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Arctic Peonies

by Birgit Lennertz Sarrimanolis    


In the early morning, on the wide slope of the hill behind the house, the peonies nodded gently, stirring in an almost imperceptible breeze. Ayana walked between the raised, mