The door was closed and he opened it.

            Ohmygod! God! Shit!

            Grant and Simon and Francine scrambled to put out their cigarettes. Then they saw it was Jeff.

            You scared us to death, Jeff!

            But they didn’t die, not yet. Jeff and Francine smoked three cigarettes apiece, and Grant and Simon two apiece.

            We might go to the store this afternoon.

            I wanna come, but I gotta do some yardwork first.

            Jeff went back home to do the yardwork. His mom set him to edging around one of her flowerbeds with a flat spade hoe she had just bought. He didn’t know how to use it but how hard could it be?

            Hard enough.

            You can’t do anything right! Now tear all that fencing out and go back and do it right! Then when you put it back in, you make sure you set it up straight!

            He tore all the fencing out and took up the flat spade hoe and wondered why he couldn’t use the clippers, he knew how those worked. He thought his mom should go to hell but the Devil probably wouldn’t take her—his very thoughts, without fear of Divine retribution—and he looked across the street and saw the roof vent on the camper going up so he knew the Collier Kids were in there smoking again and one of them, probably Grant, was working the hand-crank to open the vent.

            Jeff finished the edging and set the fence up again and cut his thumb and his mom came out to inspect his work.

            I’m probably going to have to tear all that fence out. You can do it after lunch. And then I want you to do your brother’s chores. And don’t give me that look! You know I already told you about that! The days he has his work at the hospital, you need to help out! He does all the work around here. You need to stop being so lazy and take more responsibility. Now get inside and eat your lunch. Are you listening to me?

            Yes, ma’am.

            Beyond her, across the street, he saw Grant crossing the side yard to go to the Beausoleils’. Jeff hated his mom. Everybody else got to have fun but he had to be his family’s slave. And his brother’s work at the hospital? Ha! His brother was a candy-striper who worked as a projectionist at the hospital theater. He got to sit on his ass and watch movies all afternoon.

            After lunch and after tearing the fence out and doing his brother’s chores, Jeff crossed the street to the Colliers’. Debbie Gander was in her carport and called after him.

            They’re not there.

            Where are they?

            Debbie pointed and it looked to Jeff like she was pointing at the Wheelers’ house. He started to go there and Debbie called after him.

            They’re not there.

            Where are they?

            They left.

            Where to?

            The store.

            Jeff turned around and went home. Those sons of bitches. They went to the store without him. God damn it. He could just imagine all the fun they were having. They’d probably come home with a giant haul. Steal everything they could get their hands on. A dozen silver rings. Gold-plated charm bracelets on every arm. Maybe even pairs of pants and packs of cigarettes. Those asses. Jeff knew they didn’t care about him. Not really. Oh, they pretended. Shitfuckers. They probably didn’t even really want him for a friend.

            He knew what it was. Why they probably didn’t really like him. It was because he cut all his hair off at the start of summer. It had been down to his nose. He had the barber cut it down to the stubble. That was almost two months ago and so it was longer now, but still. They had called him Peach Fuzz when he first did it.

            Hey, Peach Fuzz! Wanna go swimming? Aren’t you scared of sunburn?

            No.

            He was scared of his parents and wasps and horses and talking to Aimee Chambers, the girl he truly loved, and he was scared of getting beat up, but he was not scared of sunburn.

                                                                             •

            It was cool in the living room in the early afternoon. Jeff sat in his dad’s chair and read one of his mom’s Readers Digest Condensed Books. Not as interesting as Ball Four. That was one of his dad’s books. A paperback. Jeff was reading it earlier in the summer when his dad caught him and took it away.

            No, Jeff, you’re too young for that.

            It was good. It’s where he learned the word shitfuck. That was a cool word. Too bad there weren’t more opportunities to use it.

            This Readers Digest book, it was okay. Didn’t have any swear words, though.

            Then it said something about making love. Making love. Wait. The way it said it. They took all their clothes off and made love. Wait. Wait wait wait.

            Oh my god. That’s what making love was. Fucking! Holy shitfuck! It was fucking!

            Was it really? He read it again. It seemed to be that was it. Fucking. Oh my god, and all this time he’s been saying how he wants to make love to his girlfriends. He didn’t mean fuck them. Was that what it meant, really? It was hard to tell from the way it was written in the book. He’d have to ask Grant. Grant would know. Grant knew blow job, jack off, and cunt. He even knew cornhole. He was bound to know making love.

                                                                             •

            They were gone all afternoon, since before lunch. Jeff kept glancing across the street to see if he could see if they had come back without anyone seeing that he kept glancing across the street. But his mother saw. She had super-human X-ray radar vision, just like Jimmy Gander said.

            Have your friends come back yet?

            I don’t think so.

            Why don’t you go check?

            I haven’t seen them.

            No way was Jeff going to go check. Have everyone on the block—which at that point was no one, the street was empty, but you never could tell who might be looking out a window—have them all see him crossing the street like some mangy heartbroken starving lost dog? Or worse yet, like some thirteen-year-old Peach Fuzz whose friends had left him behind?

                                                                             •

            The vent was up. Grant, Simon, Mary, Francine, and Jeff sat in the camper and smoked cigarettes. Grant held up his hand, his fingers splayed.

            Look, I got another ring.

            Cool! I wish I could’ve gone with you guys.

            We missed you, Jeff.

            You did?

            That’s such bullshit, Mary. We did not miss him. We did not miss you, Jeff.

            Gah, Francine, that’s mean.

            What, Simon—it’s true. You guys may have missed him, but I didn’t.

            We missed you, Jeff. We had a good time, anyway.

            Even Francine missed you. She has a secret crush on you.

            Gah, Grant! I do not!

            Yes, she does, Jeff. When you’re not around, all she talks about is you. She wants you to take her in your manly skinny Peach Fuzz arms and make love to her.

            God-damn, Grant, shut the fuck up! Or I’ll smack you!

            Grant, Shmant, smack your pant.

            What? Simon, you’re so weird.

            Hey, Grant?

            Hey, Jeff.

            I was reading in a book today and it said something about making love, and I always thought that making love was like telling someone that you love them and writing poems to them and giving them flowers and rings and stuff, but in this book it made it seem like it was fucking.

            That’s because it is.

            Oh, my God, Jeff—you didn’t know that?

            No, Simon, I didn’t.

            I thought everybody knew that.

            What book were you reading?

            It was one of my mom’s Readers Digest condensed books.

            Things are getting hot at the old Readers Digest. Hey, guys, let’s play Truth or Dare. We won’t do any of that crazy stuff people do with truth or dare. We’ll make it sensible. We’ll play that, let’s see—the truth will be, tell your darkest secret that you don’t want anyone to know, and the dare will be, fuck Mary for twenty-four hours.

            Grant, you’re so full of it.

            You’re just jealous, Francine.

            Um, hey, guys, do I get to have any say in this? I can’t fuck for twenty-four hours. You’ll have to start without me.

            Oh, Mary, you’re no fun.

Hookie

            Jeff got up a half-hour late. His mom did not say good morning.

            Young man, I woke you up on time. You have only yourself to blame if you’re running late.

            Yes, ma’am.

            And I expect you to do your chores before you go to school this morning. Don’t dawdle.

            Yes, ma’am.

                                                                             •

            Grant and Simon and Mary and Francine and David were all waiting in Jeff’s carport when he came out.

            Gah, Jeff, what took you so long?

            Yeah, we’re gonna be late.

            That’s first bell. Did you hear? First bell just rang.

            Let’s ditch.

            Gah, Grant.

            Well, we should. I don’t wanna get there late.

            Me, neither.

            We should go.

            The kids walked.

            That’s second bell. Second bell just rang. We’re gonna be late.

            Yeah, no way we’re gonna get there on time.

            The kids walked.

            That’s final bell. I don’t wanna go in after final bell.

            Me, neither.

            I hate it. If I’m late, my teacher makes a big deal of it in front of everybody.

            Mine, too.

            Let’s ditch First.

            Okay.

            Okay.

            We can miss First, anyway.

            That’s right. They take attendance but it doesn’t count.

            It doesn’t?

            No, not until Second.

            Then why do they take it if it doesn’t count?

            They want all the little boys and girls to do their very best to get to school on time.

            Why doesn’t it count First period?

            They know some kids are gonna be late. It’s Second that counts because that’s the one where they decide how much money the schools get.

            The more kids they have, the more money they get.

            Oh. I didn’t know.

            Did you think they just gave the schools however much money they wanted?

            I thought they just gave as much as the schools needed.

            Jeff, if they did that, we would have new Science books.

            Our Science books don’t even know we’ve been up in space.

            Stupid school.

            The kids wandered streets in the neighborhood between their block and the school. A stray dog saw them and followed them.

            Hey, puppy.

            Are you lost, little dog?

            What a cute little dog.

            He’s got a collar.

            Probably he got out of somebody’s yard.

            The kids reached the northern edge of their neighborhood, where the streets and houses ended and the desert began. The school was a block away. Francine looked in that direction.

            I’m gonna go, guys. I’ll get there before Second, and when the bell for Second rings, I’ll go in.

            David looked at Francine, and then at the others.

            I’m gonna go, too. Are you guys gonna keep ditching?

            Yeah, I think so.

            Mary, do you wanna keep ditching?

            Yeah, I’ll stay with you guys. What about you, Jeff?

            Sure.

            Francine and David headed to school. Grant and Simon and Mary and Jeff headed back down the street they had just come up. The little dog followed them for a while and then it went away.

            Adults were around and were not oblivious. A couple of women in the neighborhood saw the kids.

            Aren’t you kids supposed to be in school?

            It’s eighth-grade ditch day, and we’re ditching. They let us.

            Oh. Okay.

            The women weren’t fooled for a second. One of them called the police.

            I’d like to report some children wandering the neighborhood. Teenagers. I think they’re supposed to be in school. No, I haven’t seen them do anything. They’re just walking down the sidewalk. One of them is a girl wearing a really nice coat. Rabbit-fur, I think. No, they don’t look like hoodlums. They’re just kids, but I think they should be in school. What? Oh, they’re white, I think. They look white. No, you don’t need to send anyone to my house, but if you send someone to patrol the neighborhood, you’ll see the kids. They should be in school. Okay. Thank you.

            The kids stopped at the end of a dead-end and sat on a low rock wall for a few minutes. Grant said, The reason people aren’t suspicious of us is because Mary looks like a sensible young girl in that coat—

            That’s a nice coat, Mary.

            Thank you, guys. I like looking sensible.

            And Jeff, you look like a brain—

            It’s those glasses, and his short hair.

            And I look like a sensible young girl’s boyfriend, and Simon looks like my brother.

            But I’m her boyfriend.

            That doesn’t matter, Simon. She looks sensible enough to pick me.

            Gah, Grant.

            The kids crossed the four-lane highway that bordered their neighborhood there and walked into the desert where the unpaved streets led up to a Minute Market. At the Minute Market they bought candy bars with their lunch money and stole pieces of penny bubble gum. There was a pay phone out front.

            Jeff, you sound an awful lot like your mom. You should call the school and pretend you’re her and make up an excuse for being absent.

            Okay. I’ll tell them I had an asthma attack. Do you know the school’s number?

            No.

            The pay phone had a phone book, but the school was new and the phone book was old. No call was made.

            In the lot next to the Minute Market was a row of four old shacks. They were stuccoed concrete block ruins that had been there as long as the kids could remember. When the kids were younger, the shacks had been haunted. Now they were just dirty and empty and tumble-down. The kids went into one of them and stayed for a while and talked about nothing. They tired of this and Grant said, We had probably better go to school. The others agreed. They left the shack and headed back to their neighborhood. When they neared the school Grant said, Jeff, you go in first, and we’ll follow a few minutes later, so it doesn’t look like we were all ditching together.

            Okay.

            Jeff went in first. It was during class so he had to stop at the office to get a pass.

            Hi. I’m Jeff Chorus. I’m late because I had an asthma attack and had to stay home till it was over.

            The secretary looked at her list.

            Jeff Chorus. We already called your mom, Jeff. She said you left for school this morning on time.

            The secretary gave Jeff a pass. He went to class. It was one David was in, too. They exchanged glances. In a few minutes the announcement came over the school P.A. system.

            David Stepp and Jeff Chorus, report to the Administrative Office. David Stepp and Jeff Chorus, report to the Administrative Office.

            They reported. The secretary was strictly business and did not smile.

            You boys have a seat. Mister Mitchell will be with you shortly.

            David and Jeff sat in two of the tube-frame-and-plastic chairs that infested institutional spaces. Two uniformed police officers came out of Mr. Mitchell’s office and for a second Jeff thought he and David were about to be taken to the D-Home in cuffs. The D-Home. No one knew where it was and everyone knew it existed, knew it was where they put you when you were a kid and they wanted to put you in jail and they couldn’t because you were a kid.

            The officers were smiling and walked by David and Jeff without looking at them.

            Boys.

            Mr. Mitchell stood at the door to his office. He was a slightly overweight middle-aged man with glasses and a small handlebar moustache and he wasn’t smiling.

            Come in. Have a seat.

            He pointed to a red vinyl sofa. The boys sat.

            When did you leave home for school this morning? Why were you late? Where did you go? What were you doing?

            The boys told him. They didn’t say anything about Grant or Simon or Mary or Francine.

            Do you know where Grant and Simon Collier are?

            No, they didn’t know, though they admitted the Collier brothers had ditched with them.

            All right. I’ve talked to both your mothers. They will be here at lunch to pick you up. You can go back to class now. Be sure to be here at the front office when the lunch bell rings.

            Yes, sir.

                                                                             •

            At lunch his mom was waiting at the office when Jeff got there. She took him home in her station wagon.

            Don’t try to lie your way out of this. I don’t need to hear a single thing out of your mouth. David and his mother were at the school when I got there. She took him home. He told us what happened. He tried to talk you all out of it. He only ditched because you did. Wipe that look off your face. You hear me? I knew you kids were going to sneak out and cut school. I heard you talking about it in the carport before you left. You can’t fool me. You’re always up to no good. You’re never going to amount to anything. You can’t even find your way to school. I’m going to walk you to school tomorrow. That way I’ll be sure you don’t get lost. And don’t you dawdle about getting home from school today. I’m going to feed you a sandwich and take you back to school. Your father will talk to you when he gets home from work tonight. I wouldn’t be surprised if he takes his belt to you. You’re not too old for a good whipping.

            They got home and she fed him a sandwich and he didn’t taste it. White bread and mayo and American cheese. She took him back to school. He stayed there until it was time to come home, and he came home.

            Now you stay in your room. And don’t let me catch you doing anything enjoyable tonight.

            Yes, ma’am.

            Jeff stood in his room. He did not sit down. Would that not have been enjoyable? He bit his nails. He stood at his window and looked out at the block. The sky was infected with broken low gray clouds. The lightest patch was oddly bright. Jeff thought that if that had been where the sun was, it would have been on a late morning of a winter’s day in Australia. He didn’t think he’d ever go to Australia. Might as well dream of flying in outer space, captain of a warp-drive Federation starship. Seemed about as likely.

            He saw Grant and Simon and Mary sneaking down the street along the fronts of the houses. They looked like spies in a movie or a TV show. They got to the Colliers’ house and tried to sneak in through Grant and Simon’s bedroom window but it was shut. Mary continued to her own house, walking down the sidewalk now, and Grant and Simon went inside their house via the front door. Jeff looked at his clock. It was an electric clock with a second hand. The time was 4:18:11. Jeff bit his nails.

            Jeff stood in his room for two hours. His dad got home from work and came into Jeff’s room with Jeff’s mom.

            I oughtta tan your hide, boy. I’d beat some sense into you if I thought it would do any good. Your mother and I have decided you’re not getting any dinner tonight. You’re to go straight to bed. Brush your teeth, get ready for bed, then lights out. You hear me?

            Yes, sir.

            And you are not allowed to keep your door closed, Jeffrey, until we give you permission. And there will be no more talk of asthma attacks. Since your excuse for being late to school was that you had an asthma attack, we’ve decided that your asthma is all your imagination. I don’t ever want to hear another word from you about it. Now do as your father told you.

            Yes, ma’am.

            Jeff brushed his teeth and got ready for bed. He didn’t need to turn his light out, it wasn’t on. It would be more than an hour before the sun went down. The sky was still cloudy and gray. He got into his bed and after a few hours of feeling frightened and sorry for himself, and pissed off at David for lying about whose idea it was to ditch, and envious of Grant and Simon and Mary for spending the whole day out, and hungry, he also felt hungry, he drifted off to sleep, his last thoughts being of Mary and Mary is really nice she’s the prettiest girl on the block she has a good sense of humor she is never mean to people i’m glad i got to go steady with her a few years ago that was when was that we were playing on the playground it was friday the thirteenth and i ran into her and we knocked each other down and it was an accident i hate friday the thirteenth she broke up with me i think it was she really wanted to go steady with i can’t remember . . .

                                                                             •

            His mother didn’t walk him to school the next morning. He walked alone. Within a half-block of the school grounds, in front of everyone who was gathered in front of the school, all umpity-hundred of them waiting for the first bell to ring and the school doors to open, Jeff’s mother drove up in her station wagon.

            Jeffrey! You come here!

            Jeff came there.

            You didn’t do your chores this morning!

            She slapped him. The sound of the slap rang out like a shot.

            You didn’t tell me you were leaving for school!

            She slapped him. The sound of the slap echoed off the school building’s front walls.

            You didn’t mop up the water you spilled in the kitchen!

            She slapped him. The sound of the slap resonated in the mountain canyons on the distant horizon, scattering rabbits and birds.

            Jeff’s mother drove away and Jeff crossed the street to the school. He stared straight ahead and did not look at anyone.

A Rude Northern Race Did All the Matchless Monuments Deface*

            Jeff Chorus broke his hand. The sinister one. In a fight in Gym class with a short and stocky seventh-grader.

            Plaster casts for broken bones in those days, even for parts cartilaginous as young teens’ hands. Many kids signed the cast, as was the custom, Grant and Simon being the first.

            The three boys went up to the elementary school of an evening after dinner. Autumn in the desert city, jacket weather. They had nothing better to do—

            this is not true. They had a world of knowledge to learn—physical science, biology, chemistry, history, literature, philosophy, poetry, art, music, algebra, geometry, trigonometry, calculus, any language that was not American English—a world about which they knew almost nothing and their parents sometimes less, though their parents knew enough to be viciously suspicious of any learning too far removed from the Bible or Home Economics. Remember what the Good Book says about philosophers. And all those artists and poets and lazy bums who write novels? Everybody knows they’re drunks and drug addicts, fornicators and faggots and unspeakably worse things, all Hell-bound down the wide Perdition Highway. All boys needed to know was enough to get a job and keep it, and all girls needed to know was enough to get a husband and keep it. Any more than that was just so much stuff peddled by people who didn’t want to do an honest day’s work. Wouldn’t likely know how. Everybody knew this. Didn’t need to go to school to find it out.

            So Jeff and Grant and Simon, two eighth-graders and a seventh-, went a-strolling in the gloaming. The front gate to the school grounds was unlocked. The elementary school had started as a cottage school and the cottages still stood, still used as classrooms for the lower grades. The boys wandered among them.

            Look!

            What.

            What’d you find.

            This window’s open.

            A casement window on one of the cottages was slightly ajar. Jeff and Grant pried it farther open. Cast-handed Jeff bashed in the screen. He took papers, school assignments the kids had done—finger-painting and collaging and filling in blanks—from off the high, broad window sill and dropped them in a shallow mud puddle. Simon and Grant reached in and scattered to the cottage floor whatever books and papers they could reach.

            Instantly, Grant sprinted toward the front gate. Jeff looked after him and toward the main building.

            Janitor! Run!

            Jeff and Simon ran away from the front gate and back around the main building to the back gate beyond the gym, a full city block away. The back gate was locked, the fence chainlink and eight or ten or twelve or twenty or who knows how many feet high, you couldn’t just jump over it. Grant approached, walking up the sidewalk along the street outside.

            You guys, I saw the janitor run into the office.

            Oh my God, he probably called the police.

            I think he did. We should get out of here.

            Simon scrambled over the fence. Cast-handed Jeff tried but couldn’t.

            Shit. Guys. I can’t climb this fence.

            Here. Let me help.

            Grant climbed over the fence and helped Jeff get over, and the three boys walked into the twilight streets heading away from the school, certain a police cruiser was about to pull up at any moment.

            But none did. The vandals returned to their encampment and regaled themselves long into the night with tales of their exploits, of the ten thousand windows shattered at the Palace of the Ventanas, the million volumes scattered from the shelves at the Imperial Library of All Knowledge, of the paintings ripped from the walls and cast into the muddy streets in front of the Temple of Beautiful and Somewhat Obscure Objects, and of the thrones they would someday occupy and the nations they would rule.

*John Dryden, “To Sir Godfrey Kneller,” 1694.



BIO

Tetman Callis is a writer living in Chicago. His stories have appeared in such publications as NOON, Atticus Review, Cloudbank, Four Way Review, Book of Matches, Queen Mob’s Tea House, and best microfiction 2019. His stories “Georgey-Dear” and “Grilled Cheese Sandwich with Pickles and Fries” have appeared in The Writing Disorder. He is the author of the memoir, High Street: Lawyers, Guns & Money in a Stoner’s New Mexico (Outpost 19, 2012), and the children’s book, Franny & Toby (Silky Oak Press, 2015). His website is https://www.tetmancallis.com; he can also be found on Facebook.






The Advantages of Being a Lit Mag Editor

By Lou Gaglia



The best reason for being a lit mag editor is the money, which far outweighs any corny sense of accomplishment that comes from putting out a product with literary merit. In fact, there are so many reasons for being an editor that I couldn’t possibly catalog them strictly, in order of importance, so I’ll start with money and then think up other advantages that come to mind and write them down before I forget them.

The Money

Editors of lit mags quite often receive generous donations from unknown sources and buy coffee shops and send their kids to college on such donations. I personally know an editor of one major mag who quit his day job as a toy store manager.

“Because of this one person’s generous donation,” he told me recently on his yacht, “I’ll never again have to call a lazy employee to aisle three to help a snotty customer.”

Despite the many unsolicited donations that pour in, most editors hang onto their day jobs, but the smart ones realize they don’t need to be working stiffs any more.

“For a while I was making no money, just reading stories and selling fruit on street corners, and I was thankful whenever I could crash with one of my buddies,” said one editor acquaintance to me. “Most of the time, though, I slept in garbage cans and read stories in the early mornings. I even received some submissions right there in my favorite garbage pail because several writers somehow knew where I was. But now, after a series of very generous donations, I run my lit mag from the comfort of my own garage. I can feed the kids and afford roofing caulk, and later I’ll retire to a condo in Hilton Head or the Hamptons when the time comes and I’m old and feeble and don’t know what a comma is anymore.”

“You’re very lucky,” I told him.

“No, I’m smart,” he said, “and you’d be smart to take up editing yourself. Do you know where to place commas at?”

“Sure, I know where to place commas at,” I said. “What do you think I am?”

“I don’t know what you are,” he answered, “but you ought to try it anyway.”

The Acclaim

My grandmother died long ago, but when I was a small child, she gave me some advice and I’ll never forget it. We were sitting in the living room staring at the walls when she turned to me and grabbed the front of my shirt collar and lifted me up to her face.

“When you get older,” she said to me, “you ought to be an editor of your own literary magazine. They make—” (she was struggling to hold me in the air) “—they make oodles of money, and they are patted on the back by some of the most—the most prominent…”

She couldn’t hold me any longer, so she dropped me, and she never did tell me who would pat me on the back.

Still, I never forgot her words of wisdom, and I’d sure like to make oodles of money someday. One of my editor friends recently showed me his gold cuff links and his private golf course.

“Your grandmother was absolutely right,” he said to me on the fifteenth hole. “We editors have it made. And it’s not just the donations that roll in. It’s the praise we get from some of the most—the most prominent—the most—” He urged me to the next hole because an impatient foursome of editors was up our backs, and he never did tell me who would praise me.

Later, while we were hunting our slices in the woods, he said to me, “Do you know, I was on an assembly line when I decided to start my own lit mag. I was picking ice bags off conveyer belts and brown bagging my lunch, and I couldn’t even feed my own family or the parakeet. But last month I was rich enough to tell my floor manager to stick it. And do you know why?”

I was busy hunting for my ball in the weeds and didn’t answer right away, so he lifted me by my shirt collar. “Do you know why?”

I still didn’t answer because I didn’t remember the original question, so he dropped me in the weeds.

Only later did I recall what he’d asked me. I never did find out why he told his floor manager to stick it. His secretary seldom answered the phone after that, and I came to understand that I was no longer part of his Will.

It’s Easy Work

Being an editor is much easier than most other jobs, because a smart editor only needs to put his feet on a desk, grab a red pencil, and read the first paragraphs of five hundred stories, and if he likes a paragraph, he flips it onto the Read This Later pile. He chucks the others into a bin, then copies and pastes rejection slips for the poor chumps.

“The only pain in the neck part about it for me,” said my friend the former toy store manager, “is that I have to change the names on the rejection slips so that they fit the rejected writer. I wish to God they all had the same name.”

“Why not just address it, Dear Writer?” I suggested.

“Too impersonal. I’m not heartless, you know, and one of those writers may very well be an anonymous donor down the road. So no, I make sure to address rejections personally. That’s why in my submission guidelines I ask writers to include their nicknames.”

“Nice.”

“Last week, though, I had to address three different rejection slips to writers nicknamed Cuddles. It was embarrassing.”

“Still, it all sounds like easy work,” I said.

“That’s true, and if writers keep calling themselves Cuddles, I can always copy and paste that name too, so I don’t have to keep typing it.”

We were walking along his garden pathway. He sighed.

“So, it’s all pretty easy for me, I guess. It doesn’t take much effort to chuck a story onto the reject pile, or ask my wife if she thinks a story is okay or if it sucks. But in a way, it can be rough. Writers are sensitive over rejection—too sensitive, if you ask me—and some of them fall into such bouts of depression. That’s all I need—for some writer to take a swan dive off a cliff because of one of my rejections. If the cops find one of my rejection slips in his pocket, I’m sunk. I tell you, it’s tough having such power.”

We stopped for a martini at the edge of his garden, near statues of other prominent editors and proofreaders. He sighed.

“You can’t blame yourself if a writer takes rejection personally,” I told him.

But he wasn’t listening. He was dabbing at his eyes with a tissue. “I sure hope Cuddles is all right.”

A Family Tradition

Admittedly, editors face enormous pressure—especially one powerhouse editor that I tried to interview. She flipped out on me at Starbucks and made a scene in front of the patrons (who didn’t look over anyway) after I politely asked if she’d teach me where commas go. Most editors, though, are pretty even-tempered, which leads me to one last advantage of being a lit mag editor: it can bring families together.

My friend the ex-toy store manager now runs a family-run rag. He is listed as its founding editor, and his momma is editor-in-chief.  The magazine’s headquarters also doubles as a bakery (“so we can pay the online fees” he explained to me when I knit my brows).

“Momma is a huge help to me,” he told me inside the bakery, over coffee and donuts. “Not only does she run this place, but she knows a good story when she reads one. She replies to some writers personally, but she’s really fast with the slush.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you wouldn’t believe how many submissions we get that are written in crayon. She automatically rejects those and it saves me so much reading time, it’s amazing. And then there are stories about mice. It’s specifically written into our submission guidelines that we don’t like stories about mice, yet writers insist on sending them to us. She does a word search before she even reads a submission, and if mouse or mice show up at all, or even vermin, she sends them form rejections without batting an eye. I’m different, and probably foolish. I read entire pieces. But sometimes I’ll get through almost a whole story, and in the very last paragraph there will be some mouse hurrying across a room, and I’ll roll my eyes and reject it. But Ma, well, she’s amazing. She whips through submission after submission, automatically rejecting stories that end with “The End” or “That’s all, folks.” I don’t even look at an ending until I get to it, so whenever “that’s all folks” shows up at the end, I realize I just wasted my time. I guess I still have a lot to learn.”

He pointed to the bakery counter where a dozen workers took orders and filled boxes with baked goodies.

“See those people? They’re my cousins and aunts and uncles, our proofreaders. They’re some of the richest people in America. And little Sally there…” He pointed to a back room where an older woman sat with a young girl who was drawing circles onto paper with a red crayon. “She’s learning how to get rid of improperly placed commas.”

“Well, isn’t that something,” I said.

“Frankly, buddy, you’d have to be a chump not to be an editor,” he said. “I mean, between the donations, the baked goods, the golf, and the boating, how can you beat it?” He paused. “Well, what do you say, pal?”

I tried to answer but my mouth was stuffed with a bite of cream donut, and I must have had a powder mustache or something, because he looked away with a smirk.



BIO

Lou Gaglia is the author of Poor Advice and Other Stories, and Sure Things & Last Chances. His stories have appeared in Columbia Journal, Eclectica, Blue Lake Review, The Writing Disorder, and elsewhere. He teaches in upstate New York and is a long-time T’ai Chi Ch’uan practitioner. Visit him at lougaglia.com





LOUISE 

by Inez Hollander



I didn’t want to ask for money in a letter to our son.  I told Heinrich at the time that Henry certainly shouldn’t deprive himself. Maybe some cigarette money for Heinrich, if he could spare it. We knew Henry had enough troubles, living out of a suitcase in Paris, and sleeping on park benches. 

I opposed the letter Heinrich wrote. We are a proud people and don’t like to ask for help. Asking for money is what panhandlers do, and begging is beneath us. It is not dignified. It is not how I was raised.

But Henry, bless his heart, would always write back, even though we hadn’t seen or heard from him in years. Poor Lauretta sometimes asked if her brother had died in France. Maybe Heinrich feared that too. He was always eager to hear from Henry, and maybe more so since he had fallen ill. Henry was our only son, you see, and for a long time, he had been the only hope to inherit the tailor business which my father had started after he learned the business in London, from the best— only the best! 

As a boy of six or seven I used to sit at my grandfather’s workbench and read to him while he sewed. I remember him vividly in those moments when, pressing the hot iron against the seam of a coat, he would stand with one hand over the other and look out of the window dreamily […] I remember the expression on his face, as he stood there dreaming, better than the contents of the books I read, better than the conversations we had or the games I played in the streets. 
~ Henry Miller, Tropic of Capricorn (1939)

When it became my turn to write something, I told Henry how the cherry tree, lilac and apple tree were blossoming. Some years we just had enough apples to make a pie. I guess Nature sometimes falls on hard times, too. America, that land of plenty that relatives were writing about to us in Die Heimat was not something we had felt in recent years, but then my family didn’t come here for the plenty. Germany was wrapped up in endless wars. America became the escape hatch for both our families, to make sure our men didn’t turn into cannon fodder. 

The three grandfathers and the two great-grandfathers are huddled near the stove talking about the Franco-Prussian war. 
~ Henry Miller, “The Tailor Shop”, Black Spring (1936)

I sometimes wonder whether we were punished for our dereliction of duty. Prussians, my family, we like to show up and do the job, no questions asked. I’ve always taken orders— that’s how I was raised. Once I had a wart on my finger and it was unsightly, and I asked Henry what to do with it. “Just cut it off!” He said, and I did what I was told, as I always do. Blood everywhere— even on the nice dishes, covered in blood, and then Blutvergiftung. And Henry thought it all hilarious.

Two days later, [Louise] shook her bandaged finger at him shouting: “And you told me to do this?!” Then she slapped him repeatedly. Miller never forgot this bewildering and nightmarish experience.
~ Mary Dearborn, The Happiest Man Alive, A Biography of Henry Miller  (1991)

But to make a long story short as they say here, I never had any problems with following orders and discipline and doing what you have to do, so if I had been a man, I would have enlisted, even if it meant fighting the country where I was born. We were all Americans now. How I suffered when Henry was living with us again— the Great War was in its second or third year and all Henry did was lie in bed till noon. No job to go to, just lolling about. One morning it got me so mad that I filled a bucket of cold water and doused him with it. “You either enlist, or get a job!”  

And what did he do?  

He got married to Beatrice to stay out of the war. Call me superstitious, but all this draft dodging has weakened our family. We escaped the war and arrived in America alright, but we could not flee our past or cancer, craziness or the clap. Maybe we were cursed, paying for the sins of our ancestors.

It always seemed astounding to me how jolly they were in our family despite the calamities that were always threatening. Jolly in spite of everything. There was cancer, dropsy, cirrhosis of the liver, insanity, thievery, mendacity, buggery, incest, paralysis, tape-worms, abortions, triplets, idiots, drunkards, ne’er-do-wells, fanatics, sailors, tailors, watch-makers, scarlet fever, whooping cough, meningitis, running ears, chorea, stutterers, jail-birds, dreamers, story-tellers, bartenders… 
~ Henry Miller, “The Tailor Shop”, Black Spring (1936)

When Henry wrote that long letter from Paris after Heinrich asked him for money, I was a trifle offended by his mention of madness and epilepsy in his letter, but it’s true, it has been rampant in my family. I grew up around it and I, as one of the sane ones, had to keep up appearances while taking care of my mother, and sisters (and Lauretta!) the best I could.  

It taught me discipline. And making do. And not asking too much of others. And staying strong. I have always tried to stay away from emotion— it stirred up too many things, so I learned to be quiet inside and out. It’s better not to ask too many questions or demand too many things. Heinrich was different. He was the talker, and even more so with a little Schnapps. I only talked when necessary. It baffled me how Henry could be such a scribbler. So many words. How did he know so many? If only words could sell like tailored suits or pretty bonnets.  

… this flow and rush of words, this wild, mad, fantastic talk that swelled and grew and gathered momentum—a stream, a torrent, a flood. 
~ Michael Fraenkel, on Miller’s echolalia in “The Genesis of the Tropic of Cancer”, The Happy Rock (1945)

Henry was such a bright little boy, but when he quit his job and wouldn’t want to help take over the tailor business, I thought he had gone mad! I tried to convince him that he needed to help Vati, or rather keep an eye on Vati.

A joint corporation of father and son, with mother holding the boodle.
~ Henry Miller, “The Tailor Shop”, Black Spring (1936)

The tailoring business wasn’t doing so swell and instead of cutting cloth or waiting for the first customer, Heinrich would grab his hat and left! Gone for his 10 AM drink. I told Henry to keep an eye on him and prayed our son might warm to the business. My father was a fine tailor, and every man should learn a trade to pay the bills and feed the mouths at home. 

In the past every member of our family did something with his hands. I’m the first idle son of a bitch with a glib tongue and a bad heart. 
~ Henry Miller, “The Tailor Shop”, Black Spring (1936)

But alas, I’m not sure Henry learned anything. It was beneath him to serve others or maybe his heart wasn’t in it. It made me anxious, if not terrified. 

She got us so damned jumpy with her anxiety that we would choke on our own spittle. 
~ Henry Miller, “The Tailor Shop”, Black Spring (1936)

I would nag every day and ask how the shop was faring, but Henry would clam up. I knew his head was drowning in words. Words, words, words, and maybe not the words I wanted to hear. Maybe he merely tried to spare us both. No, I never cared for a single book he wrote… Anyway, with the way he went on about some of the customers, I should probably have been relieved that he never took over the shop: He would have run it into the ground!

They were ticklish bastards, all these old farts we catered to. It was enough to drive any man to drink. 
~ Henry Miller, “The Tailor Shop”, Black Spring (1936)

Once or twice he grumbled something about who had died, which meant business and black cloth and maybe paying one of the outstanding bills, but the customers were not his thing. I always wanted to know who had died, but even that he wouldn’t disclose. Or when I bothered him long enough, he’d blurt out silliness like: “the dead guy was a bartender who picked his nose with a rusty nail—hail and hearty one day, dead the next!” Imagine that! Picking your nose with a rusty nail! Henry didn’t care about the business or learning something new! He would rather hang out with Ferd Pattee in the back of the shop whose only joy in life was… cheese! 

He was passionate about schmierkäse and Limburger especially— the moldier the better. In between the cheeses he told stories about Heine and Schubert, or he would ask for a match just as he was about to break wind and hold it under his seat so that we could tell the color of the flame. 
~ Henry Miller, “The Tailor Shop”, Black Spring (1936)

It was a world of men. Women ruled the roost at home, but all I had was Lauretta. Heinrich was surrounded by men. Clients, friends, and anyone he’d meet when drinking. Henry may have been introduced to Heinrich’s many “friends”, but ach, es tut mir leid, it did ja nichts, gar nichts for his professional life or future. 

The men my father loved were weak and lovable […] No shred of them remained—nothing but the memory of their blaze and glory. They flow now inside of me like a vast river choked with falling stars. 
~ Henry Miller, “The Tailor Shop”, Black Spring (1936)

I never could get a grip on Henry, or Heinrich for that matter. And because of it, I felt so alone. The two men in my life were missing in action, and I could complain all I wanted. Nothing ever changed.

In those days, women were barely more than workhorses. Unfortunately, my mother didn’t have any alternative. It was just her luck that she got stuck with a son who hated to work.
~ Henry Miller, “My German Heritage”, Reflections (1981)

Who knows, maybe I made it worse. I had hit a wall with them. They were out of reach and untouchable. As if they were as good as dead, or crazy, and locked away like my poor sister. 

These days, we might say that Miller’s dad suffered from a “burnout”. His temperament, however, might have been close to Henry’s in that both father and son simply “dropped out”. For Miller senior this turned into an intense relationship with the bottle but for the son it was more like a rebellion of the heart, that is, a dropping out in favor of a life of the arts and senses. The dad was a dipso, the son, an Epicurean.  
~ Inez Hollander 

Henry was such a daydreamer. Coming home from the tailor shop, he was in a world all his own, and I couldn’t reach him. It worried me. When you’re in your head so much, you go mad, and I had had enough madness in my life! Henry once told me that we were all mad because of incest and inbreeding but I highly doubt it… although when I hear people talking about his books, I wonder how much madness there is in his writing.  

Each morning I write a new book, walking from the Delancey Street station north towards the Waldorf. On the fly-leaf of each book is written in vitriol: The Island of Incest. Every morning it starts with the drunken vomit of the night before it makes a huge gardenia which I wear in the buttonhole of my lapel, the lapel of my double-breasted suit which is lined with silk throughout. I arrive at the tailor shop with the black breath of melancholy, perhaps to find Tom Jordan in the busheling room waiting to have the spots removed from his fly. 
~ Henry Miller, “The Tailor Shop”, Black Spring (1936)

Madness. A living death, that’s what that is. When we travel inward, we meet our own demons and if we listen too much to those, we go moldy and mad in the head. Better ignore those voices. It’s not reality. The imagination can be a gateway to hell. I know that for a fact. I have seen it in my family. Far too much of it. So all I do is stay the course and not dwell on things too much. For sanity’s sake. For the family’s sake.

I am the very essence of that proud, boastful Nordic people who have never had the least sense of adventure but who nevertheless have scoured the earth, turned it upside down, scattering relics and ruins everywhere. Restless spirits, but not adventurous ones. Agonizing spirits, incapable of living in the present. Disgraceful cowards, all of them, myself included. For there is only one great adventure and that is inward toward the self, and for that no time nor space nor even deeds matter. 
~ Henry Miller, Tropic of Capricorn (1939)

Henry’s favorite aunt was Emilie, so I remember writing Henry in Paris about how I would pay her a visit, bringing cake, fruit and homemade boiled ham. The poor soul loved to eat. She looked healthy but then she didn’t have a care in the world. They have regular hours to eat and sleep, but still it is a living death. I was always glad when visiting day was over.  

When Henry was still living with us, she loved gazing (and barking!) at the moon. She was queer even as a child… Then, one day, she was sitting on the stove. The stove was lit but her skirt had not caught fire… yet! Something had to be done. She could light the house on fire and kill everyone in it.

She was fond of Henry and since he had no job to go to, we told him to take her on the trolley and the train and to the country where the home was. When Henry accompanied her, he said she was quiet. She asked about the moon and whether he had brought any liverwurst. He said she seemed to trust him. He said she was half-witted but to him she was a saint. He was upset when he came back. In fact, he was in a state. 

Walking down the gravel path towards the big gates Mele becomes uneasy. Even a puppy knows when it is being carried to a pond to be drowned. Mele is trembling now. At the gate they are waiting for us. The gate yawns. Mele is on the inside, I am on the outside. […] Two great, round eyes, full and black as the night, staring at me uncomprehendingly. No maniac can look that way. No idiot can look that way. Only an angel and a saint. 
~ Henry Miller, “The Tailor Shop”, Black Spring (1936)

Henry said she must have remembered what he called the “bug house”. He remembered it from when we used to visit mother on Blackwell Island. Henry was a grown man, but I could tell he had been crying. He scolded me. Why couldn’t they just let her be? Have her sit by the fire and dream the day away? Why, he said, must everybody work— even the saints and angels? I had nothing to say. She might have set the house on fire— that’s all I know. But Henry was a romantic— that was his German blood. And yet, his words did linger, which is why, I think, we never moved Lauretta into a home.  

In the end, things didn’t work out for Henry at the tailor shop. He was just… too different and contrarian. 

I had need of nobody because I wanted to be free, free to do and to give only as my whims dictated. The moment anything was expected of me or demanded of me I balked. 
~ Henry Miller, Tropic of Capricorn (1939) 

He had always been like that. When I told him to walk, he ran and when I told him to sit, he’d dance. When I told him to pursue Cora, he pursued a widow twice his age, and when he suggested marrying her, I’d had enough of his rebellious ways. I was rummaging through the knives’ drawer, and for a moment I think he thought I would bring out a knife and threaten him, but all I did was slam the drawer shut and wag my finger in his face. I told him he was not going to throw his life away for a woman who might be barren and exploiting him. For once, he may have listened. 

Usually, it was the other way around. After all, I didn’t want him to write, so he became fixated on being a writer, verdammt nochmal. On Emilie’s old sewing table, he wrote, in the front parlor. Even after I asked him to sit away from the window. When the doorbell rang or visitors were expected, I’d rush in and Henry fled into the closet. I just didn’t want to answer any questions. Scribbling was not respectable enough. Artists can’t pay the bills. Having to answer questions about Lauretta was hard enough. Heinrich disagreed. Told me I censored the boy. I didn’t even know what that word meant until I looked it up. I merely put him inside the closet. The closet of American literature, Henry sneered once. 

I would stand in the dark, choking with the stink of camphor balls until the neighbor took leave. Small wonder that I always associated my activity with that of a criminal. 
~ Henry Miller, “Reunion in Brooklyn”, Sunday After the War (1944)

I wanted Henry to succeed but all that scribbling business was poppycock and fiddle sticks. When you have two children and your youngest can’t even finish school, you need all the help you can get to provide for the family. I had hoped Henry could be there for us, but I fear I drove him away. He was such a good boy. And such a bright child. What a waste of talent! Yes, we had plenty of fights. I nagged and scolded, but he was slippery as an eel. He did whatever he wanted. And that was that. He was out of my hands.  

Mothers can be fatal to their sons […] She that gives life also blocks the way to freedom. 
~ Camille Paglia, Sexual Personae (1990)

My mother was the Northern type, cold, critical, proud, unforgiving and puritanical […] It was against her, against all that she represented that I directed my uncontrollable energy. Never until I was fifty did I once think of her with affection […] I felt her shadow across my path constantly. It was a shadow of disapproval, silent and insidious like a poison injected into my veins. 
~ Henry Miller, The Time of the Assassins: A Study of Rimbaud (1946)

Haunted. Maybe that’s too strong a word, but I felt haunted by Henry’s lack of success. Not as a writer but as a man who can feed his family. That came first, though clearly not for him. It went from annoyance to aggravation. And I started to badger him. 

She belittled me constantly. Any effort I made was never good enough. She tried to scold and shame me into respectability.  
~ Henry Miller, “My Mother”, Reflections (1981)

It breaks my heart. I know I pushed him away, but maybe I also, eventually, pushed him to write. 

When finally I found the courage to write what I’d been storing up for years, it came pouring out into one long relentless tirade. Beginning with the earliest memories of my mother, I had saved up enough hatred, enough anger, to fill a hundred books.  
~ Henry Miller, “My Mother”, Reflections (1981)

No! Didn’t I say so earlier?! I never read anything he wrote. I had a feeling it wasn’t meant for my eyes. I wasn’t even sure I wanted to be known as the mother of Henry Miller, the author. And when his books couldn’t be published here, I knew it was because he wrote scandalous, daffy things. That’s his contrarian side, you see? We rage because we want to rebel. 

It was only natural that I should become a rebel, an outlaw, a desperado. I blame my parents, I blame society, I blame God. I accuse. I go through life with finger lifted accusingly. I have the prophetic itch. I curse and blaspheme. I tell the bitter truth. 
~ Henry Miller, “Uterine Hunger”, The Wisdom of the Heart (1941)

I love all those men who are called rebels and failures. I love them because they are so human, so ‘human-all-too-human.’”
~ Henry Miller, The Time of the Assassins: A Study of Rimbaud  (1946)

 And maybe he was still rebelling against me, writing those dirty books. I did my best I could to be pleasant and civil. But I knew he had rejected me. When I heard his first novel was called Clipped Wings, I had the uneasy feeling that he was trying to tell me that I had clipped his wings. But apparently it was a book about messengers, and his first real job. He lost that manuscript. He lost so many things. His common sense is one thing. And maybe he lost me as well, or rather we were both lost to each other.  

The mother from whose loins I sprang was a complete stranger to me. 
~ Henry Miller, Tropic of Capricorn (1939) 

It was not for lack of trying. I loved him dearly even though I could never utter those words. It was simply not done in my family.  

His mother was wearing a fur muff and he never forgot the pleasure of slipping his cold hands into the warm fur. From his talk I would guess that was the only kind of warmth his mother could give him, against snow and cold, animal fur and no human warmth. 
~ Anaïs Nin, January 1935, The Diary of Anaïs Nin, vol. 2: 1934-1935 (1967)

I loved him and just didn’t accept his life choices. Although June, his second wife, had something to say about that, which shook me profoundly. During a Christmas dinner, when I, once again, inquired about money and jobs and making something of yourself, she said: “If you don’t accept him as a writer, you’ll never have him as a son.”  

June was drunk. But sometimes drunks tell the truth. I knew that from Heinrich. He sometimes made more sense when he was drunk than when he was sober. So maybe I drove Henry away, and drove him abroad. Who can say? For years and years, he was gone.

It has been found that phantasies [sic] of exploring the mother’s body, which arise out of the child’s aggressive sexual desires, greed, curiosity and love, contribute to the man’s interest in exploring new countries […] In the explorer’s unconscious mind, a new territory stands for a new mother. He is seeking the “promised land”, the “land flowing with milk and honey.” 
~ Melanie Klein, Love, Guilt and Reparation & Other Works, 1921-1945 (1975)

When he finally did come home, it was such a happy family reunion! To see him walk through the door! He was late but for days we had been anticipating his arrival. We had hung up new drapes and made lunch, Lauretta and I, and when he stepped into the hallway, full of life, and stories of Paris and Greece, I had to excuse myself and wipe away some tears in the kitchen. It was like, like the…verlorene Sohn. I wanted to hug him, and kiss him and hold him but did none of the above. When it came time to go, I rushed toward him, wanting to put my arms around him but something in him made me recoil. Stepping back, I focused on his sleeve instead. I held him back momentarily and picked at a loose thread that was sitting there.  

The climax came when, just as I was about to slip into my overcoat, my mother in a tearful voice came rushing up to me and holding me by the arm, said: “Oh Henry, there’s a thread on your coat!” A thread, by Jesus! That was the sort of thing she would give attention to! The way she uttered the word thread was as if she had spied a leprous hand sticking out of my coat pocket. All her tenderness came out in removing that little white thread from my sleeve. Incredible—and disgusting! 
~ Henry Miller, “Reunion in Brooklyn”, Sunday After the War (1944)

When Heinrich died, Henry arrived too late. To allay his feelings of guilt, I told him that Heinrich had told the nurses about his “wonderful son,” which moved Henry to tears. Or so I think. Unlike me, he cried easily. When he kissed Heinrich in the coffin, he most certainly wept. I did not, as I think one should only weep in private. One puts an unnecessary burden on others when they see you cry. People don’t know what to do with tears or grief.  

With Heinrich gone, the house became very quiet and solemn. Lauretta started looking after me when I felt more and more fatigued. I couldn’t even finish my letters to Henry.  

Dear Henry, thank you for the gift. Mother is fine. I am taking good care of her. 
~ Lauretta Miller, in a 1944 letter, Henry Miller Collection, UCLA

In 1945, Emilie died. Annie and Mary rushed to her bedside for a last embrace. She had been living in that asylum for more than thirty years. It surely was a mixed blessing, her death.  

Henry and I lost touch again. A letter here, a letter there, an occasional check, even though I told him not to, for now he had two children of his own in a house overlooking the Pacific. After the hullabaloo of Paris, I thought he might get bored there but he seemed very content. Maybe he was finally growing up, being an actual father… the father he hadn’t been to Barbara, the daughter he had with Beatrice, his first wife.  

And then, one day, the doorbell rang, and imagine what? Lepska, Henry’s third wife, and the kids filled up the house with blondness, gaiety and joy. Two little angels… and Tony looked so much like Henry when he was that age! Lauretta and I were over the moon. I wanted to buy them gifts but being too ill, I couldn’t make it to the store. Lepska made pictures of the visit and when I received them in the mail, I showed them off to whoever wanted to see them.  

In those years, we also had an unexpected visit of a man by the name of Alfred Perlès, who had lived with Henry in Paris. He told me all about what a great writer Henry had become. I told him that Henry had always been a good boy. Maybe that was a strange thing to say. Maybe it implied that he was a good boy but not a good man but what I meant is that I saw his promise to be a good man when he was a little boy. For a moment, a tear welled up in my eye, and not wanting to show my emotions, I turned away and coughed. Mr. Perlès may have noticed it and may have even told Henry about it. I wish that would have been the last of it.  

When I became really ill with cancer of the liver and could no longer take care of myself or have Lauretta look after me, Henry came to care for me and although there were things I wanted to say to him, all that came out was past recriminations. I failed him and I failed myself.  

And now it is too late. The end is near as I become weaker every day. I struggle and resist, not because I want to hold onto life, but because I am worried about Lauretta. Henry said he will take care of her but he never took care of Beatrice and Barbara, so how can I trust him? I wish Heinrich were here to reassure me about Henry. And Lauretta. I wish I could unsay some of the things I blurted out when Henry helped me out of the bed this morning. I wish I knew what I know now. I wish… 

========== 

Louise Miller died on March 21st, 1956. When our mothers die, part of us, our childhood, a part of our identity, our achievements die with them.  

Yet Henry remained haunted by her presence. He simply could not wash her out of his system. Even in the funeral parlor, Henry claimed, she would have her eye on him: When stooping over her coffin, one of her eyes opened and stared at him. 

Having been born half an hour after midnight on December 26th, 1891, Miller also blamed her controlling, retentive womb for failing to deliver him on Christmas Day. At the same time, Miller couldn’t have blamed it all on Louise’s womb. When describing DH Lawrence, Miller was essentially describing himself: “He was a man struggling to free himself from the womb. He could not get born.”[1]

Undoubtedly, this started his strange fascination with the womb as a source of creation and destruction, attraction and repulsion, life and death… and always the struggle to get born (and reborn). Or in the words of his friend and fellow writer, Michael Fraenkel: “Miller who pries into these orifices, openings, crevices, Miller in the symbolic belly of the whale, is not simply the scatophage or the irresponsible, but Miller the suffering man who has entered ‘the festering’ wound to cleanse it, to be cleansed, to come clean of the past, to be born.”[2] 

His gnarly obsession and fixation with his mother didn’t fade over time. He would go looking for many mothers in the relationships he had with women but he could not finish the unfinished business with his mother.  Until late in life, when people asked him about her, he always mentioned her lack of warmth and love.  

It is striking, in this context, that Miller wrote that his earliest childhood memory was not a memory of his mother, but a remembrance “of the cold, the snow and ice in the gutter, the frost on the window panes, the chill of the sweaty green walls in the kitchen” (Tropic of Capricorn). One could see this as a metaphor, or rather, a metonym of the coldness of his mother. 

In his writing, and real life, he hadn’t been able to fix this relationship but in his dreamworld, which he cultivated and relished, he managed to get to Devachan or what we call Limbo in Catholic theology. In his dream, the first person he meets is his mother and overwhelmed with emotion, all he can say is “Mother, dear Mother.” His mother has undergone a complete transformation. She is everything she wasn’t in real life, i.e. a loving, tolerant and proud parent.  

At the end of the dream, which really feels more like a vision than a dream, his mother fades away to return to Earth. It triggers a panic in him, not unlike like the panic of a little boy who has lost sight of his mom in a busy shopping mall.  

But then he suddenly sees her again, on her way out. She’s waving goodbye: “With that I stood up, my eyes wet with tears, and giving a mighty shout, I cried: ‘Mother, I love you. I love you! Do you hear me?’ I imagined that I saw a faint smile illumine her face and then suddenly she was no more. I was alone, but more alone than I had ever felt on Earth, and I would be alone, perhaps, for centuries or who knows, perhaps through all eternity.”[3] 

Miller had found, and finally lost his mother again four years before he’d die himself. The existential dread that follows makes sense. Mothers allow us to exist but when they don’t or can’t see us and appreciate us as mothers (anymore), we may feel invisible and dead. This dark, black hole is the one Henry tried to fill for most of his life. It explains the sex, it explains the dysfunctional sex, it explains his relationships with and writing about women. He was damaged. But then so was Louise… 
~ Inez Hollander 



BIO

Inez Hollander, Ph.D., is a writer and translator. In 1999, she published a biography of the American novelist and journalist Hamilton Basso with Louisiana State University Press, which were followed by two memoirs, Ontwaken uit de Amerikaanse droom (Amsterdam: Archipel, 2004) and Silenced Voices (Athens: Ohio University Press, 2008).

In spite of the long overdue #MeToo movement, Hollander feels that Henry Miller’s work deserves a second hearing. She tries to do this in her new, creative nonfiction manuscript and bio-memoir Crazy Cock.

Following his life and work through the different and most important women in his life, she has channeled the women’s point of view and feelings which are so woefully absent from his autobiographical novels. This puts Miller in a different light, as a man, and an important American writer.



[1] Henry Miller quoted by Michael Fraenkel’s Bastard Death: The Autobiography of an Idea (Paris: Carrefour, 1936) 41-42.

[2] Michael Fraenkel, The Genesis of the Tropic of Cancer”, The Happy Rock, A Book about Henry Miller (Berkeley: Packard Press, 1945) 49.

[3] Henry Miller, “Mother, China, and the World Beyond,” Sextet (1977; New York: New Directions Book) 164.

Bradyphrenia

by Justin Reamer




‘IT’S-A ME, MARIO!’ Mario. Next my pillow, smiling. Blue eyes glowing. Red hat. Letter M. Red M. Large nose. Large to pull. Eyes opening. My eyes. Mario looks. Sees me. Smiling. I tired. Mario smiling. ‘It’s-a me, Mario!’ Shouting. Happy. Eyes gaze on Mario. Mario friend. Mario my best friend. He like me. Mario happy. Brown hair under red hat. Black moustache. Hair different from moustache. Why different? Must like hair-dye. Wears red shirt. Red shirt under blue pants. Blue pants with yellow buttons. White gloves. Brown shoes. Mario happy. Me? Waking up. Tired. Still waking up. Mario wake me up. Eyes still adjusting. Hands still, feet still. Yawn. Tired. Body under covers, in bed. Feel warm. Body under covers. Bed comfortable. Humming of lights. Hmmmm… Low hum. Hmmmm… Very low hum. Hmm… Very, very low hum. Hmmmmm… Not too loud. Hmmmm… Humming not bad. Quiet. Not loud. Loud hurts my ears. Mario smiling still. Cannot feel my feet yet. Still in bed. Hands still, feet still. Can’t move. Feel tired. Why tired? Just woke up. Not move yet. Don’t feel like. Need to lie. Few minutes. Few if okay. Few I need. Few more, I need now.

   Dryer loud downstairs. Hrrrrmmmm! It rolls. Hrrrrrmmmm! Very loud through muffled floor. Hrrrmmm! Continues to run. Very loud for ears. Very loud when close. Hrrrmmmm! Muffled when away. Not so loud. Slightly quiet. But loud even through floor. Hrrrrmmmm! Don’t like loud. Loud bad for ears. Can’t stand. No like. No like at all. Hrrrrmmmm! Continues to run. Mommy does dryer. Dryer for laundry. She uses for laundry. Does laundry with dryer. She like. I no like. Too loud. Hurt my ears. Hrrrrmmmm! Lights hum in my room. Hmmmm… Lights hum quietly. Hmmmm… Quiet unlike dryer. Hmmmm… Dryer too loud. No like dryer. Mario no like, either. Hurts his ears, too. Dryer loud for him. So says. I like quiet. You like quiet? Quiet nice. Soothing. Better for me. Too loud bad. Too loud hurts. Still in bed. Hear dryer downstairs. Dryer for laundry. Never want to be around. Bed warm. Bed comfortable. Mario like bed, too. Mario is my friend. We like bed. Bed nice and warm.

   ‘Good morning, Oak!’

   A voice. Know that voice? Whose voice? Mommy’s voice. Mommy nearby. Mommy in my room. Mommy be here soon? Mommy, I know. Mommy nice. Mommy, I like. Mommy nice. Mommy nice to me. Mommy, I like a lot. Reads me bedtime stories. Mario like her, too. Mommy in my room. She has nice voice. I like Mommy a lot.

   Mommy: ‘Time to get up, sweetie. We have to get you to school.’

   Mommy entering room. Mommy now in room. Turns lights on brighter. Ow! My eyes! Hurts! Pain! Ouch! Hurt eyes. Eyes hurt. Close lids. Burns. Eyes burn. Eyes hurt. Huge owie. No like owie. Owie bad. Owie really bad. No like owie. Owies hurt. Need boo-boo bunny. Boo-boo bunny help pain. Boo-boo bunny make owies bye-bye. Boo-boo bunny good. Mario like bunny. Me like, too. Need bunny. Eyes hurt. No like hurt eyes. Owie. Owies hurt. Have bunny? Have bunny, Mommy? Need bunny. Eyes hurt. Please bunny. Like bunny. Need bunny. Eyes hurt. Please bunny. Need bunny, Mommy. Eyes hurt. Owie. Owie bad. Owie bad. Mommy? Speak.

   Mommy: ‘Sorry, Oak.’

   Still pain. Owie. Painful sting. Couple seconds. Bunny not here. Where bunny? Eyes hurt. Need bunny. Bunny. Where bunny? Eyes hurt. Owie? Owie going away? Still hurt. Voice? Voice speak.

   Mario: ‘Oh, no!’

   Mario shout. He upset, too.

   Mario: ‘Mama mia!’

   Mario upset. Lights hurt eyes. Both our eyes. Hurt both.

   Mommy: ‘Sorry, Oak. I know it stings, but I didn’t mean to hurt you. I really am, sweetheart. Are you okay, honey?’

   Agh! Wanna scream! Really wanna scream. Hurt eyes. Agh! I feel…What feel? Eyes adjust. Light not so bright, not so loud. Feel…better…Feel…okay…I okay. Mario okay, too. Smile. I laugh. It funny. I like laughing. Laughing fun. Laughing good for me. Laughing, I like. Eyes hurt no more. Mario like, too. No more pain. We like a lot. Happy, we are.

   Mommy: ‘I’m glad to see you’re okay, Oak.’

   Mommy smiling. I like Mommy. Mommy nice.

   Mommy: ‘We have to get ready for school, okay?’

   School? School. Place go every morning? Mommy take me? Is school? Yes. School. Place with tables and chairs. School. That’s name. School. Lights humming. Hmmmm… Low hum. Hmmmm… Still hums, even in bed. I hear. Hmmmm… Can hear lights. Hmmmm… Not loud. Okay. Mommy around. Important. Mommy nice. Trust Mommy.

   Mommy: ‘Are you ready to get out of bed, Oak?’

   Bed? Still lying. Body under covers. Should get out? Ready yet? Covers warm. Like warm. Warmth nice. Take myself out? Body ready to move? What do? Body get out of bed. I get out of bed. That I going do. My hands and feet out bed. Remove covers. Move hands and feet. Get out bed. Must get out of bed. Can get out of bed. Will get out bed. I get out bed. Shall succeed. Make Mommy happy. No make Mommy angry. Mommy angry when stay. Mommy no like stay. Get out make Mommy happy. Mommy nice when happy. Need make happy. Scary when angry. Need make happy. Be good boy. Nice when Mommy happy. I happy, too. Feeling my feet…my hands…my arms…my legs…still…slowly moving…now move. Pull off covers. Move feet. Move hands. Pull myself out bed. Feet on ground. Standing. Standing two feet. Out of bed. In bed no longer. Mario in arms. Mario happy, too. Mario out of bed, too. Me and Mario happy. We out of bed.

   Mommy: ‘Great job, Oak. Now, it’s time to take your medication.’

   Lights humming in background. Hmmmmmm… Low hum still. Hmmmmmmm… Very quiet. Still hear. Not so loud. Mommy reaches. What reaching for? Bottle. Brown bottle. Brown bottle, white cap. Look funny. Rattles. Rattles like maracas. Venomous? Is it? No, not venomous. Rattlesnake venomous. Bottle not. Bottle rattle, though. Sounds funny. Stings my ears a little. Ch! Ch! Ch! Ch! Rattles. Bottle rattles. Loud. Ch! Ch! Ch! Ch! Hurts my ears. Mommy stop? Please? Hurts. Please stop. Grab bottle, but Mommy snatch. ‘It’s okay. We’ll just make sure you get your medication, okay?’ Bottle open. Pwuh! Puts finger in bottle. Grabs square. White square come out. Fingers hold it. Holds what? White square? What is? Pill? Oh, no. Pill taste bad. No like pill. Mommy hold, look at me. Avert gaze. Lower eyes. No want pill. Pill taste bad. Gross.

   Mommy: ‘Now, put this in your mouth and swallow, okay, Oak?’

   Puts in mouth. Taste bitter. Yuck! Very gross. Taste terrible. Want to spit out. Swallow, though. Must swallow. Swallow make Mommy happy. Mommy nice when happy. Be a good boy. Swallow bitter pill. Taste terrible. Mommy happy, though. Better when Mommy happy. Close bottle. Put away. Rattle stop. Takes out another. Repeat three times. All yucky, all gross. Don’t like. Taste bad. All them. Tastes blucky. Must swallow, though. Swallow, Mommy happy. Like my Mommy happy. I good boy. Swallow. I swallow. Mommy happy. I good boy. Mommy happy now. I happy, too. Me good. I love Mommy. Mommy the best.

   Mommy: ‘Okay, Oak. Time for you to use the bathroom, oaky?’

   Bathroom? What that? Bath. B-A-T-H. Bath. Water. Splashing water. Lots of water. Toys inside. Soaps and suds. Bubbles. Warm water. Bath. Bathtub. That bath. Room. R-O-O-M. Tables. Chairs. Couch. TV. Nintendo. Rug. Carpet. Room. That room. Bath-room. Bathroom. Room where bath is. Room I take bath. Bathroom. That’s bathroom.

   Mommy: ‘I’ll get you dressed after you go potty, okay?’

   Mommy grabs hand. Holds hand. Walks with me. Walk toward door. Grabs doorknob. Fingers rotate. CATCHIKH! Doorknob rotates. Door opens. ERRRRREEEEEEE! Door screeches. Ouch! Loud in ears. Very loud. Hurts. Really hurts. Tears in eyes. Really painful. Can’t stand. Really hurts. Really hurts a lot. Really…

   Mommy: ‘It’s okay, Oak. I have you. You’re going to be okay. Come with me.’

   Mommy comforts me. Feel calm. Voice soft, soothing. Relaxing. Like her voice. Voice nice. Voice very nice. I like Mommy. Mommy really nice. Mommy best. Okay now. I okay. Will be okay. Walk down hallway. Leading me. Holds hand. Another door. Already open. Lights buzzing. Hmmmmmm… Low hum. Hmmmmmm… Walk into room. Room big. Bright lights. Blue paint. Hmmmmmm… Lights hum. Always humming. Hmmmmmm… Giant bowl in corner. Leads me toward it.

   Mommy: ‘Time to go potty, Oak.’

   Giant bowl in front. Leads me to it. Bowl full of water. Has seat. Seat like chair. Opens seat. DUNK! Porcelain. Seat clanks with porcelain. This bowl has water. See handle. Silver handle. Flushes. Oh, no! No like flushing! Flushing loud in ears. Hurt my ears. No like. Please, Mommy. No like. Please.

   Mommy: ‘It’s okay, Oak. Just go potty, okay?’

   Okay. Make Mommy happy. Like Mommy happy. Need to make. No make in pants. Makes Mommy angry. Need to make. No make in pants. Be a good boy. Hold my butt. No make in pants. Need to make. Hold my butt. Make Mommy happy. No make in pants. Go in white bowl. Make Mommy happy. Be a good boy. I good.

   Mommy grabs waist. Lifts me off ground. Flying. I fly. Feet dangling. WHEEE! This is fun! I airplane. I like flying. Flying fun. Can do more? Land on seat. Mommy place me. Need make. I high above ground. Feet dangling. Can see floor from above.

   Mommy: ‘Go potty, Oak. Are you ready?’

   Need to make. Hold butt for Mommy. No want Mommy angry. Need to make. Wait for Mommy. No make in pants. Make Mommy angry.

   Mommy: ‘I am going to take off your pants, Oak, and then you can go potty. Are you ready?’

   Chick! Button unbuckled. Zzzzp! Zipper lowered. Pulling down pants. Feels funny. Feels very funny. No like. No like. Cannot stand. Please stop. Please stop, Mommy. No like. No like. Tears. Mommy…

   Mommy: ‘It’s okay, Oak. I’ve got your pants down. Now, you can go potty.’

   Butt on seat. Cold seat. Brrrrrr! Very cold. No like cold. Brrrrrr! Shiver. Very cold seat. No like cold seat. Brrrrrr! Then go. Need make. Make now. Pluck-plakh! Make. Spsh! Splash in water. Sound funny. Feel better. Less pressure. Pluck-plakh! More sound. Spsh! Another splash. Sound funny. Less pain. Make in white bowl. Not in pants. Make in bowl. Pppppffffffffft! A sound. Funny sound. Sounds funny. Ppppfffffft! Funny. Funny sound. Laugh. So funny. Can’t stop laughing. Butt speak. Butt sound funny. Why butt sound funny? Why speak in funny? Ppppppppppfffffffpppppptt! Butt speak again. Laughing. So funny. Laugh. I like sound. Sound funny. Can’t stop. Pppppffttt! Laugh more. Funny. Like funny. Butt funny. I like butt. Butt an old friend. We old friends. I like butt. Mario like, too. Make funny sound. Make Mommy happy.

   Mommy: ‘All right. That’s enough, Oak. Let’s get you down, okay?’

   Mommy bend over. Grab waist. Fingers wrapped around me. Lifts me. Flying. I fly again. Land on the floor. Feet on floor. Feel feet on ground. Ground very still.

   Mommy: ‘I’m going to pull up your pants, okay? Then we’ll get you changed.’

   Fingers grab pants. Lifts them up. Feels weird. No like. No like at all. Zzzzzp! Zipper up. Chick! Button buttoned.

   Mommy: ‘Good. Now, I’ll flush the toilet.’

   Toilet? What that? Mommy look at bowl. Giant bowl. Hand out, lever reached. That bowl. No! Loud in ears. No like flush. Flush bad for ears. Tears in eyes. Please, Mommy. Please no. Hurt ears. Please. No me like. Hurt ears.

   Mommy: ‘I’m going to flush this, okay, Oak? You might want to leave the room.’

   Leave the room? An exit? Move head. Door behind me. Open. Move legs. Run behind door. Wall. Brown wall. Crouch. Crouch on ground. Cover ears. Giant waterbowl loud. Too loud. Cover ears. Don’t like pain. Hurt ears. PHECH-EWWWW-WHOOSHHHHH! Loud flush. Very loud. AHHHH! Hurting ears. Ouch! It hurts. Can’t stand it. GAAAAHHH! Hurts ears. No like. Make it stop! Make it stop! Painful. Make it stop! QUA-QUA-QUA! More noise. Toilet painful. Tears in eyes. Really hurts. Can’t stand it. Really hurts. A lot. Gaaahhhh! Make it stop! Make it stop! Hurting me. Gaaahhhh! Cannot compute! Cannot compute! Head no work. No work. Make it stop! Pounding head. Cannot compute. Pounding head. Head against wall. Brain won’t work. Gaaaaahhhhhh! Thud! Thud! Thud! Thud! Banging head. Thud! Thud! Thud! Thud! Head banging. Thud! Thud! Thud! Thud! Too much noise. No workie! Gaaaaaaahhhhh! Thud! Thud! Thud! Thud! No workie. No workie. Bad. Bad! Thud! Thud! Thud! Thud! Bad. Too much. Really bad! Thud! Thud! Thud! Thud! No workie.

   Mommy: ‘Oak, what are you doing?’

   Thud! Thud! Thud! Thud!

   Mommy: ‘Oak, stop that! You’re gonna hurt yourself.’

  Thud! Thud! Thud! Thud!

   Mommy: ‘Oak, cut it out. Stop banging your head. You’re going to hurt yourself. Stop it, you hear me? Stop it!’

   Thud! Thud! Thud! Thud! Gaaaahhhh! Thud! Thud! Thud! Thud! Ugh! Collapse. Back on ground.

   Mommy: ‘Oak?’

   Tired.

   Mommy: ‘Oak?’

   Tired.

   Mommy: ‘Oak, are you okay?’

   Tired.

   Mommy: ‘Oak, sweetie, are you all right?’

   Tired.

   Mommy: ‘Oak?’

   . . . . .

   Long pause.

   Mommy: ‘Oak, it’s okay, honey. Mommy’s here.’

   Brain back. Tired.

   Mommy: ‘It’s going to be okay.’

   Wake up. Stand.

   Mommy: ‘You ready to get up and get changed?’

   Yup. I love Mommy. Tired, but love Mommy. Time to get up. Get up. Change.

   Mommy: ‘Sorry I hurt your ears, Oak.’

   Mommy nice.

   Mommy: ‘It’ll be okay.’

   Love Mommy.

   Mommy: ‘Let’s get changed, okay?’

   Mommy help me. Mommy change. I change. Clothes change. Change clothes. Downstairs we go. I like Mommy. Mommy the best. Continue downstairs. Mommy the best.

Table. Brown table. Shiny table. Shiny table glowing under yellow light. Light humming. Hmmm… Table brown under yellow light. Yellow light illuminate room. White light far off. Table brown. White and yellow light, both on ceiling.Mario on table. Mario happy. I in chair. Sitting in chair. Waiting for Mommy. Mommy here, too. Someone else. A voice.

   Voice: ‘What happened to Oak, Mommy?’

   Sister. Emily. Emily’s voice.

   Emily: ‘Why was he crying?’

   Mommy’s voice.

   Mommy: ‘He was upset, Emily. That’s all. Why don’t you eat your breakfast, okay?’

   See Mommy’s voice. Eyes gaze at table. Mario in lap. Mario see Mommy, too. Mario understand. Emily speak.

   Emily: ‘Okay, Mommy. I still think he’s weird, though. He cries too much.’ No understand. Weird? What mean? Buzzing lights. Hmmmmm… Low hum. Hmmmm… Not loud. Quiet enough. I like quiet. No hurt ears.

   Mommy: ‘Now, don’t say that about your brother, Emily. He’s just different. That’s all.’

   Humming lights. Hmmmm… Low hum. Hmmmm…

   Emily: ‘But why can’t he be normal like the rest of us? He always wastes so much time. He’s such a weirdo.’

   Weirdo? What mean? What weirdo? Who? Weirdo? Barking dog. Arf! Rover. Beneath table. Arf! Barking. Arf! Arf! Barking a lot. No like. Mario no like, either. Humming lights. Hmmmm… Low hum. Hmmmm…

   Mommy: ‘Just eat your breakfast, Emily, so we can go to school. Sound good?’

   Clang! Bowl on counter. Really loud. Clang! Ding! Dang! Bowl on table. Very loud. Need cover ears. Ears can’t stand. Hurts ears, noise does. No like. I no like at all. Lights hum, too. Hum like bumblebees near flowers. Hmmmmm… Low hum. Hmmmm… Hovering bumblebees in garden. Hmmmm… Pollen tasty. Hmmmmm… Low hum.

   Emily: ‘Yes, Mommy.’

   Humming continues. Blowing air vents, too. Whirr. Whirr. Wind blowing. Whirr. Whirr. Hear in ceiling. Whirr. Whirr. A soft blow. Soothing to Mario. Soothing to me. Nice. Like wind. Nice wind. A voice. Hear it? Whose? Mommy’s. Mommy speaks.

   Mommy: ‘Now, Oak, I’m going to pour you some cereal, okay? Let’s eat breakfast so we can get you to school.’

   Brown table glows in yellow light. White light even brighter. What saying?

   {Breakfast school?}

   Are they words?

   Emily: ‘No, we’re not having breakfast at school, Oak. We’re having breakfast here. You’re not that stupid, are you?’

   {Stupid?}

   No not say. What mean?

   Mommy: ‘Emily, be nice to your brother. Eat your cereal, okay?’

   Humming lights. Whirring breeze. Mario smile. Mario understand.

   {Breakfast school?}

   Smile. Mommy smile. Smile back. Why smile? Mommy speaking.

   Her voice: ‘Yes, Oak. We’ll get you to school. Let’s eat your breakfast, okay?’

   Cling! Bowl on counter. Ouch! Loud. Very loud. Hurts. Hurts ears. ‘I’ll pour you cereal, okay?’ DING-DING-CLANG-DING! More crashing. Ouch! Loud. No like. Really no like. Hurts ears. No like. PSH-WHOOOOSSSSHHH! Pouring of liquid. What that? Not sound good. No like.

   Mommy: ‘All right, Oak. Eat up.’

   Mommy’s hands. Hands on table. Bowl. Bowl placed in front. Front of me. See in my eyes. Bits and orts. Grains. Food grains. Food grains floating in liquid. White liquid. What liquid? Milk. White liquid milk. Silver thing. Silver utensil. Spoon.

   Mommy: ‘Eat up, Oak.’

   Cling! Spoon on bowl. Ouch! Hurts. Not nice. Crunch, crunch, crunch! Chewing. Sister chewing. Emily chewing. Chewing cereal. Gulp! Swallow. Swallow cereal. Cereal down throat. Cling! Spoon again. Collides with bowl. Hurts. Cover my ears.

   Mommy: ‘Right, I forgot your earmuffs. Here, Oak. Use these.’

   Earmuffs over ears. Muffs good. Muffs better than none. Allow me to quiet. Quiet always nice. Going to eat cereal. Going to grab spoon. Going put food in mouth. Going to chew. Going to swallow. See my hand lifting spoon. See put food in mouth. See me chew. See me swallow. Can eat cereal. Can grab spoon. Can put food in mouth. Can chew. Can swallow. Fingers move. Move fingers. Fingers twitch. Raise hand. Right hand. Hand reach bowl. Fingers grab silver. Can do it. Can do it. Can do it always. Fingers silver wrapped. Lift right hand. Milk flowing in curve. Grains flowing in. Lift hand to head. Spoon in mouth. Close mouth. Wrap lips around. Move spoon out, hand backward. Chew grains. Crunch, crunch, crunch. Chewing. Tastes sweet. Soggy. Very soggy. Like moist sugar. Gulp! Swallow. Liquid down throat. Grains down throat. Repeat. Clang! Spoon against bowl. Crunch, crunch, crunch. Chewing. Gulp! Do again! Tastes good, too. Repeat. Repeat. Want more. Scooping and scooping. Bowl empty. Full. Stomach full. Feel better. Food good. Cereal good. Not bad. I like. Mario likes, too. We both happy. Wait Mommy. See what Mommy says. Mommy knows best.

   Muffs off.

   Mommy: ‘All right, Oak. I’ll brush your teeth for you. Let’s go upstairs, okay?’

   Scratch head.

   {Upstairs?}

   Confusion. Not sure. What she want?

   Mommy: ‘To the bathroom, Oak. We’ll brush your teeth.’

   Bathroom. Flushing toilet. No like sound. But bathroom. Understand! Love baths. Mario, too. ‘It’s-a me, Mario!’ Mommy.

   Mommy: ‘No, Oak. Mario doesn’t need his teeth brushed. Please leave him here.’

   Takes Mario.

   Mommy: ‘Let’s brush your teeth.’

   To bathroom. See Mario soon. Bye, Mario! See you soon! Mommy hold hand. Walk stairs. Back to bathroom. Lots of walking. Stairs big. Move up. Reach the top. Hallway above. Go in door. Shhhhh! Water running. Faucet, sink. Emily. Emily brushing teeth. Chigga-chigga-chigga! Scraping teeth. Sounds weird. Shhhhh! Still running, water in sink. Shhhhh! Sounds nice. Not too loud. No hurt ears. Me like. Mommy standing at sink.

   Voice: ‘Okay, Oak. We’re going to brush your teeth, okay?’

   Drrrruurrrr! Open drawer. White tube. Long and white. Long and white with cap. Fwit-fwit! Cap off. Plickew! Paste on brush.

   Mommy: ‘Open wide, Oak.’

   Open my mouth.

   Mommy: ‘Say, “Ah!”’

   Open mouth.

   {Ahhh!}

   Brush in mouth. Scrubbing teeth. Feels weird. No like. Brush. Brush continues. No like. Chigga-chigga-chigga-chigga! Scrubbing teeth. No like. Hurts teeth. Chigga-chigga! Chigga-chigga! Brushing. Minty taste. Gross. Blucky. No like. Taste bad. No like. Chigga-chigga! Chigga-chigga! Brushing finish.

   Mommy: ‘All right, Oak. Rinse out your teeth.’

   Ptooie! Spit out paste. Gross. Mint gross. Taste bad. Bleckh! Disgusting. No like. Taste really bad. Ilkh! No like. Gragga-gragga! Water in mouth. Schwuck-schwuck! Shake head. Water in mouth. Ptooie! Spit out. Disgusting. Bad taste. Taste gone. Better.

   Mommy: ‘Great job, Oak. Now, we’ll go to school. Come on, Emily. Let’s go.’

   Bring Mario?

   Mommy: ‘No, Oak. Mario must stay here. He can’t be in school. You can bring your shell, though. How about that?’

   Green shell. I take. Shell in pocket. Go to school. Bye, Mario! See you soon! Must go to school. Shell stay with me. I like shell. Shell soft. Soft in hand. Shell good. Like shell. Like shell lots. Go school. We go school. School nice. School good. Shell good. Shell nice. Shell like. Like shell. Go school now.

   Mommy: ‘All right, Oak. Let’s put on your shoes.’

   Shoes? What shoes? Look shoes. Shoes where? Mommy find thing. Picks up.

Desk. Big brown desk. White light. Buzzing. Bzzzzz… Buzzing white lights. Bzzzzz… Buzzing loudly. Very noisy. Loud. Distracting. Hurts ears. No stand. No standie. Very loud. No like. Need quiet. Bzzzzz… More sound. Scratch, scratch. Pencils. Lots of pencils. Pencils on paper. Scratch, scratch, scratch. Many pencils. Scratching paper. Very loud. Scratch, scratch, scratch. Very loud on every desk. Very, very loud. Makes anxious. Bzzzz… Low hum. Scratch, scratch, scratch. No stand. DV-VWVWVWVWVWVW! Roaring engine. Mama mia! Sharpener. Even louder. Hurts ears. Hurts a lot. DV-VWVWVWVWVW! Roar. Bzzzzz… Ugh. Scratch, scratch, scratch. Gah! ‘Enough of the pencil sharpening. Get back to your seats.’ Shell in hand. Twirling shell in hand. DV-VWVWVWVW! Roar too loud. What do? No standie. No stand. Scratch, scratch, scratch. Ugh. Bzzzzz… Ouch. Too loud. Must cover ears. Ears hurt. Must cover. DV-VWVWVWVWVWVW! Covering ears. No stand. No stand. Covering ears. Too loud. Too loud. No workie. No…

   Voice: ‘Oak, are you okay?’

   Hand on shoulder.

   Voice: ‘It’s okay. Here are some headphones. You can use them.’

   Quiet. Headphones on. Quiet. Much better. Shell in hand. Feel good. Much better. Calmer. Feel calm. Soothing. Like Mozart. Mozart nice. Mozart good on ears. I like Mozart. Mario like, too. We both like. Both happy, too. Teacher walk in front. Name? Think of name. Thinking. Mrs. Ashby. Mrs. Ashby talking. What say? I no know. Voice next me. Woman. Tall. Give me headphones. What name? Ms. Janca. J-A-N-C-A. Sounds like ‘YAHN-kuh,’ not ‘JAN-kuh.’ Janca with j sound like y. My what word? Trying find. What word? Help? Other word? Aid? She my aide. She Mommy’s friend. Mommy like her. Ms. Janca like Mommy, too. I like. Mario like, too. Both happy. Like Ms. Janca. Ms. Janca helpful. Ms. Janca good. Ms. Janca nice. I like very much. She always good. I’m happy always.

   Tap on shoulder. Tap on left shoulder. Poke. Hurt little. Ouch. Flinch. No touchie! No like touch. Hurt a bit. Skin hurt. No like. No like at all. No touchy. But mean something? What mean? Attention? What wrong? Mozart playing. Headphones on. Move head left. Move eyes left. Peer over shoulder. Woman kneel. Kneeling on ground. Head at eye level. Long, dark hair. Cream skin. Blue eyes. Gold necklace on neck. Very shiny. Voice speaking. Can’t hear. Hands over head. Remove headphones. What happening? Buzzing lights. Bzzzzz… Low hum. Bzzzzz… Barely hear. Bzzzzz… Ms. Janca. Look in eyes, speaking. Voice, I hear. Voice, I see. ‘Hey, Oak. It’s time to take out your iPad. Mrs. Ashby says we’re going to do reading this morning. Are you ready?’ iPad? Not with me. Ms. Janca has. Not me. No have. She has.

   Janca: ‘Here, let me take out the iPad for you.’

   Eyes watch. Pull off purse, Ms. Janca. Lower on ground. Reach for clasp. Click! Clasp open. Zip! Unzip zipper. Hand reach inside. Rumble, rumble. Fingers dig purse. Rumble, rumble. Digging, searching. Rumble, rumble. Still digging.

   Janca: ‘Aha! Here it is!’

   Fingers grasp item. Pull out. Black rectangle. Big black prism, rectangular, come out bag. Zip! Zipper zipped. Click! Clasp shut. Purse back over arm. Black rectangle. Big black rectangle. Dark screen. Silver back. Case enclosed. Enclosed red case. iPad? Is it? Black rectangle iPad? Tablet? Called tablet? Yes, is tablet. Also, iPad. iPad, it is.

   Janca: ‘Here is your iPad, Oak. Here, let me open it for you.’

   Mess with iPad. Fingers moving, eyes moving. I watch. Watch Ms. Janca move fingers.

   Janca: ‘Here it is. Now, when I give it to you, plug your headphones in, okay?’

   Will do. Put iPad on table. Plug in headphones.

   Janca: ‘Now, we’re going to read Maniac Magee with the rest of the class. Are you ready?’

   Nod. Ready read. Ready learn. Reading nice. Push sideways triangle. Play. Text on screen. Highlight so I read. Voice read. Ears listen, eyes follow along. No read without iPad. Too hard. Headphones help. iPad good for reading. Follow along very well.

   Going to read. Going to sit in chair. Going to sit still in chair. Going to watch iPad. Going to listen to iPad speak. Going to hear iPad’s voice. Going to follow along. Going to follow highlight. Going to follow highlight text. Going to read book. Going to read Maniac Magee. Going to read with rest of class. Going to understand book. Going to learn. See me read. See me sit in chair. See me sit still in chair. See me watch iPad. See me listen to iPad. See me hear iPad’s voice. See me follow along. See me follow highlight. See me follow highlight text. See me read book. See me read Maniac Magee. See me read with rest class. See me understand book. See me learn. Can read. Can sit in chair. Can sit still in chair. Can watch iPad. Can listen to iPad speak. Can hear iPad’s voice. Can follow along. Can follow highlight. Can follow highlighted text. Can read book. Can read Maniac Magee. Can read with rest of class. Can understand book. Can learn. Can do anything. Can be me. I like me. I can do it!

   Stare at iPad. Black letters. Letters? Letters: alphabet. Alphabet? Alphabet: a, b, c, d, e, f, g… Letters make words. Letters a and s = as. Letters d, o, and g = dog. Letters make sounds. G = guh like baby: Goo-goo, ga-ga! D  = duh like Banjo: Duh-huh! B = buh like sheep: Baaaaahhhhh! M = muh like cow: Merrrrrrrrr! U = uh like Goofy: Uh-hyuh-uh! Letters make sounds. Sounds make words. Words reading. Looking iPad screen. Voice speaks. Highlight appears. Highlight moves with sound. Voice in ears: <Chapter 2. ‘Everybody knows that Maniac Magee (then Jeffrey) started out in Hollidaysburg and wound up in Two Mills. The question is: What took him so long? And what did he do along the way?’> Voice continues reading. Ouch! Kick under table. Flinch. What that? Hurt. Leg hurt. Voice read. Can’t listen. Kick again. Ouch! What that? Who hurt? Look up. Boy. Front of me. Cross table. Smiling. Kick me? Again kick. Ouch! Hurt! Flinch. Lot pain. Boy smile. Laugh. He kick me! Boy name? Steven. Steven Hayworth. Steven kick me! Kick again. Ouch!

   {Stop…}

   Speak no. Hard speak. But try. Hurt. Leg hurt. Steven laugh.

   Steven: ‘What are you gonna do about it? Idiot.’

   Kick again. Ouch! Hurt. Stop! Please. Please stop. Steven laughs. Laughs hard.

   Steven: ‘That’s what you get for being an idiot!’

   Mad. Can’t stand it. Throw headphones off. Gaaaah! Stop! Kick again.

   Steven: ‘Take that, retard!’

   Ouch! Hurt.

   Steven: ‘That’s what you get for being an idiot!’

   Laugh. Not funny. Cannot compute. Cannot compute. Cannot… Scream! Head bang. Thud! Thud! Thud! Thud! Brain! Cannot compute. Cannot compute. Thud! Thud! Thud! Thud! Cannot compute. Sensory overload. Cannot compute. Thud! Thud! Thud! Thud! Information breached. Brain jacked. Cannot compute. Sensory overload. Cannot compute. Too much noise. Cannot compute. Thud! Thud! Thud! Thud! Head banging. Thud! Thud! Thud! Thud! Cannot compute. Cannot compute. Thud! Thud! Thud! Thud! ‘Oak, stop banging your head! You’re going to hurt yourself.’ Thud! Thud! Thud! Thud! Cannot compute. Cannot compute. Thud! Thud! Thud! Thud! Cannot compute. Cannot compute. Thud! Thud! Thud! Thud! Brain! No brain! Brain! Screaming. Crying. Head banging. Tears in eyes. Thud! Thud! Thud! Thud! ‘Oak, stop it!’ System shutdown. 3, 2, 1… Disconnect. System terminated. Time to recalibrate…

   Janca. Voice: ‘Oak, what’s wrong?’

   Exhausted. Very tired. Very, very tired. Uhhhhnnnnnhhhhh…

   Steven. Voice: ‘Ha ha! You’re an idiot!’

   Sleepy. Can’t think. Can’t pay attention. Sleepy. Feel tired.

   Janca. Voice: ‘Steven, stop being mean to Oak. You must behave.’

   Sleepy…Very…Tired…Very, very tired…

   Ms. Ashby. Voice: ‘What’s going on, Cheryl? Is something wrong? Why was Oak banging his head?’

   Sleepy…Cannot pay attention…Very, very tired…Uhhhhhhhhhgghhhhh! Feel sick. Very, very sick…

   Ms. Janca. Voice: ‘Oak is sick. I’ll take care of him.’

   Janca bend. Grabs hand.

   Voice: ‘Come on, Oak. Let’s get you outside, okay?’

   Hold hand. Help me on feet. Ugh. Feel very sick. Legs feel wonky. Can’t balance. Lights hum. Hmmmm… Hmmmm… Low hum. Hmmmm… Hmmmm… Very sick. Legs wobbly.

   Janca: ‘Come on, Oak. I know you can do it. Let’s go to the hallway, okay?’

   Help on feet. Move feet. Left foot, right foot. Left foot, right foot. Step forward. Little step. Me no like. But tired. Need hallway. Noises too loud. Room too loud. Need rest. Left foot, right foot. Left foot, right foot. Holding hand. Janca carry. Ms. Janca nice. Like Ms. Janca. Nice lady. Happy with her. She make happy. Left foot, right foot. Left foot, right foot. Near door. Door come close. Janca: ‘We’re almost there, Oak.’ Left foot, right foot. Left foot, right foot. Tired. Very tired. Cannot stand. Janca: ‘Almost there.’ Left foot, right foot. Left foot, right foot. Tired…Left foot, right foot. Ptuck! Hand grab door. Click! Hand rotate knob. Errr-errr! Door creek. Janca open door.

   Janca: ‘All right, Oak. Let’s go in the hallway, okay?’

   Left foot, right foot. Left foot, right foot. Errr-errr! Door creek. Kthunk! Door close.

   Janca: ‘Sit down, Oak, okay? Just sit and relax.’

   Sit down. Brain tired. Very tired. Need rest. Recalibrate. Tired. Sleepy. Sleep now. Sleepy…

Bzzzt! What now? Where? Where I? Bzzzt! Bzzzt! Buzz? What that? Black brick? Bzzzt! Bzzzt! Black brick. Always buzzing. Black brick buzz. Buzz like a bee. Bzzzt! Bzzzt! Office. Quiet. Office. Tikka-takka-tikka-takka. Fingers on board. Typing? Tikka-takka-tikka-takka. Typing? Typing. Keyboard. Fingers on keyboard. Tikka-takka-tikka-takka. Person typing. Who? No know. Tikka-takka-tikka-takka. Typing. Weird. Quiet. Nice, quiet. Where I? Hand in pocket. Reach inside. Find object. Grab. Pull out. Shell. Shell here. Green shell. Koopa shell. Soft. Soft in hand. Look at shell. See top. Green top. Shapes. Count shapes. One shape. Two shapes. Three shapes. Four, five, six. Seven, eight, nine. Ten, eleven, twelve. Thirteen. Thirteen shapes. Thirteen shapes on top. What this? Not same? Shapes not same. Two not same shapes. One shape: six sides. Hexagon. Like beehive. Bumblebees. Bzzzz! Hexagon many. Other shape: three sides. Triangles. Like Egypt. Egypt pyramid. Mummy. Oooooh-oohhh! Scary movie. Scooby-Doo. Triangle many. How many? One, two, three. Four, five, six. Seven. Seven hexagons. Other? One, two, three. Four, five, six. Six triangles. Hexagons: seven. Triangles: six. Thirteen shapes on top. Shell many shapes. Rotate. Rotate shell. What this? White rim. White rim, round shell. White rim. Top and bottom. Not same. Rotate. Hand rotate shell. What this? See bottom. Bottom shell. Bottom not same. Shapes not same. One? Round. Round circles. Black round circles. Other? Four sides. Not same. Long and short. Rectangles. Lot rectangles. How many? Circles. Count circles. One, two, three. Four, five, six. Six circles. Rectangles? Count rectangles. One, two, three. Four, five, six. Six rectangles. How many total? Shapes. Count shapes. One, two, three. Four, five, six. Seven, eight, nine. Ten, eleven, twelve. Twelve shapes. Six circles. Six rectangles. Feel good in hand. Like shell. Feel good. Shell nice. Miss Mario. Wish had Mario. Mario friend. Shell nice, miss Mario. Shell fine now. A voice. Someone speak. Ms. Janca.

   Janca: ‘Hey, Oak, are you feeling okay? You seem to be fine.’

   Okay. I okay. What next? Where go?

   Janca: ‘Well, Oak, we’re going to recess, okay?’

   Recess? What recess? Playtime? Is playtime? Playtime nice. Where go? Playtime? Playtime nice. Play good. Like playtime. Where go next? Janca hold hand.

   Janca: ‘What’s this?’

   Titta-titta-titta-titta! Titta-titta-titta-titta! Hear sound. Titta-titta-titta-titta! Titta-titta-titta-titta! Sound outside. Titta-titta-titta-titta! Titta-titta-titta-titta! On roof. Titta-titta-titta-titta! Titta-titta-titta-titta! But what? Titta-titta-titta-titta! Titta-titta-titta-titta! Scratchy sound. Titta-titta-titta-titta! Titta-titta-titta-titta! Sound nice. Titta-titta-titta-titta! Titta-titta-titta-titta! What sound? Titta-titta-titta-titta! Titta-titta-titta-titta! What be? Titta-titta-titta-titta! Titta-titta-titta-titta! Tap sound? Titta-titta-titta-titta! Titta-titta-titta-titta! Sound no know. Titta-titta-titta-titta! Titta-titta-titta-titta! No know sound. Titta-titta-titta-titta! Titta-titta-titta-titta! What is? Titta-titta-titta-titta! No know. Voice. Ms. Janca. Janca speak.

   Janca: ‘It’s raining!’

   Rain? Is rain? Titta-titta-titta-titta! Titta-titta-titta-titta! Sound rain? Titta-titta-titta-titta! Titta-titta-titta-titta! Sound rain. Titta-titta-titta-titta! Titta-titta-titta-titta! Go to window. Titta-titta-titta-titta! Titta-titta-titta-titta! Look out. Titta-titta-titta-titta! Titta-titta-titta-titta! Watch window. Titta-titta-titta-titta! Titta-titta-titta-titta! Watch rain. Titta-titta-titta-titta! Titta-titta-titta-titta! Hear? … See rain. … Hear? … Hear nothing. … See? Drops. Rain. … See rain. Sound quiet. … Rain see. Titta-titta-titta-titta! Titta-titta-titta-titta! Sound on. Titta-titta-titta-titta! Titta-titta-titta-titta! Sound hear. Titta-titta-titta-titta! Titta-titta-titta-titta! Rain is sound. Titta-titta-titta-titta! Titta-titta-titta-titta! Sound rain. Titta-titta-titta-titta! Titta-titta-titta-titta! Think? Titta-titta-titta-titta! Titta-titta-titta-titta! What think? Titta-tatta-tatta-titta! Titta-tatta-tatta-titta! What same? Titta-tatta-tatta-titta! Titta-tatta-tatta-titta! Sound same. Titta-tatta-tatta-titta! Titta tatta-tatta-titta! Think. Titta-tatta-tatta-titta! Titta-tatta-tatta-titta! Mind. Titta-tatta-tatta-titta! Titta-tatta-tatta-titta! Mind past. Titta-tatta-tatta-titta! Was outside. Titta-tatta-tatta-titta! Titta-tatta-tatta-titta! Rain. Titta-tatta-tatta-titta! Titta-tatta-tatta-titta! Water. Titta-tatta-tatta-titta! Titta-tatta-tatta-titta! From sky. Titta-tatta-tatta-titta! Titta-tatta-tatta-titta! Clouds. Titta-tatta-tatta-titta! Titta-tatta-tatta-titta! Dark. No sun. Titta-titta-tatta-titta! Titta-tatta-tatta-titta! Dark clouds. Wet. Titta-tatta-tatta-titta! Titta-tatta-tatta-titta! Ground wet. Titta-tatta-tatta-titta! Titta-tatta-tatta-titta! I wet. Titta-tatta-tatta-titta! Titta-tatta-tatta-titta! Puddles. Titta-tatta-tatta-titta! Titta-tatta-tatta-titta! Jump puddles. Titta-tatta-tatta-tatta! Titta-tatta-tatta-titta! Laughing. Titta-tatta-tatta-titta! Titta-tatta-tatta-titta! Mud. Muck. Mud muck. Titta-tatta-tatta-titta! Titta-tatta-tatta-titta! Dirty. I dirty. Titta-tatta-tatta-titta! Titta-tatta-tatta-titta! Is rain? Titta-tatta-tatta-titta! Titta-tatta-tatta-titta! Rain, yes. Titta-tatta-tatta-titta! Titta-tatta-tatta-titta! I okay. Titta-tatta-tatta-titta! Why now? Titta-tatta-tatta-titta! Titta-tatta-tatta-titta! Sunny before. Titta-tatta-tatta-titta! Titta-tatta-tatta-titta! Voice. Speak.

   Janca: ‘It seems like it’s raining, Oak. You might have recess inside.’

   Ms. Janca speak? Titta-tatta-tatta-titta! Titta-tatta-tatta-titta! Ms. Janca speak. Titta-tatta-tatta-titta! Titta-tatta-tatta-titta! How know? Titta-tatta-tatta-titta! Titta-tatta-tatta-titta! No know. Titta-tatta-tatta-titta! Titta-tatta-tatta-titta! Not sure. Titta-tatta-tatta-titta! Titta-tatta-tatta-titta! How know? Titta-tatta-tatta-titta! Titta-tatta-tatta-titta! Not sure. Titta-tatta-tatta-titta! Titta-tatta-tatta-titta! Ms. Janca think fast. Titta-tatta-tatta-titta! Titta-tatta-tatta-titta! She quick. Titta-tatta-tatta-titta! Titta-tatta-tatta-titta! She fast. Titta-tatta-tatta-titta! She think very fast. Titta-tatta-tatta-titta! Titta-tatta-tatta-titta! Magic. Titta-tatta-tatta-titta! Titta-tatta-tatta-titta! Like magic. Titta-tatta-tatta-titta! Titta-tatta-tatta-titta! Think like magic. Titta-tatta-tatta-titta! Titta-tatta-tatta-titta! She magic always. Titta-tatta-tatta-titta! Titta-tatta-tatta-titta! Wish magic, too. Titta-tatta-tatta-titta! Titta-tatta-tatta-titta! Janca speak.

   Janca: ‘Ready for recess?’

   Speak.

   {Recess rain?}

   Janca speak.

   Janca: ‘Yes, we’re going to recess.’

   {Rain know?}

   Janca: ‘Rain? Oh, it’s raining. It’s okay, though. We’ll just take you to recess, okay, Oak?’

   Still know no. Recess inside? Okay by me. Recess fun.

Recess. Classroom. In classroom. Lights hum. Hmmmm! Hmmmm! Low hum. Hmmmm! Hmmmm! Soft sound. Hmmmm! Hmmmm! Nice on ears. Hmmmm! Hmmmm! Not too loud. Hmmmm! Hmmmm! Like more. Nice in ears. Like much. No bad. Enjoy hum. No need bunny. I okay. Enjoy hum. Hum nice. Hmmm! Hmmm! Sound okay. Me okay. What this? Shape. Look. Need look. Like look. Need look find. See shape now.

   Eyes look down. Rectangle. Rectangle in hands. Top? Gold. Gold top. Bottom? Red. Red bottom. Both form rectangle. Top? Gold top. Middle gold top? Blank screen. Black screen. Black screen blank. Why blank? Not on. Power not on. Where power button? Find soon. But more. Words. Words top screen. What say? S-U-P-E-R. S = sss like snake. Hiss! U  = uh like Daddy. Uhhhh… P = puh like balloon. Pop! E = eee like Mommy. Like see spider. Eeeek! R = ruh like dish-dish. Ruhruh-ruhruh-ruhruh-ruhruh! What say? Super. Soup-errrr. Super. Like Superman. Super. Next. What say? M-A-R-I-O. M = muh like cow. Moo! A = ah like dentist. Ahhhhh! (Brush no fun. Brush bad.) R = ruh like dish-dish. Ruhruh-ruhruh-ruhruh-ruhruh! I = ih like Emily. Like mad. Ihhhhhh! O = oh like Mommy. Like ear hurt. Oh! What say? Mario. Like friend. Mario best friend. Mario my friend. Word mean friend. Mario. What say? Super…Mario. Mario Superman? No. Not Superman. Mario super. No same. Super Mario = Mario super. No Superman. Superman Mario no same. Different. Mario different. Mario Mario. Not Superman. Next. What say? B-R-O-S. B = buh like sheep. Baaaah! R = ruh like dish-dish. Ruhruh-ruhruh-ruhruh-ruhruh! O = oh like Mommy. Like ear hurt. Oh! S = sss like snake. Hiss! What say? Bros. Bros? What mean? Bro. Ah! Brother. Luigi. Mario’s bro. What say? Super…Mario…Bros. Super Mario Bros. Mario, Luigi. Super Mario Bros. Word bottom screen. What say? N-I-N-T-E-N-D-O. N = nuh like horse. Neigh! I = ih like Emily. Like mad. Ihhhhhh! N = nuh like horse. Neigh! T = tuh like tree. Tap! E = eee like Mommy. Like see spider. Eeek! N = nuh like horse. Neigh! D = duh like Steven. Duh-huh! O = oh like Mommy. Like ear hurt. Oh! What say? Nin…ten…do. Do? No, doh. Like cookie. Cookie dough. Yum! Nin…ten…doh. Nintendo. Say Nintendo. Like Nintendo. Like a lot. Nintendo good. What this? More. Two shapes. Circles. Red circles. Two red circles. Round red. Round red circles. Letters. A. A = ah like dentist. Ahhhhh! B. B = buh like sheep. Baaah! What say? Ab. Ab? What ab? No know. No sense. Oh, well. Ab = buttons. Okay. Other sign. Black. Black cross. Plus sign. Like plus. One plus one. 1 + 1. Black plus. +. Plus. Arrows. ó. Lot arrows. ß. Left. à. Right. Up. Down. Button? No know. Oh, well. Right top. Words. First. What say? G-A-M-E. G = guh like Rover. Grrrrrrrrrr! A = ah like dentist. Ahhhhh! M = muh like cow. Moo! E = eee like Mommy. Like see spider. Eeek! What say? Game. Like tag. Game. Next. What say? No know. Sign. Draw finger. Finger draw. &. What mean? No know sign. No know. Oh, well. Next. What say? W-A-T-C-H. W = wuh like baby. Waaaaaaahhhhh! A = ah like dentist. Ahhhhh! T = tuh like tree. Tap! C = cuh like clock. Cuckoo! Cuckoo! H = huh like me. Like me run. Huh-huh-huh-huh! Wa-tuh-chuh. Wahhh-tuh-chuh. T quiet. Watch. Like Daddy. Daddy’s wrist. Be a clock. Watch. Game…Thing?…Watch. Game watch. Game watch? Sport clock? Ball clock? Why clock on ball? Kick ball with clock? Won’t break? No. Game. Eye game. Like Pac-Man. Pac-Man game. Maze game. But clock? Why clock? Pac-Man like dots, not clock. Eat dots. Ghosts? Ghosts clock? Nee clock? Like clock? No, no clock. Ghosts like Pac-Man, not clock. No need clock. None do. Both in maze. Maze no clock. Eye game clock? Think so. Game watch? No know. Oh, well. Eye game, though. Know that. Turn on? Want on. Where button? Turn. No left. Turn. No back. Turn. Ah! See! Grey circle! Push! Screen light. Turned on! Colors. Many colors. Pretty. I happy. Word? Word flashing. What say? P-A-U-S-E. P = puh like balloon. Pop! A = ah like dentist. Ahhhh! U = uh like Daddy. Uhhhh… S = sss like snake. Hissssss! E = eee like Mommy. Like see spider. Eeeek! What say? Pause. Mean stop. How go? No know. Need find. Find button. Button help. Where button? Need find button. Button need find. Where be? Find button? Need find. Shapes. What shapes? Round. Grey. How many? 1…2…3… Three round shapes. Ovals. Grey ovals. Words. See words. What say? First. On top: G-A-M-E. G = guh like Rover. Grrrrr! A = ah like dentist. Ahhhhh! M = muh like cow. Moo! E = eee like Mommy. Like see spider. Eeeek! What say? Game. Game. Like tag. Tag a game. Button? No. Not button. Next? Words. What say? T-I-M-E. T = tuh like tree. Tap! I = ih like Emily. Like mad. Ihhhhh! M = muh like cow. Moo! E = eee like Mommy. Like see spider. Eeek! What say? Time. Time…like clock. Numbers. Minutes. Time. Where I next? No know. Button? No. Not Button. Next? What say? P-A-U-S-E. P = puh like balloon. Pop! A = ah like dentist. Ahhhh! U = uh like Daddy. Uhhhh… S = sss like snake. Hisss! E = eee like Mommy. Like see spider. Eeeek! What say? Pause. Mean stop. No more. Stop. Pause. Look screen. Same word? P-A-U-S-E. P = puh like balloon. Pop! A = ah like dentist. Ahhhh! U = uh like Daddy. Uhhhhh… S = sss like snake. Hiss! E = eee like Mommy. Like see spider. Eeeek! What say? Pause. Same word? Yes. Pause = pause. Words same. Button? Yes. Button. Press button. Push! Screen on! Screen work! Yay! What this? Music. Music play now. What for? Need know.

   What screen? Shapes on screen. What shapes? No know. Why? Need know. What shapes? No know. Lots of colors. Bottom screen? Shapes. Lot shapes. What shape? No know. Count sides? Count. One…two… three…four. Four sides. Sides same? Same sides. Four sides same. What shape? Four sides. Same. No long. No short. All same. What shape? Rectangle? No. Not rectangle. Square? Yes. Square. Shapes squares. Color? Brown. Brown squares. How many? Lots. Lot squares. Lot brown squares. What make? No know. Need. To. Think. Need think. Think. What brown? Sweet-sweet? No know. Is sweet-sweet? Sweet-sweet brown. What like? Sweet-sweet think. Think sweet-sweet. Four sides. Wrap. Brown. Sides same? No. One long, one short. Square? No. Sides no same. Sides different. Rectangle. Not sweet-sweet. Table? Table brown. Is table? Think. Need think. Think table. Table think. Shape? Sides. Four sides. Same? No. Not same. One long, one short. Not same. Square? No. Not square. Rectangle. Square not table. Chair? Chair brown. Is chair? Think. Need think. What shape? No know. Sides? Lot sides. Many sides. Have four? No. Not four. No chair. Not square. Chair not square. Not square. Dirt? Dirt brown. Square? No know. Sides? No know. No sides. Dot. Dirt dot. Lot dots. But brown? Brown, yes. But bottom screen? What screen like? Other screens? What has screen? TV? TV has screen. TV play eye-play. Bottom screen? Brown? Brown, yes. What be? Hmmmmmm… Look feet? Look feet. What see? Floor. See floor. Else? Ground. See ground. What like out? Dirt? Dirt, out. Dirt ground? Dirt ground, yes. Ground same? Ground same, yes. What bottom screen? Mmmmm… Ah! I know! Ground! Ground bottom screen! Ground = brown squares. Ground bottom screen. Top screen? Top screen. Look. Shapes? No shapes. But one. What shape? No know. Count sides? No count. Blob. Shape blob. Color? White. White blob. One white blob. What be? No know. Other shapes? No. No shapes. Color? Blue. Shade blue. Blue color. What make? No know. Wait! Look bottom! Look bottom. Ground. Ground bottom. Feet ground. Ground feet. Walk ground. Ground walk. What not ground? What blue? Look up. Lights? No. Not lights. Lights not blue. Lights white, not blue. Lights hum. Hmmmm! Low hum. Hmmmm! Not lights. Blue else. What be? Boards? No. Not boards. Boards not blue. Boards white, not blue. Boards four sides. Boards rectangles. Boards not blue. Blue not boards. What be? What this? Art? Draw? Draw. Top page. Top page blue. What blue? Sky. Blue sky? See window. Look up. Blue. Lot blue. What see? Sky! Blue sky! Blue sky top screen! Top screen blue sky! What blob? Puffy. White. Puff. Cloud! White cloud! Blob = cloud. More shape? Two. Two ground. What shape? No know. Count sides? No sides. Blobs. Blobs like cloud. Blobs like cloud in sky. Color? Green. Both green. Both different. One left, one right. Left blob: dark. Right blob: light. Left: dark green. Right: light green. What be? No know. What green? Searching. Wall? Paint. Shade. Green. Flat. Big. Blob? No. Not blob. Wall not blob. Wall wall, not blob. Blob not wall. Luigi? Luigi…Searching…Hat = green. L = green. Shirt = green. Blob? No. Not blob. Luigi man, not blob. Blob not Luigi. Yoshi? Yoshi… Searching…Skin = green. Nose = green. Arms = green. Legs = green. Tail = green. Hands = green. Blob? No. Not blob. Yoshi Yoshi, not blob. Blob not Yoshi. Plant? Plant…Hmmmm…Searching…Leaf = green. Stem = green. Needle = green. Tree = green. Grass = green. Bush = green. Blob? No. Plant plant, not blob. Not all plant. Bush? Bush blob. Bush plant. Bush plant and blob. Plant bushy blob. Plant blobby bush. Plant bush and blob. Plant blob and bush. Aha! Plant blob! Blobs plants! Other shapes? Yes. What shape? Mario! Mario friend. Like Mario. Mario nice.

   Buttons? What do? No know. Buttons: Ab and plus (+). Ab: red circles. Plus (+): cross. Cross arrows: ó. Up. Down. Left. Right. What do? Try. Push button. Ab same? No. Different. Two circles. Right: A. Left: B. Say Ba. Ba? What mean? Sheep? No know. Ba different. B and A. Try? Try. Which? A first. Try A. Press button. Push. Boing! Whoa! Jump. Mario jump. A = Mario jump. Press more? More press. Press more. Push. Boing! Push. Boing! Push. Boing! More push. Boing! Boing! Boing! Boing! Boing! This fun. Jump fun. Like jump. Like Mario jump. Mario jump fun. Like fun. Like Mario jump. Always fun. Next? B. Red circle. What do? No know. Try? Try. Press button. Push. None. None? How? Try more. Push. None. Push. None. Push. None. Push. None. Push. … None. What? None? Odd. B = none. B = not fun. None not fun. No like. No like none. None no like. No like not fun. Not fun no like. No like B. No press. Next? Plus (+). What do? No know. Try? Try. Press button? Press button. Which? Up. Up first. Press up. Push. None. None? How? Try more. Push. None. Push more. None. Hmmmm… Up like B. No work. Why? No know. Next? Down. Try down. Press button? Press button. Push. None. Push. None. Push. None. No work. Why? No know. Oh, well. Next? Left? Left. Try left? Try left. Press button? Press button. Push. ß. Push. ß. Push. ß. Push. ß. Push. ß. Whoa! Walk. Mario walk. Walk left. Mario walk left. Left = Mario walk left. Left = Mario walk ß. Hold? What do? No know. Try hold? Try hold. Hold left? Hold left. Hold button? Hold button. Hold. ß. Walk. Mario walk. Walk left. Mario walk left. Not same. No stop. Keep walk left. Walk left no stop. Mario no stop. Mario keep walk. Mario keep walk left. But wall. Wall stop Mario. Mario no stop. Mario keep walk. Mario walk wall. Mario keep walk left. Mario walk left wall. Fun. Hold ß = Mario keep walk left. Hold ß = Mario walk ß ∞. This fun. Like fun. Like Mario walk. Like Mario keep walk. Mario walk fun. Like fun. Like Mario. Mario friend. Next? Right. What do? No know. Try? Try. Press button? Press button. Press right. Push. à. Push. à. Push. à. Push. à. Push. à. Whoa! Walk. Mario walk. Walk right. Mario walk right. Right = Mario walk right. Fun. Like. Like lot. Hold? What do? No know. Try? Try hold. Hold right? Hold right? Hold. à. Walk. Mario walk. Walk right. Mario walk right. Keep walk right. Mario keep walk right. No stop. Mario no stop. What do? Hold à = Mario keep walk right. Hold à = Mario walk à ∞. Whoa! More shapes! See more shapes! Stop! Must stop! See shapes. Must see. How? Push button. Which button? Oval. Grey oval. Bottom oval. How know? I know. Say P-A-U-S-E. P = puh like balloon. Pop! A = ah like dentist. Ahhhh! U = uh like Daddy. Uhhhh… S = sss like snake. Hiss! E = eee like Mommy. Like see spider. Eeek! What say? Say Pause. Pause = stop. Pause stop eye game. Push pause? Push pause. Push. Game stop. Word show. P-A-U-S-E. What say? P = puh like balloon. Pop! A = ah like dentist. Ahhhh! U = uh like Daddy. Uhhhh… S = sss like snake. Hiss! E = eee like Mommy. Like see spider … Eeek! What say? Pause. Pause = stop. Eye game stop. New shapes? Must see shapes.

   New shapes. New shapes screen. What shapes? Noise. Hear noise. Noise approach. Pause. Pause game. What noise? Voice. Funny voice. Sound funny. What voice? Whose? Voice. Speak.

   Voice: <WHAT ARE YOU PLAYING?>

   Odd voice. Shocky. Shocky voice. What voice? Look voice. Boy. Boy front me. Sit in chair. Boy in chair. Chair boy. Boy chair. Who boy? No know. Make noise. Chair noise. Noise chair. VWOOM!  Whoa! Chair move. How move? Things. Round things. Round on bottom. What be? Think. Wheels. Chair move wheels. Who boy? No know. He loud. Voice loud.

   Voice: <WHAT ARE YOU PLAYING?>

   Owie! Loud. Voice loud. Hurt ears. No like voice. No like. Hurt ears. No like voice. Hurt ears. Stop. No standie. No like. No standie. Hurt. Hurt lot. No like. Need phones. Where phones? Need phones. Ears hurt. No like. Need phones. Need…

   Hand on shoulder. Look. Who be? Ms. Janca. See Ms. Janca. Hand on shoulder. Look in eyes. See face. Open mouth. What say? Speak.

   Janca: ‘What’s wrong, Oak? You look upset. Do you need your iPad?’

   Hold ears. Ears hurt. No like. Shocky voice loud. No like. No like.

   Janca: ‘I see. You need your headphones. Here. I’ll give you your iPad.’

   See Janca. See Janca pull bag. Janca pull bag. Janca open bag. Janca reach.

   Janca: ‘I found it!’

   Pull out brick. Black brick. Long brick. Rectangle.

   Janca: ‘Here you go, Oak. Here’s your iPad.’

   Reach hand. Grab iPad. Push button. Touch screen.

   iPad: <My ears hurt.>

   Janca: ‘I see. How can we help you with that?’

   No know. No think. No workie. No like loud. Loud voice. Press button.

   iPad: <Voice is very loud.>

   Janca: ‘Whose voice, Oak?’

   No know. Try talk. No talk. Press iPad? Press iPad. Press button.

   iPad: <Boy in chair.>

   Janca: ‘Oh, I see. That boy. Oak, that’s Tony Burns, one of your classmates. He’s trying to be your friend.’

   Friend? Why friend? Mario friend. Like Mario. Who Tony? No know. Why friend? What want? Want to be friend? Why friend? No know. No sure. Need know more. What do? Look iPad. Press button.

   iPad: <He wants to be my friend? I didn’t know. His voice hurts my ears.>

   Boy in chair look. See boy in chair. Chair boy speak.

   <I’M SORRY. I DIDN’T MEAN TO HURT YOUR EARS.>

   Ow! Voice loud. Very loud. No like. Hurt ears. No like. Ears hurt. No like. Cover ears. No like. Really hurt. Ouch. No like. Need phones. No like. Janca look. See Janca look. Speak.

   Janca: ‘I see, Oak. His voice hurts your ears. I’m sorry.’

   Janca look Tony. See Tony. See Tony look. Tony watch. Janca speak.

   Janca: ‘Hey, Tony. Could you turn down the volume on your computer?’

   Look Tony. Tony speak.

   Tony: <Yes, I can turn down the volume on my computer. Does this help?>

   Janca speak.

   Janca: ‘Yes, that helps. Thank you, Tony.’

   No hurt ears. Feel better. Like quiet. Tony voice better. Like lot more.

   Janca: ‘Hey, Oak. Do you feel better now?’

   See Janca speak. Look iPad. Press button.

   iPad: <Yes.>

   Janca: ‘Good. Now that you feel better, I’m going to tell you something you might like to hear.’

   What? What be? Gift? Eye game? What be? No know. Glee. What be? Need know.

   Janca: ‘I see the excitement on your face, so that’s a good sign. Well, Oak, did you know that Tony likes Mario, too?’

   Tony like Mario? No know. How like Mario? I like Mario. Tony like, too?

   Janca: ‘Yes, Oak. He loves Mario, don’t you, Tony?’

   Tony speak.

   Tony: <Yes, I love Mario. He’s fun to play with. Can I play with you?>

   Tony like Mario? Cool! I like Mario! Mario friend. Mario nice. Mario’s friend, mine also. Like Mario’s friends. Tony new friend. Like Tony. Tony cool. Like Tony. Mario like, too.

   Janca: ‘So how about you play together?’

   Look Tony. Smile. Excited. Press button.

   iPad: <Yes! I would love to!>

   Janca smile. Janca speak.

   Janca: ‘All right, Oak. Feel free to play together.’

   Smile. Smile real big. Make new friend. Tony new friend. Like Tony. Tony nice. Excited. I happy. I happy always. Mario happy. Mario like, too. Mario make friend. We make friend. New friend happy. We play eye game, Mario and Luigi.

Notanda

I never thought I would write this short story. Prior to graduate school, I was working on a novel pertaining to some personal interests which I will not mention, but when I returned to graduate school this past fall, I took a course called Disability Studies with Dr. Christine Neufeld, which led me down this path. In LITR 590, I began researching autism in literature and the many stereotypes that permeate throughout fiction in general. When I researched this area, I discovered an article by Claire Barber-Stetson entitled the following: ‘Slow Processing: A New Minor Literature by Autists and Modernists.’ In this article, Barber-Stetson argues how modernists revolutionized narrative via the method of stream-of-consciousness with writers like Joyce, Woolf, and Faulkner each writing in a way that is fragmented and cacophonous instead of straightforward and monolithic. Then she mentions how autists like Tito Mukhopadhyay began developing the subgenre of ‘Slow-Processing’ to subvert neurotypical cognition like the modernists did and, in doing so, illustrate autistic consciousness to neurotypical readers so they can comprehend the autistic mind. As an Aspergian myself, I became intrigued with the endeavor and sought to replicate this genre myself. Like my forebears, I hoped to capture autistic consciousness and transcribe it on the page so people could understand it. By illustrating it, people might be able to understand autism, and that was what I hoped to do.

   Writing ‘Bradyphrenia’ was no easy task. I needed to understand the psychology of nonvocal autists who are ‘on the lower end of the spectrum,’ as they say. For this reason, I needed to do lots of research, so I began reading the books by nonvocal autists like Naoki Higashida and Tito Mukhopadhyay so I could understand their cognition and began taking vigorous notes on their psychology. The most poignant of them was Higashida’s The Reason I Jump because it offered lots of insight into nonvocal autistic consciousness. At the same time, I read Joyce’s Ulysses very closely so I could absorb his style and replicate it on the page to master the art of ‘slow-processing.’ I performed several writing exercises accordingly to practice this foreign style, and lo and behold, Oak was born. After several exercises, I managed to capture Oak and his mind, and I wrote the piece you see before you. In doing so, I captured autistic consciousness, which I hope readers find enlightening. I worked hard on it, but I’m glad I did.

   In capturing autistic consciousness, I created a piece not only unique and unorthodox since it diverges from neurotypical cognition, but also human and childlike since it portrays a character with whom the reader is sympathetic. As a character, Oak is innocent and childlike, exploring his world with insatiable curiosity and mirthful whimsy and wonder. His imagination runs wild, and his efforts to understand it, although sometimes impeded by outside obstacles, never cease as he tries to overcome them in various ways. Deep down, all he really wants is to be understood, so when he makes a friend at the end, he finally achieves his goal, although he may not always comprehend his environment or its inhabitants at first glance. This desire for both under-standing and companionship is something we all share, and in this desire, we identify with Oak and recognize his humanity as a sentient being with thoughts, feelings, needs, and desires which is not much different from our own. In doing so, we empathize with him and understand the autistic condition better, for we can now see others as we see Oak in this story. As Tolstoy once wrote, the sole purpose of art is to teach us empathy, and this, I believe, I have accomplished, so I am glad to share it with everyone. Now, I think, neurotypicals can, perhaps, understand we Aspergians and autists more so we can avoid further confusion. In doing so, let us build a better future for neurotypicals, autists, and Aspergians alike. This, I hope for us all, so let us strive for a brighter future together. Anyway, thank you for reading. I hope you enjoyed the piece.



BIO

Justin Reamer is a poet and a fictionist from Holland, Michigan. His work has appeared in several feuilletons such as Straylight Literary Magazine and The Sampler. He is currently attending Eastern Michigan University to obtain his M.A. in Creative Writing.



Sandman

By Kate H. Koch



            A blur of glass and color flashed past Ted’s eyes. He watched it move up, steadily higher and higher, until it came to a gentle stop at the sixth floor.

            “Glass elevator,” the man sitting across from him mused as he watched it climb back down. “Classy.

            Ted offered no reply, tracing a finger across the thin grey lines of the lobby table beside him. Smooth, cold, hard. He’d always liked marble.

            “Classy,” the man repeated. “Don’t you think?”

            “Loosen your tie.”

            “What?”

            “Loosen your tie, Ripley.”  Ted hissed the words through gritted teeth. “If we go in there and you look desperate, you’ll blow it.”

            “I’m not desp—”

            “When you’ve got a pitch like this, you don’t grovel,” Ted looked up at his partner, watching the kid fidget with the cuffs of his shirt. He sighed, and continued more gently. “Look, I get it—I was nervous during my first pitch, too. But you have to be firm in there. Remember, this isn’t just any million-dollar idea.”

            Ripley smiled back sheepishly.

            Ted scanned the crowded atrium as he spoke. His partner was right, the headquarters of Apophis Incorporated were designed to impress. Light poured in from the tall windows high above him, bouncing off the smooth white floors and against the polished stone walls. It jumped into every nook and cranny, daring any visitor to find an imperfection. His eyes settled on a large plaque against the back wall:

SEMPER VICTORIX.

            His mind wandered to Tori. She’ll get over it.

            Ted settled deeper into the velvet lobby chair. “We’re not some door-to-door salesmen, Ripley,” he continued. “That’s one thing I need you to remember. We belong here, so you have to act like it.”

            Ripley tugged at his collar. “Ok,” he stammered. “Ok—but, if that’s the case, shouldn’t we look professional? They all do.” He gestured toward a group of businessmen milling around the lobby’s entrance. “I mean, it’s—it’s a pitch, Ted. And I get that it’s your idea, and that you’ve done this before. But, they’re expecting professionals, aren’t they?”

            “They’re expecting to be disappointed.” Ted reached across and hooked his fingers around the knot of Ripley’s tie. “They’re expecting something they’ve seen before. But that’s not us, Ripley. I told you on the train, stop trying to amaze them. They’re here to be amazed. This—” he yanked on the tie, leaving it to fall lazily over Ripley’s chest. “This thing we’ve got is going to provide that amazement.” He sat back with a satisfied grin. “We’re doing them a favor, and they need to see it that way.”

            Ripley fussed with his loose tie and said nothing for several moments. At last, he mumbled about the time.

             Ted gave no indication that he’d heard the kid. On days like this –days when image mattered—Ripley could be infuriating.

            To be fair, he was likable enough. And useful, too. The resume he’d given Ted certainly proved that. A certified wunderkind, the kid had graduated top of his class the previous year with degrees in computer science, finance, and statistics—all before he’d turned twenty-two. He could code in his sleep if he wanted to. And he never said no.

            Ted needed a decent business partner this time around, and Ripley certainly fit the bill. Even so, he couldn’t abide the kid’s insistence on shuffling around with his tail between his legs, an unspoken apology always hovering over his lips. The thought of being lumped in with someone like that made Ted’s skin crawl.

            But it would be worth it, in the end.

            “Did you bring the papers?”

            “Yes,” Ripley replied.

            “And?”

            “Well, if they sign it, they’re locked in. But I added a couple of clauses in there that’ll make our lives easier.”

            “I’m listening.”

            Ripley rifled through the papers in his briefcase. “Like, I—where is it? Oh—like if they sign, they work exclusively with us, but we can sell the—”

            “Don’t say it.”

            “Right, sorry. Right. We can sell it to anyone. Complete control on our end.”

            Ted leaned back, a broad smile spreading across his lips. “Not bad.”

            “You know, my brother and I were talking last night. He actually reminded me of one of those old wives’ tales about dreams.” Ted shot him a warning look, and Ripley quickly added, “No, I didn’t tell him about this thing. Totally unrelated. But he told me that some people say that if you die in a dream, you don’t wake up. That’s wild, right?”

            Ted raised his eyebrows. “Wild.”

Ted watched Ripley’s eyes dart around the room, searching for any excuse to get going.

            “Let’s head up now.” The plea tumbled out of Ripley’s mouth. “Floor fourteen, right?”

            Ted made a show of glancing down at his watch. “We’ve got a few minutes.”

            Ripley gave a half-hearted laugh. “Come on, Ted. Please.”

            Ted held his partner’s gaze for a moment. And then, with feigned exasperation, he made his way towards the elevator.

*

            The receptionist on the fourteenth floor had thick dark hair that fell elegantly over her narrow shoulders. She looked young, twenty-two, maybe, and smiled warmly as the pair exited the elevator. Ted smiled back, nudging Ripley. From the corner of his eye, he saw the kid’s face go red.

            “Ted Brace and Dennis Ripley.” Ted knew better than to speak too formally. “We’re here to see the investment team.”

            “I’ll let them know you’re here.” The girl stood. “Is there anything I get you while you wait?”

            “We’re fine, thank you,” said Ripley.

            Ted glanced at his partner, who absentmindedly tightened his tie as he spoke. When the girl moved out of sight he reached over and tugged at it again. “I told you to loosen that damn thing. We’re doing them a favor. Remember that.” He paused for a moment before adding, “You can tighten it before you ask her to meet you for a drink.”

            Ripley gave a nervous laugh.

            “I’m serious, kid.” Ted gave his partner a gentle shove. “I know that look. I had it when I met Tori, too.”  

            The blush crawled back up Ripley’s cheeks, and he looked relieved when the receptionist returned.

            “Mr. Brace, Mr. Ripley, they’re ready for you. If you’ll just follow me…” 

            They followed the girl –who quickly introduced herself as Ivy LeMay— down a wide hallway. The walls here were glass, too, but thick and textured for privacy. Ted could see the shapes of desks and the blurry figures hunched over them. Ripley started to fidget again.

            “It looks like they’ve got the room booked for you two for the next hour,” Ivy began. “That’s typically a good sign, Mr. Brace.”

            “Oh, I doubt we’ll need the whole hour, Ivy. But Ripley and I appreciate the sentiment.” Ted made sure to linger on his partner’s name.

            Ivy smiled at Ripley. “You’re welcome.”

            The trio turned a corner and faced the entrance to the conference area; another glass room, filled with other blurry shapes.

            Inside, three people sat around a sleek wooden table. Ted and Ripley shook hands with each of them. Ms. Maria Harper, tall and severe, Mr. Ryan Kelley, well-groomed with a permanent scowl, and the real prize: Mr. Amos Bell, whose net worth hovered somewhere around $108 billion.

            Ted felt his heart beating against his chest.

            Ryan spoke first.

            “Well, gentlemen, we’ve heard a lot about you, and you’ve piqued our interest.  Maria here says you’ve promised us ‘the pitch of our dreams.”

            Ted chuckled obligingly. “Maria’s not wrong about that. What I’ve got here really is the stuff of dreams, especially for an advertiser like Apophis.” Still standing, he placed his hands on the back of his chair. “But I could stand here and talk at you for the next hour, or—”

            Ryan raised his eyebrows. “Or…?”

            Ted hoisted a speaker onto the table. “Or, Ryan, I can show you how to level your competition to the ground.” He looked around the room expectantly. “I just need one of you to take a sleeping pill for me.”

            “Why?” Ryan look on warily, leaning back in his chair.

            “That’ll spoil it.” Ted winked. “And everyone here knows that any investment requires a little risk.”

            None of them offered any reply. From the corner of his eye, Ted could see Ripley wiping beads of sweat from his forehead.

            “We could get someone from the lobby.” Ripley’s voice shook as he spoke. “Offer them $100 to come up and test it out?”

            Maria smiled. “Sure, that s—”

            Ryan leaned forward. “Come on. Anyone down there could be working with you for all we know.” He rolled his eyes. “I’m sorry, but if that’s the best you can do…”

            “Why don’t you test it for us, Mr. Kelley?” Bell looked up at last. “I think everyone here would agree that you owe us a favor after your little stock experiment last year.”

            Ryan’s face went white.

            “Besides,” Bell continued, searching Ted’s eyes for any hesitation, “if this thing works, then you have nothing to worry about.”

            Unfazed, Ted held out his hand to Ripley, who offered him a small bottle of pills from his pocket.

            Bell held up a hand. “No. Let’s use one of ours.” He turned to Maria. “Miss Harper, didn’t you just finish a campaign for a fast-acting sleeping pill?”

            “The one for plane rides?” Maria asked, unzipping her bag. “I might have some on me now.”

            In a moment, she slid a pill across the table to Ryan.

            Bell smiled. “Good luck.”

*

            Maria was right, the sleeping pill worked quickly. Soon, Ryan slumped forward over the conference table, snoring lightly. Ivy tip-toed around him, placing three cans of soda in the center of the table. In his corner, Ripley had set up his laptop and a small speaker.

            “Orange, cherry, and cola—perfect.” Maria turned to Ivy. “That’s all, thank you.”

            As Ivy moved towards the door, Ted cast a glance at Ripley to see the color rising in his face again.

            “Alright,” Ted settled into his chair. “I just need one more thing from the two of you: What would you like Ryan to want?”

            Maria raised her eyebrows. “‘To want’?”

            Bell leaned back in his chair. “The cola.”

            “Good luck,” Maria looked down at her sleeping colleague. “He hates those.”

            “Perfect.” The corners of Ted’s mouth twitched. “Ripley?”

            Ripley opened his laptop, quickly typing strings of code. Ted turned back to the investors.

            “In a few minutes, I’ll be in Ryan’s head. I can make him dream about anything, anything, and that means I can make her want anything, too. With the Sandman Update.”

            “You’ve danced around this for a while now,” Maria replied. “What exactly is the Sandman? I think I speak for everyone here when I say this isn’t going forward until we get some information.”

            Ripley carefully slid a stack of papers across the table to Ted. He passed these around without looking at them. This part – the graphs and numbers— had always bored him—it was why he’d scouted Ripley form MIT anyway.

            “Ripley, want to tell them how it works?”

            “The Sandman opens up new avenues for advertising through soundwaves and sleep cycles.” Ripley tightened his tie. “By installing this update in the software of your phones, electronic home assistants, computers, et cetera, Sandman will release a soft hum, and those soundwaves interrupt the sleep cycles of anyone within 30 feet of it.”.

            Maria flipped through the pages before her. “What do you mean by sleep cycles?”

            “Sleep stages, I should say.” Ripley corrected himself. “The hum gently interrupts stages I-IV until it permeates the target’s REM stage.”

            Bell pushed his papers to the side. “Once you get to REM sleep, Mr. Ripley, that’s when you get into the dreams, I take it?”

            “Exactly.”

            Maria narrowed her eyes. “But how do you control the dream? You’ve interrupted the stages, then what?”

            “Then we plug in a string of code that manipulates the soundwaves to produce a specific effect in the target’s brain.”

            “It’s like writing a script,” Ted jumped back in. “That code changes the way the hum sounds. It adds pauses, changes pitch… the code basically creates a unique pattern for the hum to follow.”

            “And that controls the dreams?” asked Bell.

            Ted smiled. “A good line of code can do just about anything.”

            Silence fell over the room.

            At last, Bell spoke. “Apophis is successful because we don’t tolerate mistakes.” He paused, straightening up in his chair. “You’ve certainly intrigued me, but I like to know that I’ll see a quick return on my investment. If you can’t promise that for me in eighteen months, then I don’t see a future for you here.”

            Ted sighed. “I can’t promise one in eighteen months.”

            “Well, then—”

            “But I can promise one in eighteen minutes.” Ted bit his cheek. “Let’s get things started before that sleep aid wears off, though.” Ted jerked his head in Ripley’s direction. “Feel free to look through those papers while we wait for Ryan here, but now…”

            Ripley switched the speaker on. For minutes, no one dared to speak as Ryan’s eyes flickered in his slumber.  

            “One last thing.” Maria turned to Ted. “Have you thought about the FCC? Lawsuits? Competitors? This thing won’t do us any good if we can’t get it off the ground.”

            “Why?” Ted asked. “There’s no legal precedent for something like this. There’s no hacking, no theft…” 

            “That’s true,” she replied. “Dreams are uncharted territory, and that lack of legal precedent will make outside litigation difficult, to say the least.”

            “I think,” Bell began, toying with his pencil again, “that we’re being shortsighted. You boys know the story of David and Goliath, yes?”

            Ripley nodded. Ted Raised his eyebrows and said nothing.

            “Well,” Bell continued, “it’s always told as a feel-good story, but there’s much more to it than that—it’s a cautionary tale about poor planning, when you think about it. If a giant worries about every little thing in its way, it dies. But, if you crush David before he can grab a slingshot, you have nothing to worry about at all.”

            Bell leaned back in his chair. “And that’s one of the benefits of being a giant like Apophis: we get to keep things pretty contained. If we keep everything in house, the FCC won’t know to grab their slingshots. Do we understand each other?”

            A smile spread across Ted’s lips. “Absolutely.”

            Ryan stirred in his sleep. Maria gave him a sharp nudge. He blinked in the light, the embarrassment and annoyance clear on his face. With a grunt, he reached across the table for the cola and drained it in one gulp.

            Bell laughed and extended a hand to Ted. “Well then, let’s make a deal.”

*

            The brassy numbers on door 436 glared at Ted as he approached. They stuck out against the white paint behind them, gleaming obstinately yellow in the low light. Ted shoved the key into the scratched lock, feeling his heart lift a little as he did so. His days here were numbered. Finally.

            Before he could turn the knob, his phone buzzed in his pocket.

            “Hello?”

            “Ted, hey” Ripley said, breathless. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this whole thing.”

            “Stop,” Ted fought to hide his annoyance. “I told you when they signed that contract, we have nothing to worry about.”

            “I know,” Ripley persisted. “But everything in there—no FCC, Goliath—”

            “Ripley, I don’t think you understand the gift that’s been handed to us.” Ted turned away from the door and lowered his voice. “Forget the FCC, forget the legal bullshit. You’re not just in a new tax bracket, kid. You’re in a new life. Go call that secretary and celebrate.”

            He ended the call before Ripley could reply.

            Tori Brace stood with a wooden spoon over a tall soup pot, and didn’t notice her husband walk in. Ted had called and told her not to expect him until late tonight.

            “Hello, beautiful.”

            She spun around. “Hey! Where were you today?” Short, mousy brown curls framed Tori’s face. She had small, bright blue eyes that disappeared when she smiled, but tonight they searched Ted’s face with concern. “You didn’t say when you called.”

               Ted grabbed her in his arms and kissed her. “What do you think of this place?”

            She blinked. “What?”

            “What do you think of this place?” Ted gestured around the cluttered studio apartment. “What do you think of it, really?”

            “Ted, if this is another—”

            Ted held a hand up to silence her. “Humor me.”

            Tori bit her lip. “You know how I feel about it. This place works for us. We don’t need another—”

            “This place worked for us. But who wants to live here?” Ted grabbed his wife’s shoulders, guiding her towards the kitchen cabinets on the opposite wall. “You know what’s behind the bowls in there?”

            “Ted…”

            Ted opened the cabinet door and playfully lifted one of Tori’s hands up towards the bowls. “You know what’s back there, right?” He watched his wife’s fingers tremble slightly. She’d glued on a new set of fake nails, baby pink. Ted inched them closer to the shadowy corner of the cabinet. “Well, Tori?”

            She tried to pull her arm away, but Ted held it firm. “Ted, I don’t want to do this.”

            He pushed her hand closer, imagining the eight long, spindly legs so near her fingers. “Answer me.”

            “Spiders. Ok? A hundred tiny, disgusting spiders.” He didn’t let go. “Please, Ted.”

            Ted dropped Tori’s hand, just a breath away from the cobwebs. “Exactly. Spiders. Flies, roaches, who knows what else? You hate it here. Admit it.”

            She moved back to the pot on the stove. “You know I hate when you do that.”

            Ted followed her. “Come on, you know I wouldn’t actually let a spider get you. But you can’t lie. This place is awful and we both know it.”

            “Fine.” Tori turned to face him. “But we can’t afford another move. We talked about this.”

            Ted wrapped his arms around his wife. Lowering his voice, he moved his lips towards her ear. “But we can.”

            Tori squirmed, exasperated. “Ted, I’m not doing this aga—”

            “I had a meeting today, Tori. A big one.”

            His wife went still. “What kind of meeting?”

            “I pitched the dream idea. We’re calling it the Sandman.” Ted hugged her closer. “They bought it.”

            “The dream idea? My idea?”

            “The dream idea.”

            Tori spoke slowly, cautiously. “Ted, I came up with that idea in school. I told you about it when we started dating.”

            “Tori,” Ted hugged her closer. “It doesn’t matter—”

            Tori broke free and turned around. “Yes, it does. It was my idea, and we made a deal. I know you remember, Ted.”

            He did remember. They’d been the two poor kids in business school with stars in their eyes. He remembered lying in bed with Tori, promising never to become one of those miserable couples who crossed each other at every turn.

            “I’ve got your back, you’ve got mine.”

            But when he made that promise, Ted didn’t think he’d still be living in a shitty apartment with brassy yellow numbers on the door.

            “Try to think about it logically. These guys were old school. Old boys club-types. The idea had a better shot if Ripley and I pitched it alone.”

             “You took your assistant?”

            “He’s not an assistant,” Ted interjected.“He’s the one who writes the code for it.”

            “Whatever he does, you took him and not me?” Tori stared back at him, gripping her spoon like a weapon.

            Ted stretched out his arms. “Babe, I already told you why. Think about it: you already tried to pitch this, and it fell flat. I mean, you said so yourself.”

            “Yes,” she responded slowly. “But that was one bad pitch. One.”

            “And you haven’t pitched it anywhere else since.” Ted smiled back with sympathy. “And I get it –I know how much those rejections hurt. I just didn’t want to see this great idea die because of one bad pitch.”

            Ted watched Tori’s anger soften, but she continued, “Still, you didn’t even think to tell me? Why couldn’t I have been in the room at least?”

            “I should have told you. I messed up” He watched the corners of his wife’s mouth tremble. “It was a great idea—something you get once in a lifetime; I couldn’t just let that go. But you’re my partner in the business now, so the pitch doesn’t matter.”

            Tori turned back to the stove. “I’d better be.”

            Ted pulled his wife into his chest again. “Of course you are. And you know what? We’ve already got a pretty successful thing going. They paid big money for it.”

            “How much?”

            “They offered ninety million.”

            Tori blinked. “Ninety million? Ninety million dollars?”

            “Ninety million dollars.”

            Tori leaned her head against her husband’s shoulder. Neither of them spoke for several minutes. At last, she asked “What does that mean for us?”

            Ted’s lips curled into a smile. “It means that you won’t have to live in a dump with spiders in the cabinets. With yellow wallpaper that smells like piss. It means you don’t have to buy shitty plastic nails again.” He put his knuckle under her chin to raise her face up to his.

            “It means that I’ve got your back.” 

*

            A passerby likely wouldn’t look twice at the headquarters of Sandman Industries. Ted had resisted the urge to roost in a glitzy high-rise; he knew discretion would benefit him in the end, so he and Ripley had set up shop in squat building at a strip mall on the edge of town. The old GNC next door had been empty for years, much to Ted’s delight. No nosy neighbors.

            Ted looked over the list of new clients before leaving for the night. He had just finished writing the dream code for a new prescription. In a few hours, that obscure blood pressure pill would be a household name.

            Ripley sat next to him, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Should we add something about the side effects before we send this one off?”

            Ted didn’t bother to look up. “Why?”

            “Don’t we have to? We don’t want someone to go in without underst—”

            Ted slapped Ripley on the back. “Go home, kid. You’ve done your time.” Ripley looked up at him with bloodshot eyes. “We don’t need to add anything—it’s a dream, not a TV commercial. We can do whatever we want.”

            “But don’t we owe it—”

            “Go home, kid.” Ted threw his jacket over his shoulder. “Unwind with Ivy and don’t lose sleep over this.”

            Ripley smiled. “Maybe you’re right.”

            Ted laughed. “Of course I am. How long has it been now? Two years?”

            “Just about.”

            “Looks like I was right about a couple of things,” Ted said with a wink.

            Ripley stood and cleared his desk. “She’s been asking when we can get dinner with you and Tori again. How is Tori?”

            Ted sighed. “Good question, I haven’t looked at the calendar. I’ll let you know.”

            “How is Tori?” Ripley repeated.

            Ted chuckled and moved towards the door. “She’s fine kid. The way you always hound me about her, I’d think you were interested if I didn’t know any better.”

*

            Tori smiled as her husband sauntered into the brightly lit apartment. She stood at the tall window in the living room. Life on Fifth Avenue continued busily below her.

            Ted tossed his jacket over the leather sofa and stopped to admire his wife’s silhouette against the setting sun. She’d started dressing better after the first Sandman check came in, he thought, and he was pleased to see that she’d used some of the money to tame that frizzy hair. As he approached, Ted reached out an arm and twirled Tori around in full view of the window before kissing her neck.

            “Ted,” she pushed away slightly. “You’re going to put on a show for the neighbors.”

            “I don’t mind.”

            She extracted herself from his grip. “You hate PDA.”

            He shrugged. “Not anymore.”

            Tori raised her eyebrows. “Why’s that?”

            Ted could sense the gears turning in her head; he could almost see the word secretary flashing across her mind.

            “Do I need a reason?”

            “Does the reason wear stilettos?”

            Ted laughed. “Maybe you should get yourself a pair.” He thought about whether this little game would be worth the fight tonight. As Tori’s hands started to shake, he added, “Come on, you know it’s not that. I got a big new client today. Guess it put me in a good mood, but if you’re…” His voice trailed off.

            Tori’s eyes went wide, “Oh God, I’m sorry Ted. Honey, I’m sorry. I always do this.”

            “It’s fine.” He poured himself a drink and settled in the kitchen.

            “Ted…” She placed a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry. I just haven’t been sleeping well lately.”

            Ted knew why, but he raised the drink to his lips to hide his smile. He’d been careful—hiding the speaker, wearing discreet earplugs to bed. Maybe the sleep wasn’t great, but she hadn’t asked him for a favor in weeks.

            “Who’s the new client?” Tori pressed.

            “Pfischer. The pharmaceutical company.”

            “Nice!” Ted could hear the relief in her voice. “What are they selling now?”

            “I can’t exactly say.” He took another drink. “The CEO had me sign a bunch of NDAs before we got started.”

            Tori traced her fingers around the nape of her husband’s neck. “Not even with your business partner?”

            Ted felt her plastic nails through the fabric of his shirt. Dammit, Tori, do you always have to look cheap?

             “Not even you.” Ted turned and took her hand in his. “You’re still wearing these, huh?”

            Tori pulled her hand away. “Ted, I want more out of this company.”

            “You own half of it.”

            “But it doesn’t feel like it.” Her voice was gentle. “It was my idea, Ted. I need more of a say.”

            Ted took another drink.

            Tori sat down beside him. “I’m serious. You know I’d be good. When it comes down to it, we have the same qualifications. Same school, same grades…”

            Ted rolled his eyes. “And yet you still interrogate me like I’ve got a mistress for every day of the week when I get home. Do you really think you have the nerve to sit in contract meetings all day? They don’t tip-toe around your feelings, babe.”

            Tori balled her hands into fists to keep them from shaking. “Give me a chance to prove that I ‘have the nerve,’ then. I have a right to be there.”

            “We both know you can’t handle it.”

            “I can.”

            Ted drew his wallet out of his pocket. “Yeah? Then you might as well make yourself stand out.” He threw his credit card onto the counter. “Buy yourself a pair of stilettos.”

            With that, Ted stood, drained his glass, and moved toward the bedroom. He’d almost reached the door when he heard his wife’s voice.

            “I can’t do this anymore, Ted.”

            He turned to face the kitchen. “Do what? Whine about not having to—”

            “I want a divorce.”

            Silence.

            Ted wandered back to Tori’s side.

            “This hasn’t been working for a while. We both know it, Ted.”

            “So you want a divorce? A messy, legal, nightmare divorce?”

            Tori nodded.

            “You want to lose this lifestyle? You want to go back to shitty spider cabinets?”

            “I’m not losing anything. I own half this business.”

            Ted felt his face go white. “Well, I mean—”

            “My name is on all the documents. I know it is, I was there.” Tori turned to face her husband. “It was my idea, Ted. My idea. You don’t even know how I came up with it.” She paused for a moment, before adding. “You and I both know I could ask for a lot more than half.”

            “Then you’re asking for half?” Ted asked.

            Tori locked her eyes on the back wall. “I’m asking for half, and I’m going out to find more clients. We’ll split the business, and from here on out I’m keeping anyone else I sign on. You can do the same.”

            Ted reached out and put a hand on her shoulder. “Honey, I told you, it’s an old boy’s—”

            “I don’t care.” She shrugged him off. “That’s my proposal. You can take it, or I can go for the whole business.”

She stood. “You decide, Ted.”

            “Tor—”

            But the apartment door slammed shut before Ted could finish his thought.

*

            A week later, Ted stood over the kitchen counter. Watching the remnants of a strong drink settle in his glass.

            “What are you doing here?” Tori asked from the doorway.

            “I think we need to talk about this.” Ted poured himself another glass of scotch in the kitchen. Ripley’s words echoed in his ears: “Some people say if you d—”

            “It’s been a week, Ted.” Tori’s words pulled him back to reality. She hadn’t moved from the doorway. “I told you I’d give it a week but I’m not changing my mind. We don’t need to make this difficult.”

            Ted pulled out a chair and motioned for her to sit. “I know. But that doesn’t mean we can’t talk about this.”

            Tori took the seat next to her husband. Wary. “I won’t be vindictive.”

            “I know.”

            “Then what’s to talk about?” Tori pressed. “I’m filing tomorrow. You can be there if you want.”

            “I told Ripley not to come in today.” Ted’s words muddled into one another as he slumped over the kitchen island, his fingers still firm around the scotch glass.

            “What does that—Ted, what do you want to talk about?”

            “He couldn’t be there—” Ted caught himself. “You wanted to go to Hawaii.”

            “Yes.”

            “You talked about that when we met.”

            “Ted…”

            “Used to look up pictures of the beach. Remember that?” Ted swallowed. “Used to say you wanted to fall asleep under a blue and white umbrella.”

            Tori closed her eyes. “I did.”

            “But we never went. Why didn’t we go?” He looked directly at Tori now, her face swimming in his eyes. “We had the money.”

            “You’re not making this any easier, Ted.”

            “Why didn’t we go?”

            Tori turned to face her husband. “Because I wanted us to have a reason to go. I wanted it to be special.”

            Ted nodded.

            “What did you want to talk about, Ted?”

            “I can’t—I can’t do this if you hate me. I had to be here to make sure you don’t hate me.”

            Tori put her hand on his. “I don’t hate you, Ted.” Her tone was soft. “We just aren’t good for each other anymore.”

            Ted drained his glass. “That’s true.”

            “Should I call someone? Ripley?”

            Ted stood quickly and his head spun. “No—don’t call Ripley. I’m leaving.”

            “Goodbye, Ted.” Tori wiped her eyes.

            “Goodbye.” He paused.

            Ted waited until the lock clicked behind him. After a few moments, he closed his eyes and sent the code.

*

            He’d waited until the next morning before he called the police. When the paramedics arrived, Ted tried to shake his wife awake, explaining that she had been completely fine the night before.

            The funeral had been hard, but the wake was worse. In the receiving line, he took pulls from a flask between shaking hands. He didn’t need to be sober, everything the mourners said blurred together anyway.

            “I’m so sorry Ted.”

            “Dying in your sleep. If it has to happen, that’s the way to go.”

            “At least it was peaceful.”

            That part was true. Ted had paid special attention to Tori’s comfort as he’d written the code. Calm, white sand beaches, a warm, comfortable tide to carry her out to sea. He couldn’t think of a better way to die in a dream.

            Eventually, a familiar couple shuffled up to him.

            “Ted,” Ivy pulled him into a hug. “I’m so sorry. Tori was—I don’t even have a word for her. She was incredible.”

            “Thanks, Ivy.” He replied, before taking another pull.

            “She was like an older sister to me,” Ivy continued. “Just a brilliant mind, and so kind.”

            “That’s true,” Ted replied, blankly.

            “I’m sorry, Ted.” Ripley looked at him with bloodshot eyes. “I know what a loss this is. There will never be anyone like Tori.”

            “Exactly,” said Ivy. “She was one of a kind.”

            “She was,” Ted replied, taking care not to slur his words. “She was. Ripley, I’m going to stay out of the office for a while.”

            “Yes.” Ivy spoke for him. “Yes, Ripley will take care of everything. And I’ll even come in to help –I mean, I already understand how it affects people, anyway.”

              Ripley threw his arms around Ted, who stumbled under the embrace.

            “I’ll take care of it.”

            “Thanks kid,” Ted whispered, taking a long pull as he watched the couple walk away.

*

            Back in the apartment, Ted sat on the edge of the sofa, watching the ice cubes crash into each other as he swirled them around with the dregs in his glass. He knew eventually he’d have to enter the bedroom –whether to sell the bed or gather his belongings—but he couldn’t face it yet.

            Besides, some part of him welcomed the sore neck and stiff muscles he’d get after sleeping here. Maybe if he did enough penance here, he wouldn’t feel sick when he saw Tori’s hairpin, or a box of her fake nails.  

            Ted’s phone buzzed next to him. Ripley’s name flashed across the screen.

            NEW ACCOUNT? WHAT’S THE “HAWAII” CODE?

            Even in his stupor, Ted felt his heart drop. He rubbed his eyes before replying:

            DON’T REMEMBER. DON’T WORRY. PROBABLY TOOK CARE OF IT.

            Before he had time to set the phone on the nightstand, it buzzed again.

            OK. I’LL HAVE IVY FILE IT.

            A pause, and then:

            ANY IDEA WHAT KIND OF PLACE IT WAS? COMPANY? INDIVIDUAL? JUST SO I KNOW HOW TO FILE THE CODE.

            Would Ripley piece it together?  He shook the thought from his head. He’d been careful. No one would know. 

            IGNORE IT. IT CAN WAIT. GO HOME.

            Ted tossed the phone on the couch and ambled into the shower, desperate to scrub the sweat and guilt from his skin.

*

            A loud rap at the door jolted Ted awake. He looked over at the clock on the mantle.

            12:30 AM

            Ted closed his eyes. They’ll leave.

            Another rap, and then another. Ted swore and pulled himself up from the sofa.

            Ripley stood in the doorway, holding a bottle of wine. “Ted,” he beamed at him.

            Ted stared, bewildered.

            The kid stumbled in. “I brought a bottle.” He held up the wine. “Thought we could celebrate a little.”

            Ted rubbed his eyes. “What are you doing here?”

            “Celebrating, Ted. We’re celebrating.” Ripley wandered into the kitchen and began searching for a corkscrew.

            Ted followed. “Celebrating what?”

            Ripley wrenched the cork out from the bottle. “Tori’s life. Get some glasses.”

            “What?”

            “Glasses. Wine glasses.”

            Ted pulled two down from the cabinet while Ripley sloshed the wine over them. It glugged and splashed, speckling the dark drops all across the marble counter.

            “Raise a glass,” Ripley commanded, “to an incredible woman. Tori was one of a kind.”

            “Kid, what the hell do you—” Ted tried to protest, but Ripley was already shoving the glass into his hand.

            “We’re celebrating Tori’s life, Ted. It’s what people do.” Ripley smiled at him with wild eyes. “We owe it to her, to honor her memory.”

            “I’m really not in the mood.”

            “Drink.”

            He met Ripley’s gaze. Did he know?

            Ted put the glass to his lips, draining it. The minute it touched the counter, Ripley was pouring again.

            “It must be hard,” Ripley continued. “I know what she meant to you.”

            Ted drained the next glass. “She meant a lot.” Ripley’s face blurred as he looked back at him. The only things in focus were those eyes, wide and bloodshot.

            “You know how much she meant to me?” Ted asked.

            “Of course I do,” Ripley responded, already gathering the glasses for another pour. “It was easy to see why you fell for her.”

            Ted smiled. Relieved.

            “Anyone would fall for her,” Ripley continued. “We should focus on the happy times you two had. I remember the first time the two of you came out with Ivy and me.”

            “The Hibachi bar,” Ted pulled his glass towards him, spilling most of it over his shirt. “We talked about when we knew each other in college.”

            “Yes,” Ripley’s voice sounded more distant. “Ivy thought that was adorable.”

            Ted rested his head against the marble countertop. “It was.”

            “And you two talked about all those big dreams you had.” Ripley laughed hysterically. “Remember? You said you wanted to make a million dollars.”

            “Mhmm,” Ted nodded his head slightly.

            “And Ivy loved Tori’s—she was just telling me about it. Those two talked about how badly Tori wanted to see Hawaii. Do you remember that, Ted?”

            Ted was hardly listening now, laboring just to keep his eyes open. 

            “We were just talking about it, before I got here.” A smile stretched across Ripley’s face, pulling back his ruddy cheeks. “You were right, Ivy’s pretty great—observant, at least. But hey, we’re drinking for Tori, not my girl. We need some music. Where’s your speaker?”

            Ted jerked his head towards the living room.

            “Perfect.”

            The lyrics soon floated into the kitchen.

            I’ve just closed my eyes again…

            “You like Gary Wright? Dream Weaver?” Ripley called, but Ted had had enough. His head ached, and the marble felt so smooth and cold. He didn’t even mind the wet wine spots against his skin. It would be so nice to sleep here, so easy…

            Ted hardly registered the click as his apartment door swung shut, nor soft hum from the living room, fainter than his own measured breathing. As it rose, he became aware of how heavy his body was, how it seemed to be pulling itself towards the ground. It had been a long day, an awful day. His muscled screamed out for rest.

            That hum was so sweet, so soothing. Where had he heard it before?

            Ted rested his head against the marble. Tori had never liked it. I bet she’d have gotten rid of it after she left. Ted felt his eyes droop. I bet she’d still wear those cheap nails, too.

            He succumbed to sleep before the Sandman’s hum hit its crescendo.

*

            Ted awoke to the sound of rain. Not heavy, but enough to ruin a nice pair of shoes.

            Perfect. Ted groaned and stretched his arms, slowly easing himself up from his chair. The clock across the room read 10:43. Ted looked around. Shards of glass glittered across the kitchen floor.

            Ripley, he thought. Too drunk to clean up.

            As Ted stumbled around the kitchen to sweep up, he caught a glimpse of a soft blue glow on his right. He turned towards it, watching the light ebb and flow under the bedroom door.

            Until then, Ted hadn’t registered the pounding in his own head. He sighed. What could he expect after last night?

            The light grew more intense.

            What did I leave on in there? Ted rubbed the sleep from his eyes.

            As he made his way towards the bedroom, the glow stretched farther across the floor. When Ted closed his fingers around the doorknob, he heard seagulls in the distance.

            “What the—”

            The door flung open, and Ted stumbled onto a beach. The sand burned white hot beneath him. A short distance ahead, he saw a woman resting under a blue and white umbrella.

            “I’ve got your back,” she called to him, not bothering to turn around.

            “Tori?”

            “You’ve got mine.”

            “Tori, I’m sorry.” Ted tried to walk towards his wife, to get away from the thick, stinging sand. He felt his legs sinking deeper in with every step. “Tori, please. I’m so sorry.”

            “I’ve got your back.”

            Clear blue waves began to break against the shore. Each reaching slightly farther than the last.

            Ted looked down to see that the sand had reached his waist. In the distance, the sun began to set against the horizon. The waves pushed closer and closer to Ted.

            “Tori—” the hot sand had swallowed his torso now. “Please.”

            “You’ve got mine.”



BIO

Kate H. Koch has synesthesia, which means every sound flashes as a color before her eyes. Her vivid condition inspires her to create dark, colorful writing, and this has helped her during her time as a graduate student at Harvard Extension School, where she is pursuing an ALM degree in Creative Writing and Literature. You can find Kate’s work in Corvid Queen Magazine, Flora Fiction, The Metaworker Literary Magazine, Club Plum, BOMBFIRE, Cholla Needles, and Z Publishing House’s Minnesota’s Best Emerging Poets of 2019: An Anthology, as well as a script for ESPN and poetry forthcoming in Belle Ombre Literary Journal. You can also find her writing on her website: katehkoch.com



Three Footnotes from Henry-Louis de La Grange, Mahler, Volume I

by Clarissa Nemeth



P. 44

Vienna, 1877

            Frau Landler cannot rid herself of the headache. It feels as if someone holds ice to her temples; they throb coldly, deeply, and each pulse of pain reverberates in the cavity of her mouth. For days now. Weeks. Even when she sleeps.

            She has never had such headaches, and she believes they come not from within her, but from some malevolency without, some creeping evil spirit kicked up from the city’s mud and dirt by the careless feet of its socialists, its Jews. Her tenants, three bedraggled boys, drag such filth to her door on the tracks of their boots.

            She dreams of leaving Vienna. Her husband once promised her a house in the country, by a lake, but now she has only the meager income from the room she lets. She hates him for dying. She hates the boys. She hates this pain.

            From downstairs comes the clanging of a piano that used to be her husband’s, the one she cannot bear to see anymore. Then bellowing voices, monströs. The little shits never stop singing. The low notes of the piano echo in her head, but the high falsetto, the warbling Brünnhilde, she feels in her teeth.

            Frau Landler heaves herself down the stairs, into the little room that reeks of sweat and dirty clothing, coffee and overripe fruit. “Aussteigen!”

            The trio, crowded around the piano, look up at her, puzzled. The one in the middle, the the one she suspects is a Jew, pushes up his glasses. His gaze is piercing, pitiless. As if the sin were hers.

            “I will not stand this! Aussteigen! Jetzt aussteigen!”

            She screams until they scramble their skinny limbs like spiders, grabbing armfuls of clothing, stacks of sheet music and scores, boots, an apple, a coffee cup. She screams so that they cannot speak to each other. She screams until they have put their threadbare coats upon their backs, and then she stands in the doorway and screams at them in the street.

            Then the room is bare but for their smell, and the piano. The pain in her head pounds as if the boy still sits at there, fingers splayed over the keys. As if he has given it rhythm, texture, cadence; a terrible, insistent kind of beauty.

P.565

Venice, 1900

            When the stranger at the door tells her that the conductor of the great Vienna Opera is in the courtyard, she thinks it is a joke. She asks, Do you think I am a fool?

            No, no, signora, the strange woman says; the conduttore is…indisposed. We are touring the canals, you see. And the need came upon him…

            Then a man comes up behind her, tall and pale. He argues in German, she does not know what he says, but it hardly matters. How can it be, she thinks; such serendipity!

            Conduttore, of course, she interrupts, gesturing for them to come in. Conduttore, this is an honor, to be in the presence of such a great artist, such a master, it is a dream of mine to hear the opera someday, tell me, do you play Verdi there?

            His companion translates, says, Madam, may he…?

            Oh yes, of course, you must make yourself at home, conduttore, please, let me show you.

            She thanks God she has just replaced the flowers in the drawing room, that there are baskets of fresh oranges at hand should the great man need refreshment. She fetches the chamber pot, presents it to him like a chalice.

            The conduttore’s eyes are wide, his face flushed. He protests with his hands, speaking rapidly to his companion

            Madam, is there not another place?

            No, no, I insist, you must use the best room in the house, it’s only right.

            But if there were a more private…?

            No, no, it does me honor to have you here, you are an artist, a genius!

            And so she and the translator slide shut the little door and leave him to his performance. She wants to sing with joy, that history has come to her humble little house on the Giudecca. The longer he stays in the room, the more blessed she feels.

            When he emerges some time later she offers him water, wine, food, but he insists he must be going along. To thank her he goes into the courtyard and picks a little bouquet of violets. When she takes the flowers from him she clasps his hand and kisses it. When they leave she can hardly believe it happened.

            But there is proof. The chamber pot sits in the drawing room, between the window and the undisturbed basket of oranges. She peers into it, thanking God for the blessing of the visit; thanking God for the blessing of the violets.

P. 553 

Vienna, 1900

            The Deutsche Zeitung is calling her a Jewess again.

            Every time she sings, whatever the role—Elisabeth, Sieglinde, Leonora—they imply in their reviews that she is on the stage not because of her talent, but because of the Kapellmeister’s agenda. They are always comparing her to Marie Renard, the soprano she replaced. Selma Kurz, they say, is not as pure as Renard.

            The readers understand they are not referring to her voice.

            Once she ignored this sly libel. It was easy to do when after every performance he praised her lyric voice, her liquid eyes, the incomparable softness of her tone. So supple, he said; watch, and I will shape you into a woman no one will forget.

            In those early days his genius seemed fierce, towering, irresistable. So when he insisted that she rehearse for days with a blindfold to capture the movements of Iolanthe, or break the Guild’s rules to sing his own lieder with the Philharmonic, she never considered that she might say no.

            She kept the notes he slipped under the door to her dressing room: Selma, come round my flat tomorrow, I want my friend to paint you.

            Selma, Liebchen, come to my office, I must see you.

            Mein Schatz, my eyes ache for the sight of you.

            Selma, why did you slip away after rehearsal? Don’t be angry, Schatzi, you know how I must behave. When we are alone, I will cover that treasured face with kisses.

            Selma, have no delusions; my heart belongs to you and you alone, but how can I marry you unless you leave the opera?

            Selma…

            She burns them now, the notes, the letters, every one, in the flame of the candle, along with the review clipped from the Deutsche Zeitung. The edges crisp, curl, blacken. The words flake away to smoke and bits of ash that she can blow off her hand in half a breath, no effort at all. She knows how to conserve and use her lungs. He taught her, his hands around her waist, beside the piano: just there, Selma. See? Oh, but what they will say when I am done with you.    



BIO

Clarissa Nemeth is originally from Gatlinburg, Tennessee, and currently hails from Asheville, North Carolina. She has a Bachelor of Music degree from Boston University and an MFA from North Carolina State University. She has previously published work in The Writing Disorder and Appalachian Heritage (now The Appalachian Review), and is the winner of the latter’s 2015 Denny C. Plattner Award for Excellence in Fiction. When she’s not writing, Clarissa is involved with community animal welfare work and enjoys spending time with her husband and their pets. 



Better Late Than Ever

by Jeff Underwood



May 3, 1831

London is wet. The rain has flooded Father Time’s courtyard, leaving little chance for our croquet match to continue. I had been playing a most friendly contest with my siblings, Early, Timely, and Late, so its continuation is certainly desirable. I write now from my childhood bedchamber. The pillicock engravings on the desk delight me nearly as much as they did those days long ago. Out the window, I watch Father Time’s groundskeeper tend to the torrent of rainwater laying waste to the various gardens. He is a good man, Groundskeeper Jack. I often enjoy our long-winded conversations and I know he is well and good to be called a decent family man. Tonight we celebrate a far greater family man, though, my father, Father Time. Nary a one of us believes him when he says he will be three-thousand, two-hundred and fifty-two years old. Seems like not yet just yesterday he was turning three-thousand, two-hundred and fifty-one! But time is funny and Father is time so… Anyways, it’s been fun to see Mother Nature in such a good mood. She can be so temperamental and broody! But the day saw easy rain and we thanked her for it. She even baked Father Time his favorite cake, German chocolate! I think I will venture down and treat myself to a slice. Till we speak again, dear diary!   

– Never

May 4, 1831

Oh diary, today was utter dog dredge. Father Time wasn’t satisfied with a single night of birthday celebrations so he demanded we dine out at his favorite victualing house. Thus, we all piled into and onto the carriage and bumbled all the way out to the financial district so Father Time could have his Sweetings. He once said their oysters are the best thing he’s ever eaten in his life and he’s broken bread with Jesus! The rest of the family loves them, as well, but I can’t say my feelings are mutual. Slippery little buggars, those oysters! At any rate, we’re at the house and everyone orders their oysters and I order just a burger and a shake, nothing crazy, ya know. I tell ya, if we hadn’t been caught up in another one of Father Time’s stupendous New Year’s Eve stories (this one involving Napoleon, Duroc, and Mozart), we would have taken more notice of the time it took for our food to arrive. Father Time is especially perceptible to that kind of stuff. Finally, Early’s oysters arrived at the table. He complained about them being slightly undercooked but he wolfed them down. Then Timely had her plate arrive, along with Mother Nature’s and Father Time’s, all cooked to perfection. Late and I watched them nearly finish their plates and they were even starting to lick the plates when Late’s oysters finally showed up to the table. They were obviously overcooked but he actually likes his food that way so he annihilated them. Now everyone had their food except me but I figured, hey, it’s a burger, probably just needs to cook longer. I like them well done. Well, we didn’t see the waitress again until she brought over the bill and when I asked her about it she said it was going to be out at any moment. So we waited another forty minutes before deciding just forget it. The waitress said thanks for coming when we left but I didn’t say thanks back. I’m so sick of this happening every time we go out to eat!

– Never

May 5, 1831

I heard the most curious of phrases today, diary. My brother Late and I were down at the Westminster Public Library returning some overdue books when up to the front desk barges the old librarian, Miss Cranks. She had some not-so-great words for us about the sanctity of time and how disappointed our parents would be if they knew how late our library books were, yadda, yadda, yadda. But she got pretty quiet after Late busted out the overdue books and tossed them onto the counter. It was an absolutely ace move! And so Miss Cranks was logging the returns in the ledger, muttering to herself as she does, and upon finishing, she looked up to Late and I and said, verbatim, “We’re happy to finally have these books returned, gentlemen. Better late than never, after all.” Better late than never? What does that even mean? I looked over at Late after she said it but he was just staring off and smiling wide. I wonder if he knew what she meant by that. Maybe I’ll ask him tomorrow but if you find out first, diary, let me know. Thanks.

– Never

May 6, 1831

Oh, diary, how I loathe my Uncle Tony! I loathe him so! I’ve told you about him in the past and how he doesn’t have any time powers but that doesn’t stop him from dictating how all things shall pass. He’s Father Time’s older brother so you can probably imagine that dynamic. One is an all-powerful time-god and the other works in the Department of Agriculture. Uncle Tony does a lot of compensating. But they get along well and Dad is still trying to squeeze out some birthday love so he invited Uncle Tony to come over tonight to play board games and what have you. Father Time decided he wanted to play Kriegspiel so we began to split into teams. Here’s where the night turned, diary. Now, I’m used to being picked last in all things competitive, or, hell, never picked at all. It comes with the name. But Father Time and Mother Nature had been kind about bending the laws of time lately so that I could have as much fun as the other children. Instead of never being picked to participate in croquet, I am simply last to be picked now. So I was so excited to play because I love Kriegspiel and I could see Timely was just about to pick me for her team when I felt Uncle Tony’s hand fall on my shoulder. “Grave consequences await those that meddle with the sanctity of time,” he says. So I’m like, “Righto, Uncle Tony, I just wanna play a little Kriegspiel.” And I tried to pull away from him but he just gripped my shoulder tighter and repeated that same line. I looked at Father Time but he just shrugged as little brothers do. Thanks, Father Time. Mother Nature at least flashed lightning in her eyes before yielding to Uncle Tony’s demand. “Can I at least be umpire?” I asked my ratbag of an uncle. “Never!” He shouted over and over until we were all like, oy, we get it. And so I didn’t play the game but watched as they divided up into adults vs kids and then brought in Groundskeeper Jack to be the umpire. Such an insult to my ability as a time-god and Kriegspiel player! Finally, the evening ended with a steady win for the adults, and Uncle Tony was almost out the door when he just had to turn around and brag, “You’ll never beat Father Time, Mother Nature, and your dear old Uncle Tony!” I don’t know why he had to stare at me while he said it but it just made me feel even worse. I hate Uncle Tony. I won’t cry because he doesn’t deserve that satisfaction. But, damnit, why do people have to be so mean! Thanks for listening, diary, I love you.

– Never

May 7, 1831

Well, work sure was a drag today. Father wanted me at the factory to ensure nothing ever arrived in my department despite me assuring him that nothing ever did. “Father Time, you are Father Time, you see all planes of time and space, you know nothing is coming into the Department of Never.” I told him this, but he just said to be in at eight. I got there at eight-fifteen only because the roads are still so damn wet and the carriage rolls like a bumbuggy! But Father Time laid into me, nonetheless, giving me one of his tried and true lectures on the ‘sanctity of time’. Bullocks, I really don’t care about being on time when THERE IS NO WORK FOR ME TO DO. I sat around the office watching Barb and Mel run community theatre lines. Even they know our department is useless! It’d be nice to have some kind of purpose, diary. Eh, tomorrow’s another day. Goodnight.

– Never

May 7, 1831

Better Late than Never! Better Late than Never! I heard it four fucking times today, diary, and that was just while walking the flooded back streets well away from the main square. And the words weren’t even directed my way but seemed to have been placed into the lexicon of commoners all over. Men and women using these words as justification for tardiness and lazy efforts. Bah! Why do they heap such praise onto a brother of mine with such slipshod practices and shameless abandon of the sanctity of time? Curse him and curse them all!

– Never

May 8, 1831

Feeling rather delightful today, diary! The night’s sleep felt as if I had been stork-wrapped and upon waking I found myself in the most amazing of spirits. After breakfast, Late and I have scheduled ourselves another rousing match of croquet. Despite having never lost to my dear, younger brother, I find myself increasing in unease at his rapid development in the sport. However, if he should ever overtake myself in skill and finally find himself on the receiving end of victory, then I shall swallow my pride, congratulate him so, and help guide him forward in his quest for croquet dominance. I love my dear brother Late after all!

– Never

May 8, 1831

LATE IS DEAD. Late is fucking dead, diary. And I know it didn’t have to be but the universe compelled it so! I am a time-god, in the end, and one time-god can only take so much torment! I lost the croquet match. But through no fault of my own. It was that damn groundskeeper, Groundskeeper Jack. See, Never and I had been enjoying our contest for some time and were nearing the finish when that pesky Groundskeeper Jack came to the fence for a heckle. It started innocently enough, him calling fouls each time my mallet met the ball or him laughing in a fit each time I missed the wicket. It wasn’t much a bother until he hollered a couple of unsavories along the lines of: “Has little brother Late always been better than you, Never?” and “What’s better than Never, Never?” They were teases and I could see them for that, allowing them to roll off my back at first. Late, however, began to take them as cheers and used the jeers as fuel for a champion’s performance. As stated previously, diary, I have never lost a match to Late. I would rather perish altogether than lose a match to Late. And so when he cracked that final winning wicket with his ball, hatred burned inside me at Sol’s heat. But I prepared myself for the gracious defeat, lending my hand out for the congratulatory shake. And instead of shaking my hand and being a most gracious champion, Late simply gazed down towards my hand and then into my eyes. His smile spoke for him before his mouth did so I knew the words that were coming. “Looks like it really is better Late than Never,” he said to me as he walked by. And I just fucking lost it! One swing, diary. That’s all it took to bring the pompous power of Late down to his dead knees. His head split open like the grapefruits we used to mallet as youngsters. When Groundskeeper Jack saw this, he totally lost his cool, of course. But Groundskeeper Jack is old and slow and he tires fast and he can’t protect himself much. So I made quick work of him and now he’s buried beneath his precious tulips, diary. Look, I didn’t want to kill him but, I mean, witnesses? Yuck. Alright, I’ve got to get back down there and make sure the palm leaves are still covering the spot I buried Late in. Not a bad day, diary!                                               

– Never

May 9, 1831

Unsurprisingly, the family has been a bit worried about Late’s disappearance but I managed to convince them that he ran off for the week with the stable girl from down the way. It was hard to convince them of such a story as Late has never missed a day of work and so when he didn’t show up after his usual late entrance I had to do much satisfying. But satisfied they were and now I am so. Father Time even trusted me with Late’s work since he wouldn’t be in to tend to it and because my department is so bare. I gotta say, Late’s job really isn’t all that tough. Sure, the workload is enormous with all the late arrivals, late pregnancies, late registrations…but it beats NEVER getting any work. I can handle this.

– Never

May 10, 1831

Oh goodness, diary, what a mistake I’ve made! Why did I think I could run the Department of Never and take on all of Late’s work? Bloody well stupid, that thought! Obviously, I am getting my arse kicked. WHY ARE THERE SO MANY DAD’S COMING HOME FROM WORK LATE? Now that they’re being processed in the Department of Never they’re not coming home at all. Never! By all accounts, they just sit there and stare at their office walls, stuck in some kind of time-limbo. And what the hell am I supposed to do about it? I didn’t go to school for Late, I studied Never, damnit! I need to fix this ASAP. I need to bring Late back.

– Never

May 10, 1831

Ok, I’ve got his body. Had to dig it up from under the pile of palm leaves but thankfully the decomposition hasn’t had too much of a run at him. He still kinda looks like a time-god! Now, the tricky part is going to be bringing him back to life. I never took biology in school so I’m really not too sure what I’m doing but I do have one trusty resource. An old graverobber lives down the block with whom I’ve had some lively chats. He’s never said anything about bringing a corpse back to life but some of the tales he told lead me to believe he can get it done. I do worry about his hands as they lack any kind of steady countenance but we don’t need a Super-Late. Hell, we don’t even need the Late of old. Just something to pass as time.

– Never

May 11, 1831

Capital news, diary! Late is back once more! And hardly a mare could notice a difference in the lad. Hell, he’s even more late than ever! Late enough to convince Father Time and Mother Nature of his return, at least. Needless to say, my time in the Department of Late was forgettable and Father Time made that apparent when he recalled all the Dad’s back from the Never-realm and returned them to a natural state of late. No matter, I had a smashing time. And I know some of the Dad’s did, too! We’ll see how good of a time they’ll be having when little Frankenlate is bumbling around the office. I am filled with delight at the prospect of that three-ring!

– Never

May 11, 1831

No, diary, I will not bring back Groundskeeper Jack.

– Never

May 12, 1831

Diary, have you heard of the word ‘kismet’? I can’t help but feel a tad bit regretful with how this whole ordeal has played itself out. Perhaps Late didn’t deserve any of this and that I was a wee more reactionary than I ought to have been. If I should happen upon my dear brother then I think I shall divulge the exact details of how these last few days have played out. Our relationship has seemed stilted since his resurrection. I do not enjoy it much, I must say. I love my dear brother after all.

– Never

May 13, 1831

Mother’s mercy, diary, we have a massive problem! Groundskeeper Jack is back! And he is mad! Oh diary, my regrets only intensify with each passing day’s transgressions. And today was most regretful. I saw Late and I told him what happened, everything. I’m not sure if it was because we could only scoop half his brains back into his head or what, but he wasn’t even mad when I told him. He was more concerned about Groundskeeper Jack which then made me mad. So I made him promise me that he wouldn’t dig up Groundskeeper Jack and that he wouldn’t take him to my graverobber friend and that they wouldn’t rebuild him but he said NO PROMISE! And now Jack’s bloody well back. I tried to apologize to Groundskeeper Jack but he just stared at me, drooling heavily. Eventually, I had to softly sidestep his outstretched hands as he slowly raised them towards my throat. I shall be avoiding those hands in the future, I do say! In all seriousness, diary, I do hope Father Time finds reason to terminate his employment. Be well, diary.

– Never

May 3, 1831

Well, Father Time heard about what happened and reversed all of time. All the good I did for naught. Then he gave me a lot of grief about the ‘sanctity of time’ and told Mother Nature what I had done. And so, London is wet again.

– Never



BIO

Chicago based writer Jeff Underwood has a strong affinity for comedy and the absurd. He was born into a large family in the mountains of Arizona and was forced into weaponizing comedy as a means for attaining affection. His humor has led to laughs from the likes of famous men such as Sacha Baron Cohen and Kurt Thomas. Check out his Instagram @horstapony for more work of a similar nature.



Arrival

By J.T. Neill



            In the winter, storms were frequent. They held the coastline to ransom. The sea that only a few months prior held waves on long leashes of refrain would wrestle with white horses that rode as far as the eye could see. It was power Islanders had understood for generations. But that was the winter. Such nights were rare in the summer, and only a particular wind, from a particular direction was able to dig down to the seabed floor. As the garden door slammed shut, she knew that that night could be one of those rare nights.

            The Island awoke the following morning as if witnessing a strange and messy argument between the sea and the wind. Seaweed was thrown everywhere, small dinghies once painted as transit marks had snapped from their anchors and washed up on the beach. Pebbles that had been thrown into the sea by children returned in their droves, forming walls of rock.

            Virginia Huntington was a third generation Islander and had a house on the seafront which she shared with her husband Mark and their three children. She had inherited the Victorian property when her father died and the house became the family’s bolthole to escape the city. Mark would drop by for weekends and bank holidays like a passing ship, careful not to dock and offload his worries in a place he had always felt like an outsider. Virginia had spent most of her childhood on the Island; playing in the rock pools to catch crabs, crying on the seafront when her boyfriend broke up with her, making love to Mark under the autumn stars, and a space she called her own to think.

            She was up earlier than usual. She picked her ‘walking Barbour’ up off the hook in the hallway and closed the door behind her.

            Down on the beach, as Virginia turned over mangled seaweed with her foot, she began to think about a problem that had been plaguing her for some time — the education of her eldest son, William. He was coming up to thirteen and Mark, single-mindedly thought the Big-Five were the only suitable suggestion, airing his frustrations as he said, ‘we’ve been over this ground before,’ annoyed that she wouldn’t see things his way. Virginia thought William was too sensitive to go to boarding school and had heard horror stories about bullying at what Mark regarded as ‘esteemed institutions.’ However, Mark controlled the money, so she knew her protestations could only go so far. She knew there were people she could talk to about it, but that would mean she had to admit she had a problem, something the Island didn’t take kindly to.

            ‘I may have to go back to work,’ thought Virginia.

            The transience of the morning’s light hung delicately over the beach, gently bringing out its sandstone colour. Her toes had managed to dislodge a clump of seaweed attached to a rock. She kicked it to the side and headed to Friars Bay, a stretch of beach that curved round like a bent forefinger, beckoning those at sea to come ashore.

            ‘Morning Virginia,’ said a local resident, whose name she could never remember.

            ‘Morning.’

            She walked past, sure to keep brooding when the Islander grabbed her by the arm.

            ‘I don’t suppose you’ve seen what’s further up the beach,’ said the man, as Virginia looked startled at being accosted in such a way.

            Is it Simon?

            ‘Not yet…What do you mean? What’s further up the beach?’

            ‘Well, I must insist I come with you, because I came across them earlier this morning and couldn’t quite believe my eyes.’

            ‘Did something wash up?’

            ‘You could say that. It’s best if you see for yourself. If I explained, you wouldn’t believe me.’

            She still felt tired, and longed more than ever to know the man’s name. She remembered the fact he had a brother named James, but then thought everyone down on the Island had a brother named James.

            Was he a cousin, perhaps, of the Peridot family? Mind you most people are, I think I may even be loosely connected to them. Incestuous place this is.

            They walked briskly, and the man’s dog, not wanting to be ignored, weaved between their legs, sniffing every bit of seaweed that’d come ashore.

            ‘It’s a little further,’ said the man.

            The beach was abnormally quiet, except the excitable croon of seagulls flying above. Virginia thought perhaps she had missed some grand event that everyone else had been invited to. The seagulls dipped down to the sea’s surface, everything went quiet.

             Just past eight, she said to herself, strange.

            ‘You see,’ said the man, bending down to pick up what he thought was a torn red jacket half buried in the sand. ‘I thought you’d be interested.’

            ‘A lifejacket? I don’t suppose someone was wearing that?’

            ‘This is nothing,’ said the man, ‘there are plenty more of these further up the beach, look I’ll show you.’

            She realised she remembered his name.

            ‘Just behind that rock,’ said the man with an almost giddy expression.

            Rupert, ah yes, his name is Rupert, thought Virginia, pleased she now remembered.

            A pair of sandals were the first things to catch her sightline.

            What is this?

            Then a jumper, then several more lifejackets.

            What are these things doing here?

            Then a foot, then a leg, then a body.

            Then people.

            Resting against a large slab of a rock, a huddled mass with legs and arms all woven into a great knot, sat shivering. Their skin was blotchy with goosebumps the size of cysts. The tide was far out and Virginia stood in disbelief. Her eyes looked at the mass of bodies then to the sea, then back to the mass. They were still sodden as if the sea had given birth to them at some point during the night. The colour had drained from their Middle Eastern faces and the coarseness of their lips spoke to each second, minute, and hour they had spent at sea.

            They can’t possibly have survived the storm, she thought, it doesn’t make any sense.

            Virginia murmured something. Then she cleared her throat and said: ‘Let me help you.’

            One woman, who hugged her knees appeared to open her mouth, but her chattering teeth rang out where her voice would have been. Virginia was able to make out the word ‘water’ just before her mouth closed, her jaw shaking all the same.

            Damn it, I don’t have any water on me.

            ‘Rupert…Rupert, water, do you have any water?’

            She turned around.

            ‘What are you doing over there?’

            ‘Afraid not,’ said Rupert, whose head popped out from a rock behind her that blocked Virginia’s view of the route she’d just taken.

            ‘I think they’ll be alright. They’re here now.’

            ‘No Rupert. No they’re not going to be alright. They’re barely alive.’

            ‘They’ve made it this far,’ said Rupert, casually, like he was commenting on a flock of seagulls. ‘Now Gin I really…’

            ‘Don’t you dare say it,’ she snapped, ‘don’t you dare say you’re leaving.’

            ‘Ok, ok,’ said Rupert with palms facing her. ‘But all I’ll say is that I have to feed Mercutio, he’s been awfully unwell recently and he needs some rest. Vets orders.’

            ‘Mercutio?’

            ‘My dog.’

            Virginia’s face froze in disgust. Mercutio’s tail wagged excitedly as he ran up and licked her shoes.

            ‘Rupert, you can’t be serious. These people need our help, your dog’s belly can wait. Surely, you can see that.’

            ‘He’s an old man these days Gin, but I can see you need my help. Now shall I call the police?’ Virginia grabbed his arm as he reached for his phone.

            ‘No, they need water not the authorities.’

            ‘But they’re not our responsibility! They’re grown adults, they decided to come here, they have to live with that.’

            ‘Can you understand what I’m saying?’ said Virginia as she bent down to speak to the group. ‘Where’s the boat…the boat…the vessel you arrived on? Do you understand?’ She was now speaking as slowly as possible, like you would to a child.

            ‘Leave them to the authorities, they’ll know what to do,’ said Rupert pleadingly.

            ‘Rupert, just for one minute could you pretend to stop being such a heartless bastard,’ said Virginia angrily as she stood up to face him. ‘There’s a little girl here! Hardly a grown adult is she. Do you think she deserves being stranded on this beach until the police show up and arrest them all?’

            They both turned to look at the mass of frozen bodies wrapped in red lifejackets that displayed the fading grasp of the devil’s hands.

            ‘Ok fine,’ sighed Rupert. ‘What do you want to do with them?’

            ‘Well, there’s…’

            Virginia started to count how many there were, disentangling one body to the next. ‘There’s ten of them here, so why don’t I take five and you take five.’

            ‘What?’ barked Rupert, ‘I hope you’re not suggesting I take these people into my home. My boys are there, they’ll think I’m a madman.’

            ‘Fine,’ she sighed. ‘I’ll take them back to mine. I have plenty of space.’

            ‘I’ll help carry their belongings, or whatever these things are,’ said Rupert, picking up the sodden rags of clothes and inspecting them like they were live animals.

             It was a short walk from the beach to Virginia’s house but several times on the way she went back to encourage those who fell behind to keep up.

            ‘I think that’s the last of them,’ said Rupert like he had personally lifted each one up the stairs of the seawall.

            ‘You have a kind soul Virginia. I’ll be round later to see how you’re getting on.’        

            And you have no soul at all, is what she wanted to say, but social bridges on the Island took years to build and only minutes to break.

            ‘Thank you for your help. I’ll phone you later, we may need some supplies, my food delivery isn’t scheduled until tomorrow.’

            ‘I’ll see what I have.’

            Rupert shut the gate and walked along the seawall out of sight.

            This is a lot of people, thought Virginia.

            She surveyed the contents of her house, slightly fearful things may be stolen, and thought about hiding some of her jewellery.

            ‘Just stay here…here,’ she said pointing, ‘one, two, three…there we go.’

            She then got out the biggest jugs she had in the house, which were only really used for special occasions, and filled them up with water. She then refilled it, then again, and again. Next she went into the store cupboard and removed all the towels, leaving them in a big pile next to the kitchen table. 

            The woman, who had tried to speak earlier, pinched the salt-crusted sleeve on her arm, and tugged upwards.

            ‘Ah yes…clothes, I’ll show you. Lets get you out of those rags.’

            Virginia directed them to separate rooms along a short corridor. They each slowly went into one and closed the door and by this loose association, Virginia was able to gauge the different relationships within the group.

            ‘Finally getting somewhere,’ she said to herself.

            Now food, what do I have.

            The kitchen was in the process of being re-done so there wasn’t much. But there were half a dozen packets of dried pasta, and she started to cut up a few onions and peppers. After that she added a few tins of chopped tomatoes, moving methodically around the room. Unfixed cupboard handles were pushed to the side. It annoyed her that after six-months she still didn’t have a kitchen. The fitter came recommended from mutual friends on the Island. But in reality there was only one carpenter in the village and he was paid per job. Two-months into the project she realised he was also the local boat builder and being the only one of everything meant he rushed only when filling out his invoices.

            By now, the sun had claimed the day and the sound of running water from the shower briefly put her mind at rest. The sun’s rays cast out, bejewelling the surface of the sea.

            Suddenly, this tranquil moment was broken. A man, speaking Arabic, kept saying the same unintelligible word. She didn’t know what he was saying but he was pointing at his towel and then putting his arm up, waving his hand around.

            ‘Clothes…are you saying you need clothes?’ said Virginia.

            The man nodded, ‘come with me, there might be something here.’

            She led him into her bedroom, which was furnished sparingly, and directed the man towards Marks side of the wardrobe. He clearly was not much impressed with the selection available and turned some hangers back and forth, inspecting them, and then feeling each individual shirt.

            ‘What’s your name?’asked Virginia, with the kind of tone you would expect from a headmistress speaking to a naughty child.

            He turned around with a perplexed expression.

            ‘Your name?’

            He shrugged, not saying a word, and pointed in the direction of a woman, coming out of one of the bedrooms who was drying her hair. Virginia thought she looked quite beautiful, as her long chestnut hair fell across her back.

            She couldn’t be more than twenty or so.

            ‘Excuse me. Do you any of you speak English? I asked that gentleman over there,’ said Virginia, pointing to the man in her bedroom, who was measuring the length of one of Mark’s shirts with his arms. ‘But he just pointed to you. I don’t suppose you speak any English?’

            ‘Little,’ said the woman, whose hardened walnut eyes, both entranced and unnerved Virginia.

            ‘Well, I must insist that you tell me something about yourselves.’

            This is my house, she could hear herself say.

            ‘Who are you? Where have you come from?’

            ‘Asma,’ said the woman putting her hand on her breast, ‘that man, who try shirt is Yusuf, he came Sudan, escape war, he lost brother in storm.’

            ‘Goodness,’ said Virginia, slightly taken aback, ‘where did you come from?’

            ‘Ahleppo.’

            ‘Athens? Why would you want to come here?

            ‘No,’ said Asma pausing, ‘A — leppo.’

            ‘Oh Aleppo, you’ve travelled quite a way.’

            Virginia thought of the destruction she had often seen in the news about the ancient city, that had been reduced to rubble.

            ‘Did you come on a boat from France?’

            ‘Yes.’

            ‘Gosh, I mean I’ve seen on the news about the crossings but never did I think they’d be in my house.’

            ‘Yes.’

            ‘It’s very brave what you did, do you understand.’

            She went back and stirred the pot.

            ‘I just can’t believe it, in my house, you’re lucky my husband isn’t here,’ said Virginia smiling over her shoulder, ‘he wouldn’t be very happy.’

            A few more people came out of the rooms, their bodies had steam rising off of them and looked at Asma and spoke among themselves.

            ‘What are they saying?’ said Virginia, pointing with a spatula.

            ‘They say you a nice person.’

            ‘Oh really, that’s nice.’

            More people came out and sat on the sofa, they each went into Virginia’s room after the man had put on his shirt and let them feel the fabric. 

            ‘I can’t believe you all came on the same boat.’

            ‘Yes, a man called it dingay,’ said Asma.

            ‘Dinghy, what man?’

            ‘The man who sold it, they everywhere in France, selling big boats and small boats.’

            ‘How big was yours?’

            Asma shook her head, then attempted to measure it with her arms, but gave up.

            ‘All of you were in this dinghy?’

            ‘Yes,’ said Asma, ‘we meant to reach Duhver but storm was too big and we were scared and held each other. When we woke, we on beach.’

            ‘Unbelievable,’ whispered Virginia, ‘I mean, really unbelievable, and Yusuf’s brother was the only one who died in that storm?’

            ‘No,’ said Asma meekly, a sorrowful expression absorbed her whole body, ‘two others also die. Now we are ten, before thirteen.’

            A girl came running into the room, where two buttoned cotton sofas faced opposite each other, in stale conversation, as long floor-to-ceiling windows, seemed to be listening in.

            ‘Mama, mama, mama,’ said the girl running to Asma to hug her leg, the sodden clothes from the beach made her physique even smaller. She looked almost like a small, soak-ridden gerbil, with raisin eyes and a stub nose.

            ‘Is she yours?’ said Virginia, stooping down to look at the child. She started speaking in gobbledygook which the child frowned at and with a rag in her mouth, dug her little nails into Asma’s legs.

            ‘Malika.’

            Asma then started to rub her back, assuring her that this woman wasn’t going to harm her.

            ‘Isn’t she just delightful,’ said Virginia excitedly.

            Malika steadily came forward, the rag still in her mouth and extended her small, delicate hand to Virginia, who shook it gently. She had always wanted a girl.

            Two more middle-aged men came out of her bedroom wearing Mark’s clothes. The daylight had done little to relax the wired expressions that seemed to be made out of stone. Then another woman, who was much older than Asma, and had a skeptical, prejudicial face, came over to inspect what Virginia was cooking. Simultaneously, a couple with the airs and graces of nobility, came over, and though they appeared graceful in their movements, there was an immeasurable gulf of loss between them. It was as if the storm had robbed them of something greater than the sum of their parts. There was a heavy smell of damp as they all sat down on the sofas with towels wrapped round them.

            ‘What are you doing?’ said Virginia.

            Pools of water gathered on the floor. The sand, still too afraid to let go, accompanied their feet on the thick fibrous rug.

            ‘Asma, Asma, please tell them to get up, they’re still wet for goodness sake. My husband would be furious.’

            Asma indicted that they stand for the time being while Virginia went about wiping up the water and sand.

            ‘If they need clothes, they’re in there,’ she said, irritatingly pointing to her room, before adding: ‘but its still warm, tell them I’ll hang their clothes up outside.’

             Virginia drained the pasta to combine with the tomato and pepper sauce. She then measured out roughly equal portions into small bowels. They each took one, and ate prodigiously, barely stopping to breath. Some stopped, but only to take a swig of water before going back to the bowel.

            Virginia watched and felt a flash of brevity in helping these people in a physical sense, rather than just giving them money, or showing them where the nearest hotel was. She had always thought that people should strive to do the right thing. It was a code of life instilled in her from her father, a vocal opponent of the government of the day in the House of Lords. His position was always the devil’s advocate. ‘It’s always useful to ask questions those in power don’t want asked,’ he used to say. Virginia took this on board and this sense of morality had dictated her life since when she was a young girl, and proved a point of contention when Mark finally met her parents some thirty years ago because he wasn’t used to being challenged.

            But now as she looked upon her latest act of goodwill, she knew her father was right, and she asked herself, what am I to the vulnerable?

            Before she could answer this question, a spasm that had started in her gut, had made its way to her mind, somewhere in the periphery, something wasn’t right. She again looked and examined the faces of momentary solace on those around her. It was when she looked at the old woman, a figure of featureless contempt for all those she crossed, imagining what her own face would look like, when in twenty years time, she would be a similar age. At all those years of difference, ten to twenty, back to ten, the number branding itself in the forefront of her mind.

            Ten, ten…it came like a message in a bottle. Then…she remembered there were ten on the beach. She looked round, counting only eight, and it suddenly dawned on her that she had been deceived, that perhaps her father was wrong, that doing the right thing was a precarious occupation.

            It opens you up to being vulnerable, thought Virginia, before consolidating, never again.

            A loud, rapid thump, was heard on the front door. The sound of which echoed throughout the light-flooded room. The sound of forks scrapping porcelain halted and everyone found themselves staring at the door. The hair on Virginia’s arms stood to attention and a gentle shiver traversed down her spine. She opened the front door just a slither.  

            ‘Virginia, sorry to intrude, but I need to speak to you,’ before adding, ‘now!’

            Standing in the doorway was MacTaggart, a retired British Army Major with a firm handshake, and bird-like face, those he commanded said he had the appearance of a raven, helped by a full head of black bottlebrush hair. He was known on the Island for his distinct voice that sounded as if he were continually shouting into a barrel.

            ‘Hello Major, what’s wrong?’

            ‘Have you heard about these people arriving this morning. I heard you met them?’

            ‘Yes, I did.’

            ‘Well,’ said Major MacTaggart, leaning away from Virginia to catch a glimpse of inside the house.

            ‘Look I’ve heard on good authority, they’re in here,’ he said pointing to her house.

            ‘Here,’ said Virginia, ‘what makes you think that?’

            ‘Half the village knows,’ said Major MacTaggart, with his hand on the door as some kind of insurance policy. ‘You know how quickly word spreads down here. Now, I’ll ask you again, are they in there?’ His eyes narrowed, as if he were on a perch.

            Virginia relaxed her slant against the front door. It slowly opened and Major MacTaggart seemed to comprehensively examine the face of each person, as if painting a picture of the different shades of villainous traits they had.

            ‘So it is true,’ said Major MacTaggart, ‘I will alert the authorities immediately.’

            ‘Wait stop, what are you doing, they’re not criminals. Why bring the law into it?’

            ‘Virginia! Are you out of your mind? The law governs this land, I suggest you look up the Dublin rules when it comes to this sort of thing because the courts will agree with me. Period.’

            ‘I’ve never heard of the Dublin rules, but they’re eating, at least wait for them to finish.’

            ‘Gin,’ said the Major stepping closer, ‘you must understand, I’m doing this for the good of the Island.’

            ‘But John…’

            ‘Please, it’s Major,’ he puffed up his chest and boomed: ‘I worked hard for such a title.’

            ‘But John, for whose good? I’m down here for such a short time. They are not a nuisance, if anyone should be annoyed its me. They are in my house. But they are not a threat, please J — Major, let them at least finish their food.’

            She decided in that moment not to disclose to MacTaggart that two people were already roaming the Island.

            ‘I don’t like this at all. Are you not worried that your life might be in danger?’

            She looked round as they were all eating and chatting, and then returned to his stern repose.

            ‘I’d say I’m more worried I’m not going to have any food left.’

            She smiled, and relaxed her shoulders. But any charm slid straight off MacTaggart’s back.

            ‘Gin,’ rumbled MacTaggart, ‘this is no joke, you can get in trouble. Does Mark know?’

            ‘John, I really don’t see how that’s relevant.’

            ‘He’s the man of the house, of course its relevant.’

            ‘What age are we living in?’

            ‘Look Gin,’ the rumble returned, ‘all I’m saying is that there are too many of them,’ MacTaggart start to point behind the door, ‘there’s too many here already.’

            ‘I simply disagree.’

             MacTaggart stood firm, then without turning took two steps back and announced: ‘we are a community here, we protect one another, can you safely say the same?’

            ‘Excuse me?’  

            MacTaggart felt he had made his point and saw no reason in responding. He marched off down the gravel drive to the road with fumes of dust trailing after him.

            She stayed resting against the door frame thinking.

            As the years ticked by, it was becoming increasingly clear that this place was not right for her. When she brought it up, Mark always said, ‘but you’ve been coming here since you were a little girl, you’ve always known what this place is like.’ But as she watched MacTaggart turn left out of sight, she wondered if she really did know what the Island was like. For lack of a better idea than to come down because her boys enjoyed it.

            I’m so sick of it, she thought, closing the door. I feel like a moth dancing round one particular type of flame.

            Standing with her back to the door, she thought: To hell with these people, I can’t take it any longer. Then she moved just a step and thought: I have to stay, what would I say to Mark? What would I say to the boys? They must never know.

            Asma was holding Malika’s arms and swinging her around the room. Malika kept giggling, asking again, again, again. She reminded Virginia of Mark doing the exact same to William. Virginia was taken back to the beach when William had just been born. For a moment, her worries dissolved. Then the phone rang.

            ‘Virginia its me.’

            ‘Hi Lizzie.’

            Lizzie was Virginia’s neighbour from two doors down and rarely called. Lizzie had all of her conversations on the beach, by the time she returned home, there was little else to say.

            ‘So how are things?’

            ‘Same as usual I guess.’ Virginia chewed her gums. ‘I did want to ask you about the Big Five, though we’re thinking…’

            ‘That’s good isn’t it.’

            ‘Yes, well…’

            ‘A little birdie told me you have friends staying.’

            ‘Only for a short while.’

            ‘Who are they?’

            Virginia could hear Lizzie in the background whispering to someone, ‘she says they’ve been there a short while.’

            ‘Just friends.’

            ‘Oh lovely,’ Liz paused, then continued: ‘well MacTaggart paid us a visit and said they were in fact migrants. Is that right Gin, you have migrants in your house?’

            ‘I haven’t asked.’

            ‘You know my husband’s very ill at the moment, terrible cough. Doctors say it’s a chest infection and well we don’t want any outside contact, you know, we can’t risk any foreign nasties, if you see what I mean?’

            ‘I thought you said MacTaggart came round.’

            ‘He’s an army man Gin, you know that.’

            ‘Right.’

            ‘Anyway, you must pop round soon, perhaps when your friends have gone.’

            ‘I will let you know. Bye Lizzie.’

            ‘Bye, bye.’

            She hung up the phone. There were numerous other messages flashing red. She put the phone on the receiver and walked over to the group. The group were huddled round one another, and Virginia felt like they were trapped birds that needed to be freed. Her boys had always been reticent to believe her when she said, ‘down here news travels like wildfire.’

            If only they could be here now, she thought. Then they’d believe me.

            ‘Who was that?’ said Asma.

            Oh whats the use. Virginia put her head in her hands. The phone started to ring again and Asma ever so gently tapped her shoulder but Virginia could no longer take it and got up and ran into her bedroom. She sobbed and sobbed, each tear felt raw as if it had been conjured up as blood. Throughout all her years on the Island, Virginia had never been in such a situation; torn between her allegiances on the Island, people she had known since she was a girl, and being responsible for those in her care. As she grew up, there were always lingering thoughts about never returning, but then she saw how much her boys enjoy it, how happy some moments are. In those moments, not a grey sky, nor rain could ruin. They were hers forever, and she wanted to keep them that way.

            Asma came and put a box of tissues near her leg. She grabbed them, embarrassed to look up. The whole day had been some strange apparition, the concept of time had floated off long ago. But as Asma stood there refusing to move, her presence diluted the syrupy thoughts that Virginia had built into monuments. She wiped her eyes, breathed in and looked up.

            ‘You have problem?’ said Asma.

            Virginia blew her nose to the point where her nostrils could give no more.

            ‘I do.’

            At that moment, Asma said something and the whole group came into the room. The couple, whose faces had previously expressed such immeasurable sadness sat either side and started to console her, while the stern-faced looking woman stood directly in front as if she had come to collect Virginia’s emotions.

            ‘It will be alright,’ said Asma, as she offered another tissue for her eyes, ‘you’re a good person.’

            ‘Oh stop it will you,’ snapped Virginia, ‘I’m not good, I’m just scared.’

            ‘We are all scared of something,’ said the old woman who had not moved.

            Virginia looked up, speechless and shocked.

            ‘Mama, mama,’ said Malika, tugging on Asma’s arm.

            She quickly turned and said something that sounded like ‘lays alan.’

            ‘You speak English, after all this time. Why didn’t you say something?’

            ‘When you’ve been through what I’ve been through, sometimes being quiet is greatest friend.’

            ‘God I wish that’d work down here.’

            ‘I hear your troubles with that man, angry one who came earlier, he’s just messenger boy, don’t worry.’

            ‘Everyone knows,’ Virginia said exasperated. ‘Everyone, people don’t like outsiders down here especially you’re…especially people who come off boats.’

            Asma was about to say something but the old woman spoke over her saying: ‘then they don’t know themselves, every one comes off boats.’

            ‘Are we going to be taken away,’ said Asma.

            ‘Oh,’ said Virginia sobbing again, ‘I don’t know.’

            She picked up another tissue and blew into it fiercely, ‘I don’t know.’

            Virginia gathered herself and stared blankly at the wall before continuing: ‘they would have told the police by now, who have probably told the Home Office or Immigration. I’ve thought about leaving many times, all the whispering and the gossip. Christ my brother’s divorce was known by my neighbour before me.’

            Asma rubbed Virginia’s back, in a similar manner to how she introduced Malika only an hour before, and said: ‘You know in Syria, we have saying, for difficult situations.’

            While Virginia looked her squarely in the eyes, Asma continued: ‘It’s better to deal with the devil we know than the devil we don’t.’

            Virginia smiled, and said: ‘And I’ve known this devil for a long time, perhaps too long, perhaps meeting you will finally get me to leave this Island.’

            Asma nodded along, pretending to know what she meant, but the food and warmth had made her own history indulgent.

            ‘I’ll never forget, you say fiancé, told me, just after the first shots were fired.’

            Virginia had recovered herself and everyone scattered themselves into chairs around the room. Asma rested against the wardrobe looking up at the ceiling.

            ‘You see, as protests started, people they were very hungry. Not just for food. I remember hearing at university about boys, what’s the word,’ she said something in Arabic to the old woman.

            ‘Graffiti,’ she replied.

            ‘Yes,’ said Asma before continuing: ‘they spray graffi-titi on school in Daraa, that say doctor you’re next. Since then we suffer hell, everyday, a hell even the devil would run from. But Faheem, my beautiful Faheem.’

            Asma’s tongue lingered on his name, as if she could taste him and then said: ‘he told me we get rid of Bashar, where we go then? Like father like son, they say over here. Same in Syria, we know too well graves the Assads dig. Too many to count. We hoped Bashar would reform Syria, give us the change he want, but just like father he couldn’t. He killed us, his own people. My family killed, my mother killed, my sister killed, even my beautiful, beautiful Faheem, killed.’

            Everyone in the room was solemnly nodding.

            Asma put her hands on her chest, and said: ‘I’m the only one of my family who got out, only one.’

            Asma’s voice started to break and the old woman picked up her story as if it were part of her own.

            ‘If Bashar listen, just listen once about reform, everyone we love would still be alive. But then came devil we don’t know. Extremists, terrorists, things people say we are, but we’re Muslim, terrorists are not followers of Islam. No Islam we know. They butcher us just like all the Assads, but your country can’t have two Assads so they start a war. Everyone follows UK, why do you think we want to come here in first place.’

            Asma traced the scars on her hands.

            In the background, Malika innocently played with the curtains, while Virginia looked on in silence.

            ‘Faheem told me only bitter people are angry, and if you suck lemon long enough, of course you’ll be bitter.’

            ‘What do you mean?’ said Virginia.

            ‘If you really want to leave, you would have done already, but you prefer devil you know.’

            ‘It’s not that simple.’

            The old woman stepped in, ‘it is, but you want more difficult because then you don’t have to make decision. Like those two people who came with us, you don’t speak about them — why?’

            ‘So you knew, were they your friends?’

            ‘Of course not,’ said the old woman raising her voice, ‘what you think all Syrians are friends, have you not been listening.’

            ‘But they came with you, anyway, they’re the Island’s problem now.’

            ‘And what about us,’ said Asma, drawing her hands to her chest.

            Virginia didn’t know what to say and rubbed her ear lobe. She always did when she was nervous.

            After a few seconds, she said: ‘I don’t know, I’m sorry, I really am.’

            A silence drifted over them. The old woman gave curt and quick remarks in Arabic to other members of the group, who were looking down at the floor. Virginia got up, hoping her absence meant they could discuss in earnest what they needed to say. But as soon as she got up, she sat back down. The way one does when you feel truly comfortable in your surroundings, where the simple act of savouring the moment disrupts time and place in equal measure, there’s no rush because there’s nothing on the horizon except more of the same and who would want to ruin that?

            Outside, the wind had disappeared high up into the heavens. The water shimmered in the afternoon light as the sun’s rays travelled along uninterrupted grooves on the surface, wiggling and waving. Virginia dreaded what would come after the moment had passed and wished for nothing else than to seize it and make it her prisoner.

            She thought about Mark and what she would say to him. Whether to tell him what happened on that fateful summer’s day.

            Later, she thought. I will tell him later.

            In the distance, the soft crunch of gravel could be heard. Virginia took a sharp breath in.



BIO

J.T. Neill is a London-based writer. Born and raised in Ealing, he graduated from the University of Manchester, where he studied English Literature and American Studies. During this time, he did a semester at the University of Tennessee in Knoxville. Since then, he’s worked as a journalist in Spain and the UK. You can follow him @jedtneill on Twitter.



An Analysis

By Robert Boucheron


     As a baby, the patient had golden curls, a skin complexion of white and rose, and chubby limbs, all of which prompted strangers to say, “What a little angel!” By way of proof, he brought an album to the psychotherapeutic suite. Photographs showed a cherubic little boy in a romper. Under one picture was written “His new shoes. Adorable!” Another showed a pair of gossamer wings affixed to his back as a costume. For confidentiality, and because the analysis depends in part on the nickname, I will call the patient “Angel.”

     At the time we met, Angel was in his twenties, sensibly groomed, wearing street clothes. His manner was earnest, ready to confide. His body was well-developed in bone structure and muscle mass. His facial features were regular. He said he ate a balanced diet and exercised three times a week at a gymnasium. Now and then he posed as a photographic model in advertisements for clothing and consumer products.

     “You’ve probably seen me in a newspaper insert for a department store sale,” he said. “I have the right combination of chiseled masculinity and bland vacancy,” he said. “On the street people stare without knowing why. A moment later they forget about me.”

     In a large city, hundreds of people pass in the course of a day. It is impossible to remember one seen for an instant on the street, or for the duration of a ride on public transit. And freelance gigs are common. Was the patient unduly sensitive? Did he expect too much from a casual encounter?

     In possession of a superb body, a good address, and many creature comforts, Angel said he suffered from a lack of purpose, a sense of cluelessness. This mental state was so strong, he said, “I struggle to get up in the morning, drift through the day on automatic pilot, and go to bed with a feeling I accomplished nothing.” Angel was employed full-time, I should point out, in the business office of a well-known manufacturer of medical supplies and products for the care of infants.

     From the age of fifteen, Angel experienced an inner compulsion, a need to tell others what was on his mind. “I had this urge to express myself. It was like I had an important message, only I didn’t know what the message was, or who it was for.”

     In the way of adolescent boys, he was silent and sullen, afraid to blab. When not shooting baskets or throwing a football, he began to write poems, scraps of dialogue, and short stories. He dared not show these pieces of writing to anyone. Even the mention of them caused his face to burn red from embarrassment.

     “They were awful, exactly what you would expect, imitations of what I read in English class and what I heard on television. I threw them away.”

     Angel did well in high school. He attended college, where he studied the liberal arts, and graduated at a favorable time to enter the labor market. Life proceeded smoothly. Within the metropolitan area, he found a job and an apartment, made friends, and as noted, picked up modeling assignments.

     Unmarried, Angel had dated women since his teens. Lately he had been seeing a young woman I will call “Mary.” From his description, Mary was amiable and unremarkable, much like him. He showed me her photo on his pocket phone: an attractive brunette with nothing on her mind.

     Mary and Angel met for dinner once a week, watched movies together, and engaged in bedroom frolics. The neurosis, then, had nothing to do with repressed or deviant sexuality, the subject of so many cases. Meanwhile, in the placid pond of Angel’s life, the urge to write seethed below the surface.

     “Now and then, I grabbed a notebook and started to scribble. I never knew what was going to come out, only that I had to put words on paper. It was an itch I had to scratch. I heard voices in my head, like characters in a play. Plot lines, conflicts, descriptions of places. Moods and sudden turns. This might sound crazy, but writing stuff down was my way of coping.”

     “Nothing sounds crazy,” I said. “Feel free to say whatever comes to mind. Ramble and rant, blather and blurt. An analyst listens and takes it all in. Did you know, by the way, that ‘angel’ means ‘messenger’ in Greek?”

     “No. So what?”

     “In the interest of putting our time to its best use, allow me to ask a question. Do you still feel compelled to write?”

     “Yes. Now I type on a laptop.”

     “Do you favor poetry or prose?”

     “Mostly I stick to stories.”

     “Creative writing is a harmless hobby. Where is the problem?”

     “After all these years, I still don’t know what my message is. What am I trying to say? And who needs to read it?”

     “Has Mary read your work?”

     “No. She isn’t into contemporary fiction.”

     “Have you talked to her about writing?”

     “A little.”

     “And what is her response?”

     “She says, ‘I’m here for you.’”

     “Does she encourage you?”

     “She says, ‘If that’s what you really want to do, maybe I can help.’”

     “Do you love her?”

     This challenge elicited a degree of squirming, and at last an affirmative.

     The onset of symptoms at puberty implied that Angel’s “message” was simply the need to find a receptive partner, or in biological terms, to seek a mate. The frustration he experienced in writing stories indicated a misdirection of psychic energy. The analysis suggested a course of action.

     “Write a love letter to Mary,” I said, “not a literary exercise, but a sincere declaration.”

     Angel did so. Mary’s response was encouraging. It led him to propose marriage. Without hesitation, she accepted. The next day, Angel reported this to me by text and attached a photo of the two, all smiles.

     “You know that mysterious urge to write?” the message said. “It went away.”

     A follow-up session was unnecessary.



BIO

Robert Boucheron is an architect in Charlottesville, Virginia. His short stories and essays appear in Bellingham Review, Christian Science Monitor, Fiction International, Louisville Review, New Haven Review, and Saturday Evening Post. He is the editor of Rivanna Review. His blog is at robertboucheron.com



Drive-up Christmas Eve

by Stuart Watson



Only a week had passed since someone from our church, wrapped around one too many holiday martinis, suggested a drive-in Christmas Eve service. In the parking lot of the newspaper, just downhill from the red taco truck.

I was still living with my parents, going to juco. Getting some credits out of the way while I figured it out. They said they were going, maybe I could join them. I asked them what was the plan.

Nobody would have thought of such a thing, if not for the clouds of virus wafting around the planet, dropping in here and there, infecting dozens of people with a lassitude counterproductive to mass holiday consumerism. People, deprived of their drug, were stressed.

As a result of the plague and an understandable public desire not to get the extensive sores and oozing worms and the sudden inclination to fall down and roll around and shout out in language never before uttered from one’s lips, the congregants tilted toward seeing Jesus through their windshields.

The Rev hadn’t had indoor service in months. It seemed like an atheist plot to not have Christmas Eve. She had heard about people doing service at old drive-in movie parks, so she convinced the editor of the paper to let her stage a drive-in service.

“You gonna show Psycho?” he asked. “I’d come. I did the first time.”

“First…?”

She didn’t pursue it. The editor and his girlfriend, who would later become his wife, conceived their first child watching Norman Bates slash Janet Leigh. He just figured it best to let the church people have their way.

Then the Rev turned to the flock, to help her paint the fence.

I was driving a 1979 Ford LTD at the time. Bought it at a local salvage yard, got it running with help of my auto shop class (we live in a small town, where they still have such things, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to take home-ec). It had an eight track player with this cassette of Bad Company’s Straight Shooter stuck inside of it. Talk about heavy rotation. It was the only cassette I could listen to. Oh, man, my best memories were all attached to this car and that cassette. I told my folks I would go, if my girl Florice wanted to go too. She was done baking Christmas cookies, so some heavy rotation sounded good to her, too.

The event came together at warp speed. Mandy told the Rev she would build a spreadsheet. A column for names, a column for cars, a column for how many people needed extra space for barbecues and coolers. She should have included a column for weather.

Mandy used to run a clothing store. She had names of contractors who could turn out some hats and T-shirts. She sent that to Katie, who managed the newsletter, and fired off a quickie blast to all the Christians and hangers-on who liked the Gospel Choir. A couple dozen said they might like a little Tailgating with Jesus.

Elrod said he could round up some volunteers to help park cars. Stand in the lot in reflective vests. Wave flashlights so people knew that they should pull in to parking slots and keep going to the opposite slot so their car and the one behind them would all be facing in the same direction.

There would be a stage. With people wearing reindeer antlers, purchased from the Dollar Store. Sue Zee was in charge. She also enlisted people for the creche, a Joseph (Stan), a Mary (Wanda) and a baby Jesus (a potbellied pig dressed in a lamb’s wool vest).

Sue didn’t want anything to do with the sound system. That fell into the lap of Marv, who ran the speakers in the sanctuary when the faithful weren’t all trying to avoid breathing on each other. He had a trailer full of gear with lights and knobs and places to plug in wires. He would pull it into the lot and let church members get out of their cars and wander by and take a gander.

“Is that where the plug goes?” someone might ask, and he would say, “Yep. Gotta plug the plug.”

Then, when the Rev said “Go,” he would crank it up to thirteen and blast the faithful to the great beyond.

Betty said she would get the kids together to create costumes that made them look like dessicated deer. With lights on their heads, operated by battery packs hidden inside the deer butts.

Several of the ladies from the Good News Grannies were planning their next outreach to shut-ins when one of them mentioned the service . Another said it sounded like going to a drive-in movie or a car-hop burger joint.

“I’ve still got my skates,” Loretta said. “I think. I know the box where I think they are. If my son didn’t steal them and sell them on eBay. Shitbird does that.”

“Me, too!” squealed Cindy Lou Talmage, one-time Miss Southeastern Missouri Hog Farmer. “I could wear my sash. Should we take orders?”

“For what?” asked EllaMae Whisenhutt. She liked meetings, but wasn’t too swift on the ideas, or helping with ideas that others contributed. Kinda like a pile of mashed potatoes, but she smiled a lot, and folks liked her, even though most could count her IQ on two hands.

“We could have the tailgaters make stuff,” Cindy Lou said. “Hot dogs. Chili. Chili dogs. That’s a menu, isn’t it?”

“For Christmas Eve?” EllaMae asked. “Jesus didn’t eat chili dogs.”

“I agree, there are limits,” Cindy Lou said. “We can’t do shish kebab, or onion rings. But how long is this thing — an hour, ninety minutes?”

They contacted the barbecue crew, and the boys were down with it. A couple even had thoughts about brisket, and were planning to drag a smoker into the lot. Elrod was excited. He came up with an idea for a Communion Wafer Burger — two thin crackers wrapped around a slice of brisket, with a daub of “moose turd” from the line of packaged condiments produced by the company of church deacon Beneezer Filbert. They sold a shit-ton at roadside stands, to tourists infatuated with the idea of foodstuffs made from stuff grown within eyesight of the highway.

Phil Bertelsen, one of the ‘cue crew, later said he was merely joking when he suggested they set up a drive-through booth so people could order. The roller girls objected, so they settled on a compromise to sell canned beer at the drive-through window, to folks entering the lot.

An hour before the service, darkness settled beneath the downward pressure of winter’s thumb. A wad of Arctic air collapsed onto the valley floor, driving the last vestiges of warmth from air above and around and upon the newspaper parking lot. Then an extremely moist cloud slid over the frigid air, and disgorged its contents. The rain fell and when it hit the pavement, it froze.

Cars began sliding into the lot about fifteen minutes later. The Rev rode her e-Baru into a bank of arbor vitae, kicked the door open, and crawled with the help of a couple ballpoint pens across the parking lot to the stage.

Marv had started with the sound system the day before, so he was ready, and popped in his thumb drive when he saw the Rev.

Paul Rodgers rocks, but never more so than he did that night.

“Feel like making LOVE to yooouuuu!” pounded out of the speakers.

Marv was aghast. Wrong thumb drive, for one thing, but where was the one with the carols on it? And if he had a clue, he couldn’t get there anyway. Every time he took a step, he fell flat on his wide Texas ass.

Elrod’s parking crew was struggling. Most were lying in the lot, waving their flashlights as cars slid from the street through the curb cut and twirled on ice into the railing in front of the newspaper office. They just stacked up, one on another, until the lot was mostly full of people suffused with the holiday spirit. You could see them, tipping bottles of bourbon to their lips, to settle their racing heartbeats and restore to themselves a vision of future life on earth.

That’s when I slow-rolled the LTD into the lot and glided through a couple donuts before lightly trunk-bumping us into the pile. We could see the stage. Florice smiled at the chaotic scene outside. The windows were already streaming up when she leaned close.

“I got something for you,” she said.

I hadn’t bought her anything, but she found it anyway.

Outside, a few diehards tottered from their cars and removed propane grills. Before long, the smell of grilling brats and tri-tip filled the lot.

EllaMae and her roller girls tried, bless them, to reach the car windows, but finally agreed that skates weren’t cutting it. They had to shed the shoes and try to walk, but even that failed, with ice on everything. They would slide sideways across the lot until they neared a car where they thought they might take an order, and then they would slide beneath the car and out the other side. The occupants finally figured out that the only way they could place an order was if they opened their door and grabbed one of the carhops. Hold them. Talk to them. Help them write down what they wanted.

Elrod and the boys jerry rigged a system of ropes and pulleys to drag the carhops to the tailgaters and relay the orders.

Delivering the orders was another thing. They had to reverse-pull the ladies, none of whom were very agile, bunched as they were on the upside of seventy. People in the cars were so damned happy to have something to eat, though, they were more than glad to wait until the carhops quit slipping around before they opened their car doors. No need to clock the poor things in the noggin, just for a Holy Brisket Burger.

The Rev finally got vertical and used a pair of ski poles to help her approach the microphone. She said something that nobody could hear because they were safe inside their cars eating burgers.

Marv had rigged up a low-wattage broadcasting thing, but something happened. It linked up with Bluetooth and dialed everyone within a half mile for a lecture on the coming of the Christ child.

Problem was, the lecture took a turn. The church kids were supposed to walk up a short flight of stairs to the platform and light some candles. The candles were mounted too high for the kids to see what they were aiming their wicks at. Years later, they would look back and think of it as foreshadowing, but on this holy night, they struggled to stay upright, what with the ice and all. The biggest kid teetered backward, and his wick flew over his head and into a holy banner the organizers had hung from the sign — Duncom Call Eagle — above the newspaper office. The banner went up in a “Foof!” and lit the roll roofing. As flames marched across the roof, they must’ve hit a gas line. We heard a huge sucking sound, and the walls of the building bowed inward just before the detonation that blasted the newspaper sign over the vehicles in the lot. The publisher of the newspaper was not happy about that, even though the Rev later tried to mollify him with the thought that “at least nobody died.”

“Don’t even think about an Easter service,” he said. “Cutting a little close to the bone.”

Nobody could hear the Rev anyway, but Marv heard Paul Rodgers kick into “Shooting Star” and did something only Jesus could approve of. He cranked it up. Cars were bouncing in the lot when the newspaper building soared overhead.

Nothing about the blast reduced the negatives of the ice. Tow trucks had to come and haul everybody out of the lot. It took a while. They had chains, but it wasn’t enough to keep them still while they were loading a car.

Florice and I had to mop the windows off before we could leave.

“That was the best Christmas eve ever,” I told my parents later.

“It was a disaster,” my dad said. “What service were you at?”

“I was there. With Florice. She said it was really special.”

I felt like I had gone down a blind alley. Any second, he might ask me what was special about it. If I said anything more, I would never get out, so I just went upstairs.

I don’t know much about Jesus and the like. When I recall that night, I think of that quote from Matthew: “Whenever two or three come together in my name.”

Behind a veil of steamy windows, me and Florice and Paul Rodgers felt the spirit of Christmas descend. From that day onward, I cherished a huge and abiding faith in a much higher power.



BIO

Stuart Watson wrote for newspapers in Anchorage, Seattle and Portland. For fun and low pay, he and his wife later owned two restaurants. His writing is in more than thirty publications, including Yolk, Barzakh, MacQueen’s Quinterly, Bending Genres, Flash Boulevard, Revolution John, Montana Mouthful, Sledgehammer Lit, Five South and Pulp Modern Flash. He lives actually in Oregon, with his wife and their amazing dog. He lives virtually at chiselchips.com and tweets @StuartWatson50



Sleight of Hand

by Sarah Terez Rosenblum



            I’m making tacos when the tour bus shows up. “Didn’t you buy avocados?” I call.

            I can see them through the narrow kitchen windows. Little kids, noses glass-flattened, some dad type taking pictures, and bored teens scrolling their phones.

            “Did you say something?” Meg wears a grey cardigan over cotton pajamas. Reading glasses on a silver cord around her neck. In the doorway, she’s shrouded in nighttime distance. She looks nothing like my mother. Nothing like the women I know.

            “Avocados?”

            “None were ripe. It’s November.” Meg’s from Anaheim; she knows when things are in season. I grew up in Idaho, so if it isn’t potatoes, I’m out.

            On the bus, a gaggle of old folks knit and listen. The tour guide’s name is embroidered on his button-down. He still uses one of those mics with the curly cord.

            “Last week, I ran into Gus at the drug store. I was picking up Mitchell’s prescription and he blew right past.”

            “Like when I saw Katie Couric at Panera.” Meg settles at the kitchen table with her wine glass. “I kept waiting for her to know who I was.”

            Door County’s growing; we’re not all on a first name basis. But I live in the house Gus shows up each week to describe.

            “We’ve got carrots.” Behind me, Meg rustles through what’s left of Sunday’s paper.

            “You want me to make guacamole with carrots?”

            I line up three soft tomatoes for chopping. I bought them for the Meg’s cheese sandwiches, but they sat for two weeks in the drawer. After business trips, sometimes, I check the refrigerator to see what’s shifted. When I’m gone, Meg eats only olives and crackers. Sometimes, she forgets to eat at all.

            In my family, wasting food is sinful. “Who needs a son?” My mom said when she toasted Meg at our wedding, but if she finds expired milk when she visits, she practically sits shiva. (“Look at this. Your grandmother is spinning in her grave.”)

            “Are they still out there?” Beside me now, Meg nods to where the bus sits, idling.

            “It’s five fifteen, they’re right on time.”

            “Maybe this year the snow will come early.” She rests her head on my shoulder.

            “I don’t know. I sort of like them.”

            “It’s like when you got your tooth filed.” She means how for weeks after, I complained I didn’t know what to do with my tongue.

            “Shit. Can you?” I nod at my phone, buzzing on the window ledge.

            “Hmm?” Meg tips the last of the wine from the bottle. Her lip prints like frost on the rim of her glass.

            “Mitchell’s calling.” I wipe my hands on a dishtowel, and Meg and the bus people watch me answer the phone.

*

            When our son was eleven his teacher sent an email.

            “Mitchell seems disturbed by our unit on Global Warming. Shall I set him up in the library till we’re done?”

            We talked it through, the three of us. Our home, we said, is a democracy. Easy to say when you’re the parents. Mitchell pointed that out early; that he had only the illusion of control. Right, I told him. A democracy. No one thought that was funny but me.

            In this case, Mitchell’s vote went for the library. “I’m not a kid anymore. I can’t keep crying in front of them.”

            I spun his desk chair and straddled it. “Crying just means you’re smarter.”

            “Tyler never cries, and when we did testing, he was 90th percentile.”

            “How do you know?” Meg asked.

            “He told everyone.”

            “That’s inappropriate.” In Mitchell’s doorway, Meg leaned her head against the wall.

            “Why?”

            “Grades and money are private.”

            Mitchell glanced between us. “But Mom tells everyone how much we paid for the car.”

            “Okay, let’s not get distracted,” I said. “Mitchell, your kind of smart means you understand the real world ramifications.”

            “You mean food security and the polar ice caps?”

            “Exactly. This isn’t just science, it’s real.”

            “Mom doesn’t mean science isn’t real.” Meg tugged her blue cardigan around her. I’m always offering to turn up the thermostat. But Meg says putting on a sweater is free.

            “Right.” I said. “I mean it’s okay to have emotions about what he’s learning.”

            “But he can’t let himself be run by them.”

            “You can acknowledge your feelings without them running you. Self-awareness is different than being out of control.”

            “Guys.” Mitchell waved his hands like a plane was landing. “I can learn in the library. I’ll take my textbook.”

            Meg folded her arms. “Now it sounds like you’re just trying to get out of class.”

            “If I cry there, no one will see me.”

            “People will forget about that,” Meg said.

            “No one in my school ever forgets anything.”

            “It just seems that way, honey.”

            “When I was your age,” I said, “I got hysterical when Mrs. Snow showed a documentary about Haiti.”

            “Because of the poverty?” On his bed, Mitchell fiddled with his shoelaces.

            “Because of the zombie witch doctors. My teacher had to shut it off in the middle and explain that part wasn’t real.”

            “Did they laugh at you?”

            “Totally. But the next week Beth Meeks threw up in the coatroom.”

            “We’ll bring in a ringer, then.” Meg dusted her hands. “Problem solved.”

            Mitchell hunched forward, poking the tip of his shoelace through the metal eyelet. “But when I cry, Anya keeps Snapchatting me, and also global warming isn’t not real.”

*

            By the time I’m through security, Meg’s wish for snow is granted. The rinkydink plane still lifts and lands, somehow, but after that I’m stranded at O’Hare.

            “Your turn.” The man in slim tweed pants looks like Stanley Tucci, and I spend our first drink assuming he’s gay.

            “I didn’t know there would be something as formal as turns. I thought we were just chatting.”

            Meg’s word. Jews don’t chat, we debate or we process; depends on which tribe we’re from.

            “At work, we use a talking stick,” Tucci says. “God bless the millennials. They all think they have the right to be heard.”

            We’re in this cliche of an airport lounge, drinking martinis. By our second, I know he’s meeting his wife in Berkeley. Their elder daughter has something academic requiring their presence; a debate, or a meeting, or a prize. As he talks, the details slip by. To me, martinis taste like medicine. When I fly, my drug of choice is Cinnabon, but what with the phone call, and the thunder snow, and all the texts Delta keeps sending about de-icing, I figure I might need a more traditional source of calm.

            “C’mon. What’s your story?” Tucci sheds his orange sweater-vest.

            “You won’t like it.”

            “That’s why fiction’s better than life. You don’t have to like it for it to be good.”

            “Didn’t you say you’re in software?”

            “Fiction was my first love, before my wife even. But writing code’s not all that different. You fall in love with your lines, even when they’re not working. We’ve got just as many darlings to kill.”

            He says he doesn’t code much anymore, not since he sold and runs his company. Big macher, is what my mother would say. Tucci’s the kind of guy she probably wishes I’d married. But I’m not his type either; when he shows me his wife’s picture, she’s blond.

            “Once the girls are grown, I’ll get around to fiction.” Tucci’s still talking. “I wanted to write novels when I was a kid.”

            “Meg and I used to talk about that. Everything we’d do once our son was in college-”

            “At the graduation parties there was this rumbling. All the parents asking each other, what will you do now that you can?” Tucci crosses one long leg over the other. “Like when you’re a kid and some grownup’s always drilling you. We all had same answers, just delayed.”

            “Right. But now that he’s a freshman, it just seems like he’s in a high school that’s farther away.”

            “That’s how Cristina feels,” Tucci says. “But we can’t helicopter them. It’s enough our oldest’s still on our insurance and our phone plan-”

            “We get Mitchell’s anxiety meds and ship them.” I watch the snow. “There’s just so much to be worried about.”

             “What did we have, the Cuban Missile Crisis?”

            “Barely, I was, what, two?”

            “Now they’ve got Parkland.” Tucci sets down his empty glass. “My youngest was ten, and she was convinced her school was next. Even Hayden was upset by it, and she’s goddamn hard to ruffle. She’s my Berkeley girl. Cristina wanted us to tell her sister it wouldn’t happen at her school.”

            “Meg’s the same.” I sip and feel my face twisting. What about this sensation is fun?

            “I’m a numbers guy so I agreed it was unlikely, but I’m not going to lie to my kid.”

             “Exactly. But with global warming Meg wanted him to white-knuckle it, just ignore the feelings it brought up for him. With North Korea, she wanted to tell him there was no chance.”                       

“Both are ways of lying.” Tucci signals for another drink.

            “Personally, I blame Santa Claus. That’s what Meg grew up with, meanwhile, each year I get a lecture about how starting with Pharaoh, the whole world’s out for my blood.”

            “L’chiam.” Tucci touches his glass to mine. “Let’s get you another.”

            “I’ve hardly…”

            “You’ll catch up.” Tucci points to the window. Outside, the snow gusts, horizontal. The bartender’s already begun to mix.

            “So how did you end up handling Parkland?” I ask.

            “I sat down with my girls and I said you’re right, it’s a possibility, but the odds are low. Hayden’s pre-law now, so of course she argued. ‘We’re right to be anxious.’ Me, I majored in philosophy. I said, ‘Do you want to be right or do you want to be free?’” 

            “You sure you’re Jewish?”

            “Maybe Cristina’s rubbed off on me.”

            I accept my fresh martini from the bartender.

            “Give me a wave if you need anything.” She smiles between the two of us. “It’s mostly vermouth,” she says low.

            “What did you tell Michael, about the shootings?” Tucci’s four drinks in, so I don’t correct him. I’ve learned the conversations you have with a drunk person don’t matter, because really you’re having them alone.

            “We’ve tried to teach him anxiety is like a phone ringing.” I eat my olive, which Meg says is just a garnish. “You can keep the conversation short and even-handed, but first you have to answer the call.”

*

            I phone Meg from the Marriott the next morning. “My room has a coffee pot,” I say.

             The joke’s from the first night we spent together. We were in our late thirties when we got married, and we both needed some convincing. As my mom said, “If I met your father now, I don’t know how I’d commit to him. Everything would seem like a red flag.”

            All through my twenties, I’d done the typical lesbian overlap, each relationship averaging 3.5 years. One day,  I was hauling my shit from the apartment I’d shared with my girlfriend to the one where my next one lived. On the way there, I remembered it was Sweetest Day. So I stopped at the first place I saw. Inside Jewel-Osco, it hit me. I had no idea how to grocery shop. With one girlfriend, I did what she called a ‘big shopping’ every Saturday, with another I haunted farmers markets, and with my last one, I’d grabbed TV dinners on the fly. All that flashed before my eyes like some kind of grocery near death experience. I had to squat down near the canned beans so I could breath. Once I got out of there, I put all my shit in storage. I crashed with a friend till I found a place of my own.

            I met Meg a year or two later at one of my seminars. I’d founded Women Up to help women in the workforce. The idea was to provide tools to shift the culture; we shouldn’t have to act like men to succeed. Sounds obvious now, but I’d started it just out of college; back when secretaries padded their shoulders like football players, and Reagan’s paternalistic capitalism ruled the day. We’d spent years getting by on grants and donations. I fell asleep most nights wondering how I’d pay rent. Anyway, Meg says the meeting was in Middleton, but I distinctly remember the UW-Madison campus. They’d given us a sunny conference room with a broken coffee maker and a view of the lake. Either way, we wound up fucking. Meg had complained about the lack of coffee. “My room has a coffee pot,” I’d said.

            After that we really had no blueprint. By then Meg’s first marriage was mostly tradition: summer barbecues at their Door County House, her husband’s five p.m. scotch and soda, and on Christmas, wrapping paper fed into the fire. Still, she was comfortable, sunk into her habits, and I finally knew how I liked to buy groceries, and neither one of us was ready to change.

            “Have you seen him yet?” Meg says now, when she answers.

            “It’s five in the morning. I didn’t even expect to get you.”

            “You think I could sleep?”

            In eighteen years with Meg, I’ve seen her sleep through: a 6.5 earthquake, The Chicago Air and Water Show, and the last four hours of my labor.Once at a hotel in Schaumburg, I woke her when the fire alarm didn’t, and made her race down ten flights of stairs.

            “I’m meeting him for breakfast.”

            “At his dorm?”

            “I told him to take an Uber to meet me. He’s not feeling super comfortable on campus. Everyone’s asking why he withdrew from the brass trio and the lit magazine, and of course he’s not allowed to explain.”

            “Do we know anything more about this girl?

            “I told, you I haven’t seen him yet.” I picture Meg propped on pillows. More likely she’s spent the night curled on the window seat in the den.

            “I thought maybe you’d talked with the university.”

            “That’s not something they disclose.”

            Through the line, I hear Meg breathing. I could pick her exhales out of a crowd.

            “How’s it there?”

            “Snowing. Right now the afternoon flights are still running.”

            “You really can’t get Peter to cover?”

            “This is the Parsons,” Meg says. “They’ve been with me since Mags was a pup.”

            “Your work ethic is laudable, but-”

            “They’re terrified. We won’t know how bad the cancer is until she’s on the table. And if we need to put her down, I should be there. You know all this.”

            “And you know why we can’t meet on campus.”

            “Excuse me, I’m exhausted. I forgot.”

            When we hang up, I slid back the hotel curtain. Outside, the lush greens and milky fog shock me. No matter I’ve flown across the country: after two relentless days I expect to see snow.

*

            When Mitchell was nine we hid his candy. It was Meg’s idea; he’d been complaining kids at school called him fat. I wanted to start by explaining refined sugar, and how to read nutrition labels. Give him the tools to consider, not restrict. But Meg felt a parent was only as good as her boundaries. (“Yours could use some work, as we both know.”) If we can’t agree on everything, we try to trade off victories. I’d just won our last debate, so we weren’t giving Mitchell Tylenol PM for his insomnia. Then we got the call he’d pushed Hope Clark.

            “This is pretty out of character,” the principle said when I arrived, literally panting. “I’m hoping now you’re both here he’ll explain.”

            “I cabbed right from the airport.” I’d been leading Women Up’s first seminar in Redmond. We were retooling as our market expanded. One of my exes had provided an in.

            “I was at the baggage claim when—what do I do with-”

            “You can leave that with the office gals if you want.” Dr Cobb held open the door to his office.

            “Mom.”

            “Mitchell, what happened?” I dragged my suitcase into the inner office.

            “He says it’s his business.” Meg gestured for me to take her chair.

            “Do I have to say it?” Mitchell pointed at the principle.

            “Dr. Cobb needs information so we can all decide what to do.”

            “Can’t he just punish me?”

            “Hope’s okay, isn’t she?” I asked Dr Cobb.

            “Mrs. Haverford says he hardly touched Hope. Which doesn’t make it acceptable, of course.”

            “Mrs Haverford?” I said.

            “One of our lunch ladies.”

            “This happened in the cafeteria?” I asked.

            “Mitch, come on.” Meg had backed up to lean in the doorway. “Mom’s exhausted, and I have a procedure at three.”

            “Don’t rush him,” I said.

            “I’ve been here half an hour already. I don’t even know where I parked the car.”

            “There’s visitor parking behind the kindergarten.” Dr. Cobb perched on the edge of his desk.

            “Okay,” I said. “but truth takes time, we’ve talked about this.”

            “In the real world, no one’s going to sit around waiting.”

            “Mitchell might not even be fully clear on what he did.”

            “Hope stole from the coat drive.” Mitchell held out his hands like a traffic cop.

            “That’s why you hit her?”

            “I saw her. She took the pink leather jacket from the bag.”

            “A better option would be to tell your teacher.” I watched him.

            “I was going to.” Mitchell scrapped his shoe against his chair leg. “but she said if I did, she’d tell you.”

            “Tell us what?”

            “Can I please just be punished?”

            “Here, do you want to whisper?” When I set my hand on Mitchell’s back it was damp.

            “Okay.” I said after he finished.

            “Obviously you need to let us in on this.” Meg stuffed her hands in her pockets.

            “Can I please not be here when you do?”

            We watched him shuffle into the outer office. One of the secretaries handed him a Dum-dum from a bowl.

            “Apparently Mitchell’s been buying chocolate milk instead of regular.” I watched Dr Cobb glance between us. “He’s supposed to limit his sugar intake. I guess Hope threatened to tell us if he told on her about the coat.”

            “How did Hope know about his diet?”

            “Oh, the kids know everything about each other,” Dr Cobb said.

            Back home, I opened the refrigerator. “Jesus Christ, it smells like death.”

            “I think it’s the tuna casserole.” Mitchell looked up from his stack of library books.

            I slide aside the lid. “You guys didn’t have this for dinner Monday?”

            “I think we had cereal.”

            I tipped the mess of noodles and fish into the trash. “Can you take this out, Mitchell? And for once, don’t drag it. We’ve got that new sod.”

            Upstairs in our bedroom, I moved aside the clutter of Meg’s glasses. They collect on the bureau when I’m gone. Once Mitchell walked in on us arguing about them, and Meg said we were just disagreeing on how to describe them. (“Mom thinks they’re half-empty and I say half-full.”) I set my suitcase on the bureau and unzipped it. Dark jeans and a blowdryer. Beneath that, a par of red-soled heels.

            “What are those?” Mitchell said from my doorway.

            “I must have grabbed the wrong suitcase from the carousel.”

            “Carousel?”

            “Not like with horses. You’ve seen them, the bags go around.”

            “Hey, what do you call it when you take the wrong suitcase?”

            “Mitchell.”

            “A case of mistaken identity!”

            “Hilarious. Go share your comedic stylings with the garbage, please.”

            I wasn’t lying. The shoes didn’t belong to some chick I was fucking. Loyalty is under-appreciated  Maybe Meg would have wanted me more if I was.

            Outside, the bus’s engine turned over. Somehow, Mitchell was outside already, dragging the bulging Hefty bag across the lawn. I turned back to my suitcase, still trying to square my expectations with what I saw.

*

            The best thing about my job is hotel showers. Today, I wash my hair twice and leave all the towels on the floor. In the lobby, Mitchell’s already waiting. I thought he’d look different than he did at Thanksgiving; mustachioed and pock-marked. But he’s got the same thin blond hair that makes people think Meg gave birth to him. The same pale skin that goes pink when he eats wheat.

            “Hey, honey.” I hug him. “You hungry? They have a buffet.”

            In the restaurant, Mitchell loads his plate with ham and bacon and waffles and bagels. We order orange juice and coffee.

            “He’s already decided he hates us.” I point at the sullen waiter as he leaves. Usually Mitchell and I dream up whole inner worlds for the servers—Meg thinks it’s ridiculous—but this time Mitchell won’t play.

            “Where’s mama?” Eyes on his plate, shoulders slumped.

            “The weather’s bad there, but she still might make it.”

            “Did some important dog get sick?”

            “You know how she is.”

            “The thing is at four.” Mitchell rips open a stack of sugar packets.

            “What do you want to do in the meantime?” I spread cream cheese on a sorry excuse for a bagel. ‘If it’s not boiled it’s just bread,’ my mom would say.

            “Are you just going to act like it’s a normal visit?”

            “I figured we’d get to it. But we still have to eat, am I right? Thank you.” I add cream to the coffee the server drops. “I don’t know why he’s so brusque. It’s not like it’s busy.”

            “You sound like grandma.”

            “Hey, there’s a knife right there on the table.” I mime stabbing myself. “You could have used that instead.”

            “Mom.” Mitchell shovels in bacon. Around us, a few scattered business types are glued to their phones.

            “I’m not trying to make light of this. I called a lawyer I know in the city.”

            “How do you know a lawyer here?”

            “She’s someone from my twenties.”

            “The school said I don’t need one.” Mitchell adds two more sugar packets to his cup.

            “I don’t know if we should believe that.”

            “Why not?”

            Mitchell’s a young seventeen, certainly, but the innocence of his question curdles the cream in my guts.

            “They said it has to be handled on campus,” he says.

            “Right. Something to do with Title Nine. But Mitchell, what’s happened so far—the what did you call them? Interim restrictions? You can’t visit any other dorms, you can only go to the one dining hall. It’s affecting your whole college experience, and no one’s even proved what she said is true.”

            “What did the lawyer say?” Mitchell gulps most of his orange juice.

            Tabby didn’t say much I should tell Mitchell. Not how The Department of Education can cut all federal funding if they don’t think a school’s response is sufficiently aggressive, and not how she still misses the way I held her wrists above her head.

            “She stressed the importance of getting help early.” I refold my napkin. “Why didn’t you say anything over Thanksgiving?”

            “I thought I could handle it.”

            “The thing is, it’s not like the court system. You’re not presumed innocent. It’s your word against the other student’s, and they only have to believe her a little more.”

*

            Mitchell’s sleep issues started early. Everyone says night terrors are harder on the parents; your child flailing and growling, eyes rolled back into his head. By two years old, he’d grown out of them. In his next phase he refused to sleep alone. One night, Meg and I were both curled around him like parenthesis, all of us jammed in his bed.

            “Honey, can you explain exactly what scares you?” I asked.

            “It’s past midnight.” Meg touched his back.

            “He doesn’t know how to tell time.”

            “Yes, I do.” Mitchell pressed his face into his pillow.

            “Mom and Mama have work in the morning, Mitch.”

            The first time I heard Meg call Mitchell that, I felt like one of us three was a stranger, but I couldn’t tell you who. Meg’s the nickname type—her whole family is. It’s because they name their kids after living relatives, and then they’re stuck trying to differentiate. It’s how grown men end up with names like Junior and Tad. But Mitchell’s M is for my father, Moishe. Maybe it’s assimilation; we get to honor the deceased’s memory without having to saddle our kid with some old Jew’s name.

            “What?” Now, Meg leaned toward Mitchell. “Babe, talk louder.”

            “He said he doesn’t want to be by himself when he dies.”

            “How does he know about death?” Meg propped herself on one elbow.

            “Mitchell,” I said, “sleep is different. Sleep is just a break from thinking.”

            He was crying and clutching his stuffed llama. “It’s not a break for me.”

            In my memory, he was barely four when he said that; always advanced for his age. Babies don’t develop depth perception until the sixth month, but by five months he was pointing at the bus through the kitchen window. When he could toddle, he’d make a beeline. When he could talk, he’d ask “What dat?”

            “Go bu!” He repeated after I told him. I thought my answers were age appropriate. When he was six: “Ghosts are made up stories about people who aren’t alive anymore,” when he was eight, “Ghosts are ideas about our souls.” Meanwhile, Meg stuck to her story: “Mitch, the bus comes here to visit us.” She thinks a parent’s job is to filter, not explain.

            When he was ten, Mitchell started checking books out of the library. Most kids would have gone on the internet. Maybe it’s because our donor was an archeologist—Mitchell preferred words he could hold in his hands.

            “Ghosts come from something called animism.” Mitchell sat at the kitchen table. “It’s ancient and—what does ‘attribute’ mean?”

            “What’s the rest of the sentence?” I layered a flat pan with lasagna noodles.

            “Animism attributes souls to everything in nature.”

            Meg leaned in the doorway. “In that context, ‘grants’ or ‘assumes.’”

            “What’s ‘context’ again?” Mitchell asked.

            “The words around it.”

            “How can a word’s meaning change because of that?”

            “Words are flexible,” Meg said. “It’s like how Mom gets called sir a lot when we’re with strangers. Context affects how you’re understood.”

            After Mitchell got through our tiny library’s ghost section, he moved on to astral projection. Then came cults and UFO’s. I don’t think his research affected his sleep habits. By his teens it was mainly insomnia. He refused warm milk and melatonin. One summer, he set up  a tent on our lawn.

            “You think it’s safe for him?” I asked Meg.

            “Babe, it’s Door County.” On the couch, she sipped wine like liquid sunlight. We’d been to Stone’s Throw Winery earlier that day.

            “What happens when it’s winter?” I lifted my arm so Meg could nestle against me.

            “He’ll have some other new sleep problem by then.”

            “I just seems counterintuitive. Why would he sleep better outside?”

            “I slept great when my parents took me camping,” Meg said. “And at summer camp, my favorite was the overnight.”

            “You went to sleep-away camp, the whole thing was an overnight.”

            “Once per summer, the counselors would take us camping in the woods.”

            “I don’t even like sleeping with the windows open. What’s that Woody Allen line? ‘I’m two with nature?’”

            At least that’s one way Mitchell and I aren’t the same.

            “I called her my little shut-in,” my mom told Meg at our wedding. “Every weekend, in her bedroom with the shades drawn.”

            “Even in the summer?”

            I knew Meg had spent her Saturdays horseback-riding, on Sundays she had church and flute lessons. In her white pantsuit beside me, she looked appalled.

            “She’s exaggerating.” What I liked best about summer were the sealed up windows, the air conditioner’s low, constant drone.

            “Your sister was much more social,” my mother said.

            “Fuck lot of good that did me.” My sister scraped raspberry filling from a fat cube of cake.

            “What about the Goldstein’s son?” My mother suggested.

            “Mom, he’s been with his wife since grad school.”

            “Well, I’m not sure how this became my fault.”

            “No one’s saying that.”

            My sister thinks all the good Jewish men are taken. Married to shiksas with kettle corn hair. Today of all days, I couldn’t contradict her. I held Meg’s hand and kept my mouth shut.

            “You wore a night gown?” Meg asked, when mom had gone off to hug Aunt Rachel.

            “My mom just called me agoraphobic and that’s the part that upsets you?”

            Meg sipped champagne and leaned against me.“It’s a little like finding out your husband’s a transvestite.”

            “Are you eating that?” My sister reached for Meg’s cake.

            “You haven’t finished yours.”

            “She only likes the filling,” I said. “If it helps, I don’t feel like I’m someone who wore nightgowns.”

            My sister licked the tines of her fork.“But who you feel like isn’t always who you are.”

*

            Meg doesn’t make it by four, but neither does the Dean of students. At three-thirty, we’re on benches outside the conference room, waiting. The building is graceful, a sort of rotunda. More benches curve away out of sight. At three-forty five Mitchell’s phone rings. I watch him. Hair slicked back, he’s changed into Dockers we bought him. The Marriott’s built above a mall.

            “Okay. Okay. Right.” His listening expression is the same as always. No matter whether he’s attending to Blues Clues or Call of Duty or CNN.

            “It’s postponed.” Mitchell slides his phone in his pocket.

            “Till when?”

            “Same time tomorrow.”

            “Did they give a reason?”

            Mitchell stands. “The dean ate some bad shrimp is what the guy said.”

            “I guess the good news is Mama will make it. The airport should have its shit together by tonight.”

            “What do we do now?”

            “Are you hungry?” I shoulder my messenger bag. “What do you feel like?”

            “Mexican?”

            “Let’s research what’s around.”

            “Well, hello.”

            I look up from my Google search to see Tucci. Today his tight sweater’s bright blue.

            “What a coincidence.” I turn to Mitchell to introduce him, but Mitchell’s skittered backwards, colliding with a plant.

            “You okay?” I follow his gaze to the girl a few feet behind Tucci. Brown hair, green windbreaker. My mom would call her zaftig if she felt kind.

            “What’s wrong?” When I turn back to Tucci his face has gone pale.

            “I’m not supposed to talk to her.” Mitchell grabs the plant to stop it from falling.

            “Are you kidding me?” Tucci glances between me and Mitchell.

            “Come on.” A blond woman tugs at Tucci’s sweater. “Seriously. This isn’t the time or place.”

            “You little piece of shit.” Tucci advances. Clenched fists and bald, gleaming head.

            “Back off.” I step between him and Mitchell. Impotent, Mitchell still clutches the plant.

            “Dad.” The brown haired girl whispers.

            Tucci exhales. “Okay, baby.”

            The blond woman takes Tucci’s arm.

            I watch the group retreating. “She’s Stanley Tucci’s daughter?”

            Mitchell releases the plant, finally. “Her last name is Kerplowski,” he says.

*

            Meg swore her Door County house wasn’t haunted.

            “Unless you mean by shitty memories.”

            I set the box of kitchen stuff among the city of cardboard. I’d just done a seminar in Los Angeles— Women UP was finally gaining national traction— and now the boxes reminded me of Skid-row. “But you really want to live here?”

            “I’ll make new ones with you.”

            In my memory, she took my hand and led me upstairs to the bare mattress. Meg says we did it there on the floor. Later, we unpacked dish ware.

            “How long does the guide’s spiel last?” I glanced through the window. While we were upstairs, the bus had pulled away.

            Meg blinked at me. Her legs were bare beneath a worn Yale sweatshirt, her hair snarled up near the crown.

            “Spiel means patter or little lecture. What happened here that got the house added?” I pictured blood dripping from the high beamed ceilings, chopped up bodies in the crawlspace beneath the stairs.

            “It’s just a fun thing for the tourists.” Meg wandered to the table.

            “There must be some specific reason.”

            “It might be a burial ground, or else someone’s uncle hung himself?” Meg used the corkscrew on my pocket knife. “I always get this one and that barn down the road confused.”

            I thought poltergeists might show up when Mitchell turned thirteen, or something. Like a paranormal bar mitzvah, which my mom’s still mad we didn’t have. But all that ever happened was explicable. A hornet’s nest in the attic. Creaky floorboards when no one was walking. A thunderstorm that brought down an old oak.

            His senior year of high school, Mitchell’s English teacher emailed us. “It’s my belief that your son plagiarized his final paper.”

            “I haven’t told the principle,” Mr Boyles said when I arrived.

            “Why not?” I squeezed into the desk he gestured at.

            “I’d like to think the three of us can handle this.”

            “You me and Mitchell?” Sometimes teachers forget he has two parents. It’s not homophobia exactly, more like some brand of denial.

            “You me and your wife.” Mr Bowles strode to the front of the room.

            “I’d like to see what my son has to say.”

            “Kids will say anything when they think they’re in trouble.” Puffed up and pigeon like, he took a perch on his desk.

            “We teach Mitchell to stand up for himself.” From my angle, the teacher’s crotch was eye-level.

            “When I confronted him, he implied I didn’t know my own subject matter. Respect for authority is paramount.”

            “Self-respect’s right up there, too.”

            “I’m here.” Meg shut the door behind her. She settled her sunglasses on top of her head. “What’s the punishment?”

            “Hang on a second.” I turned to Mr. Boyles. “What makes you think he didn’t write it?”

            “It’s simply too good for someone his age.”

            “You’re punishing him for being a good writer?”

            “I’ve taught kids for two decades.” His lip twitched, an accidental sneer.

            “Did he copy from the internet or something?”

            “I’ve developed a sixth sense for these things.”

            “What exactly activated your Spidey sense?” I shifted, trying to get comfortable. Attached desks are made for people without ribs.

            “For one thing, this word, ‘preternatural.’” He tapped a sheaf of papers. “When I asked him, he couldn’t define it.”

            “That’s it?” I glanced at Meg.

            “That’s the least of it.” He adjusted his cuffs. “Have you read Heart of Darkness?

            “I have.” Meg said.

           “In class, I taught that Kurtz’s unchecked greed was the source of his descent into madness.” Mr Boyle watched us. “But your son attributed it to more complex psychological factors.”

            “So you’re punishing him for coming up with something on his own.”

            “When I asked him to take me through how he’s reached his conclusions, he said he couldn’t remember. Here’s all I could get out of him.” Mr Boyle read from one of his papers. “He said, and I quote ‘Something about madness and ownership? And, Kurtz is really alienated? So like, how you try to control things so you feel less alone?’” Mr Boyle’s voice lilted at each sentence’s end.

            “This is all just one side of the story.” I extracted myself from the desk.

            “I’m his teacher?” This time, the lilt seemed accidental.

            “I’m his mother. We’re going home.”

            “Why’d you read the book early?” I asked Mitchell later. I was washing dishes and he was drying.

            “I get anxiety.” Mitchell ran a dishtowel around the mouth of a mug. “I worry I won’t finish. So it helps to work ahead.”

            “Mr Boyle said they like students to stick to the syllabus.” Meg still wore her sunglasses. She looked poised to leave.

            “If he turns his work in on time,” I said, “then who cares?”

            “He’s not a special case. People can’t go through life expecting everyone to make exceptions.”

            “Can they expect to have a chance to explain?”

            “Guys.” Mitchell raised his hands like a suspect. “Mr Boyles did his dissertation on it. Probably I should just have been more respectful.”

            “I’m exhausted.” Meg turned. “I’m going upstairs.”

            “Where’d you get all that stuff about alienation?” I asked Mitchell.

            “I related to Kurtz, kinda. Not really the part where he thought he could do what he wanted. That’s like, colonialism or whatever. But I don’t think the problem was greed, really. I think he was too isolated. He got swept up in his version of reality. He just spent too much time in his head.” Mitchell folded his dishtowel. “If you write a dissertation, doesn’t that mean you become a professor?”

            “I guess so.” I turned off the faucet and squeezed out the sponge.

            “Then how’d he end up teaching high school?”

            “I’m sure he’s asking himself the same thing.”

*

            The next day, when Meg arrives at the Marriott, Mitchell runs to her. Like when he was four and we left him with my family. Just for a weekend, so we could have some time to reconnect.

            “You made it.” I take Meg’s bag.

            “Finally. If this is December, I can’t imagine the rest of the winter.”

            “Is that dog okay?” Mitchell asks.

            “The cancer hadn’t metastasized.” Meg kisses his temple and releases him. “We got the bad spot on her lung.”

            “So you saved her?” Mitchell presses the button for the elevator.

            “I performed the surgery.” Meg’s the worst with compliments. When I first told her I loved her she said, “Okay.”

            “You have enough time for a shower.” I say. “Have you eaten?”

            “Does the room have an ironing board?” Inside the elevator, Meg sags against the wall.

            “The meeting’s at two. I think so.”

            “Mom, we’re on eight.”

            “Shit. I was saying two, so I pressed it.” When the doors open on our floor, I squeeze Meg’s hand.

            “I forgot my toothbrush.”

            “Mitchell, can you run downstairs and see if they sell them? Here.” I pat my pants for my wallet.

            Mitchell turns for the elevator. “I’ve got cash.”

            “We used to have to lift him up to press the elevator buttons,” Meg says.

             In the room, I set Meg’s bag on the bed. “Remember my trip to Redmond, and how I wound up with someone else’s suitcase?”

            “That wasn’t Redmond, that was Los Angeles.” In front of the window, Meg stretches. Her arched back and the slope of her neck.

            “Come here for a second.”

            “Are you nuts?” Meg twists away.

            “Apparently.” I’m left holding her cardigan.

            “Your text was confusing. Why was the postponement good?”

            “For one thing, he gets to have both his parents here.” I toss Meg’s cardigan on the bed.

            “You said something about a lawyer?”

            “Tabby. She’ll meet us there. Yesterday she was tied up in court.”

            “How did you find out her name, exactly?” Meg unzips her bag.

            “I’ve known Tabby since-”

            “The girl.”

            “She’s allowed to come to the meeting and represent herself.”

            “I thought her identity was protected.”

            “Not from the board. And not from Mitchell, obviously.”

            “What did she look like?”

            “Why does that matter?”

            Meg fishes through her suitcase.

            “Like my sister, a little. Younger, of course.”

            “Did she seem…off in any way?” Meg sets a pair of khakis and a grey sweater on the desk.

            “It all happened so fast, I don’t know. Mitchell acted really scared of her. We went for dinner after that, and I got it out of him that they’d hung out, which I think means they dated.” I unfold the ironing board.

            “Did he break up with her? Was she upset?”

            “It’s nothing so formal with kids now. They ‘hook up,’ apparently. There was something about it on NPR. It seems like she’s the one who ended things. The allegations happened after. And I guess he tried messaging her on Facebook, but he wasn’t supposed to, he says he didn’t know that was part of the no contact order.”

            “Shouldn’t that have been made clear to him?” Meg presses her finger to the iron.

            “It seems kind of obvious. No contact is no contact, right?”

            “But he couldn’t do anything to her in writing, so he may not have understood, and now there’s this whole other set of—what did they call them?”

            “Interim restrictions. You’re tired, I can do that.”
            “This thing just seems stacked against him.” Meg’s bicep flexes as she irons.
            “I know. She’s really protected.”

            “Well. That’s what we get, I guess.”

            “What does that mean?” I scoop up a pair of Meg’s underwear that’s slipped from her bag.

            “That’s your whole raison d’être, right? Offering women protection, so they have a voice?”

            She means Women UP. Over time, it’s evolved into something more slick and corporate-friendly. We’ve got fewer seminars directed at women’s groups. Mostly we teach HR departments how to create an environment safe for everyone. I figure more people benefit, even if the message is leavened. Ideally, that’s how movements function; the counter culture fighting so hard for mainstream acceptance, then the mainstream changing as a result.

            “The work we do is important.”

            “I’m not saying it isn’t.” Meg folds the ironing board.

            “What are you saying then?”

            “Can you put my underwear back in my bag?”

            After the meeting, I take Tabby aside to thank her.

            “My pleasure. I’m just sorry you’re going through this.” On the steps of the administrative building, Tabby touches my arm. “He seems like a nice kid.”

            “He is. He’s really sensitive. His whole life, I worried we’d fuck up and traumatize him. With kids, it’s never the thing you expect.”

            “I think it’s like that for everyone.” The wind tugs blond hair from her bun.

            “We’ll get him back into talk therapy. His psychiatrist is really just there for his anti-anxiety meds. Do you think that will count against him? Make him look troubled?”

            “Honestly, most of what he does now is meaningless. As long as he doesn’t try to contact her…”

            Tabby looks so official with her slim briefcase. Last time I saw her she was shitfaced at Stargaze. We’d gone out drinking to celebrate my move the next day.

            “…the board is still judging what allegedly happened before.”

            “How the fuck did we get here?”

            Right away, Tabby gets it. “You ghosted me, and I got into UCLA.”

            “What’s ghosting?”

            “Oh, wow. Bless your old, married soul.” Tabby touches my arm again. “They’re your type, both of them.” She means Meg and Mitchell. From the back they’re both whispy-blond and fine-boned, waiting for an Uber at the curb.

            “People think she carried him.”

            “She didn’t?”

            “She tried.” I glance at Meg. “Should we be doing something more active than waiting?”

            “It’s good he offered them access to his Facebook messenger-”

            “They didn’t even want it.”

            “-but in the meantime, your best focus is to start thinking about next steps.”

            “You mean prepare him for the formal hearing?” I fold my arms against the wind.

            “We may not want to let it get that far.”

            “I don’t understand. How would we stop it?”

            “If they decide to expel him-”

            “Can they just do that?”

            “If they think it’s in their best interests.” Tabby shrugs. “Anyway, he’ll have a mark on his transcript.”

            “What does that mean, exactly?”

            “As I understand it, every school he applies to will see he’s guilty of sexual assault.”

            “No one’s proven that.”

            “Do you want to risk his future?”

            “What are you advising?”

            “I’m a tax attorney,” Tabby says, “but just be strategic. This girl can derail his future without ever calling the police.”

            At the curb, I join Meg and Mitchell.

            “That was nice of her, after everything.” Meg shivers.

            “I guess I’m just that charming.”

            “That’s the Uber.” Mitchell looks up from his phone.

            When the it pulls up, I slid into the front seat. “The Marriott. Wait, you know that. I always forget.”

            “S’all good.” The guy behind the wheel has ropy forearms. He’s somewhere between my age and Mitchell’s. At this point, people in their twenties all look like they’re twelve.

            In the backseat, Mitchell says to Meg, “aren’t you going to ask if I did it?”

            “I hadn’t planned on it.” Meg looks away when I try to catch her eye.        

*

            Mitchell was always big on experiments. He had one where he stood an egg on its end to see if it was rotten, and one about speed and acceleration, where he dropped a different egg from the roof of the house.

            No eggs were harmed in his bus experiment.

            “What’s the verdict?” I asked when I picked him up at the library. The Ghost Tour ends with a trip through its basement. That’s where they keep the microfiche, or at least they used to. On moonless nights they say the founder still walks the cold floors.

            Mitchell leaned his forehead against the passenger-side window.

            “Did you see me hopping up and down and waving?”

            Mitchell dug in his backpack.

            “Did you see Mama doing cartwheels?”

            “She always said the bus came to see us.” He pulled a pack of gum from his bag.

            “She didn’t want you scared until you were old enough.”

            “But I still thought we were part of it.”

            “What do you mean?” I turned down the volume on All Things Considered.

            “I couldn’t see anything.” Mitchell mashed two sticks of gum into his mouth.

            “Are our windows that dirty?” I held out my hand.

            “It was the angle. The bus people don’t even know we’re inside.” He handed me the package. The gum was damp—whoever knew what was going on in that kid’s backpack—still, I popped a piece in my mouth.

            “Did you see any ghosts at least?”

            Mitchell shook his head.

            “Well, now we can run relays in our underpants.”

            Mitchell stared through the windshield.

            “No? How about we all pretend to be monkeys? What would you do if no one could see?”

            Mitchell shrugged and chewed harder. I checked out his profile. I guessed that was how my nose looked from the side.

*

            “Will you shut up if I let you fuck me? Just shut the fuck up,” Meg said. She was drunk, and she didn’t want anything to do with me.

            “But it’s our honeymoon.”

            “It’s a hotel in fucking Schaumburg.” Meg tugged at the bedspread.

            “So let’s make it feel special. Wait, they don’t wash those.” I slipped the spread from beneath her dead weight.

            When we first got married, we agreed not to splurge on a vacation. We both had cars and bedroom sets and dish ware. Meg’s divorce had granted us the Door County house, plus we needed all our savings for IVF. After I had Mitchell, I got super busy pivoting Women Up’s focus, and Meg was building new her practice. Now that Mitchell was four, we’d finally taken some time away.

            “Fucking Schaumburg,” Meg repeats things when she’s extra drunk.

            “So let’s fuck.”

            “Ha-ha-ha-ha hilarious.”

            I touched her bare shoulder. “I want to feel close to you.”

            After nine years of marriage, we were mired in our habits. Bedtime by nine-fifty-seven, Mitchell clutching his llama between us. Meg’s reading glasses and her Ipad. My stack of presentation notes. So much of marriage is parallel play.

            “Fucking Schaumburg. This hotel doesn’t even have a pool.”

            “I’m sorry, I’m not Tad Jeffrey Junior. I can’t afford five nights in the Bahamas. I’m sorry I didn’t graduate from Yale.”

            Meg rolled to her stomach, her linen shift rising. I helped it along a little, exposing the tops of her thighs.

            “What? You’re talking into the pillow.”

            “I said you might as well be Tad if you’re not taking no for an answer. If you don’t care at all how I feel.”

            “You’re my wife.” I never got tired of saying it. Despite Meg’s cold shoulder, I warmed.

            “Stop.”

            “I care how you feel, absolutely. That’s the whole point, I want to make you feel good.”

            Meg shook her head into the pillow, but she lifted her hips at my touch.

            “Meg, come on. Turn over.”

            Meg’s skin beneath her linen shift felt humid. Her exhales were pungent with wine.

            “I want to sleep.” She crossed her arms over her chest.

            “Meg.” I ran a finger under the elastic of her panties. Blue lace. Thin from years of wear.

            “Leave me alone.”

            It’s inevitable; you can’t both want each other equally forever. But sex is a need like any other. That’s what’s hard about relationships. If you’re hungry, you just open the refrigerator. But I’d been down this road with all my girlfriends. The one who stops wanting sex is the one who wins.

            I eased her dress up around her hips. “I’m not like Tad is.” Her underwear was easy to tear.

            I was still awake hours later when someone pulled the fire alarm. I got Meg to her feet and down eight flights of stairs.

*

            The carolers aren’t like the Ghost Tour. They don’t keep a strict schedule. It’s almost seven when they arrive. In the kitchen, I’m stirring batter for cookies. My secret is fresh ginger. Last week I made latkes, only because my mother was visiting. Meg can’t stand how afterward the scent of oil haunts the house.

            First thing mom asked was why Mitchell was home so early. Berkley runs on a trimester, was what we’d agreed to say.

            “I told you,” I whispered to Meg in the kitchen, later.

            “Relax. Your mom doesn’t know how to google.”

            “How will we explain when he starts Whitewater next semester?”

            Meg rubbed her temples. “I always forget how many questions your family asks.”

            “What’s so wrong with asking questions?”

            “Case in point.” Meg handed me a paper towel to pat the latkes dry.

            “Would it kill you to answer?” I gripped the spatula.

            “People need privacy.”

            “What about intimacy?”

            “The pan’s smoking.” Meg hugged herself.

            “What they need is to know each other.” I turned down the heat.

            “You know me. I’m right here.”

            “I know more about all those girls I shacked up with in the nineties.”

            Saying it made me feel like some kind of asshole. Who uses the phrase ‘shacked up?’ ‘Maybe you should go find one of them,’ was how Meg would have replied once, and I’d’ve said, ‘you’re who I want though,’ and we’d have fought until we built enough steam to fuck.

            In the pan, the oil snapped and splattered.

            “And you’re not with any of them.” Meg gestured for me to step out of range.

            “So?”

            My mom pushed open the door to the kitchen. “Whew, it’s smoky.”

            Meg passed me my ‘King of the Grill’ apron. “So, you got what you wanted with me.”

            “Your sister texted.” My mom settled at the table.

            “Meg, can you hit the fan above the stove?”

            “She says she’s sorry she couldn’t make it.”

            “Yeah, what happened?” I turned down the heat under the pan.

            “She’s got some work commitment. She forgot Chanukah was early.”

            “Why do Jewish holidays keep moving?” Mitchell asked from the doorway.

            My mom shrugged. “They’re like us, they migrate. Maybe someone’s always kicking them out of their homes.”

            Now, I check the timer on the oven. Still a while for the cookies. Most kids like bland foods, but when Mitchell was little, he’d come running to lick the bowl.

            Last night, I found him in the kitchen, Sunday’s New York Times wrinkled in front of him, water boiling on the stove.

            “It’s for cocoa,” he said. “You want some?”

            “I think we have marshmallows somewhere, but they might be as old as you.” I turned to search the cupboards. “This is like that scene in A Wrinkle in Time. Remember that day we stayed in reading it? You weren’t sick or anything, but I had a sore throat when we were done.”

            “How do you do that?”

            I heard Mitchell turn a page in the paper.

            “Read for hours? Wait till you’re a parent. Comes with the territory. They hand out the power at the hospital. They inject it along with the fertility drugs. How to read till your vocal cords fray.”

            “I mean, how do you even get there? How did you guys both agree on each other at the same time?”

            “Me and Mama?”

            “You and Meg.”

            “I guess some of it was timing. And you have to want to be with someone enough to get over all the downsides.”

            “What downsides?”

            I opened another cupboard. “Like, Meg’s allergic to flowers and I’d love to fill the house with them. Or I used to be obnoxiously jealous.”

            “Why?”

            “Probably because I was a cheater. Or maybe because she’d been straight.” I stood on my toes to feel for the marshmallows.

            “I was going to go with Hayden to San Fransisco for Christmas.”

            This was the first Mitchell had said about it.

             “Then her texts back got shorter.”

            Meg and I had agreed not to push.

            “I wanted to be sure, so I graphed them. The length and the quantity were different since we started. When I said that, she asked if I had Aspergers.”

            I teetered on my tiptoes. On the stove, the kettle began to hiss.

            “I wish I had fucking Aspergers. I’d be too obsessed with like, exotic bug types to care. After that she stopped mentioning Christmas. She blocked my texts and her roommate kept telling me she was out.”

            By then, I’d patted my way to the marshmallows, but I didn’t take them down, or turn.

            “How could just texting and calling and meeting her out places make her feel like I was a rapist? We barely even had sex, just the one time I asked about her text patterns. She said she was just busy with school stuff. She said she was sorry she told me I had Aspergers. Then she got quiet in the middle, but she never told me to stop.”

            When I finally turned, the kitchen was empty. I don’t know how long I’d stood there, just facing the cupboard, while the kettle screeched like a banshee on the stove.

            Unlike the bus people, the carolers coordinate their outfits. They wear vibrant red cloaks and green hats. All the kids are apple-cheeked and invested. The old folks lean into each other. Like most weeks, today Gus is there with his flute. In the kitchen, the scent of ginger seems nearly physical. Vaporous, like an orange fog. When I crack the window, I catch the last of the figgy pudding song. ‘Piggy pudding,’ Mitchell used to say. For a while there, we worried he might have a speech impediment, but then instead he got that wheat allergy. It’s all misdirection. Raising kids is like slight of hand.

            The oven buzzes.

            “Mitchell,” I call toward the stairs, “come ruin your appetite.”

            It’s only luck, the cookies are ready. Sometimes our neighbors bring the carolers eggnog, but we’re not always home when they arrive.

            Outside now, the snow falls more thickly, but there’s Mitchell, in just a white T-shirt. Spindly arms, poky spine. He crosses the yard, dragging the garbage bag. Behind him, its weight indents the snow.

             “I just don’t understand what happened,” he’d said last night while my back was turned. “The harder I tried the farther she went.”

            Now he lingers, watching the carolers. “Fall on your knees,” Gus takes the flute from his lips to sing.

            When Meg opens the garage door, it seems to release Mitchell. He dumps the bag in the trash bin. Meg says something, and together they step into the indent. They follow the accidental trail back to the house. Thanks to Mitchell’s experiment, I know they can’t see me. Still I half lift my hand, and I wave.



BIO

Sarah Terez Rosenblum’s work has appeared in literary magazines such as Diagram, Brevity, Third Coast, Underground VoicesCarve and The Boiler. She has written for sites including Salon, The Chicago Sun Times, The Satirist, and Pop Matters. She was shortlisted for Zoetrope All Story’s 2016 Short Fiction Contest, receiving an honorable mention. Most recently, Sarah was a runner-up for Prairie Schooner’s annual summer Creative Nonfiction Contest and her work was published in their Summer 2020 issue. Pushcart Prize nominated, Sarah holds an MFA in Creative Writing from The School of the Art Institute of Chicago, is a Creative Coach, and teaches creative writing at The University of Chicago Writer’s Studio. Her novel, Herself When She’s Missing, was called “poetic and heartrending” by Booklist.

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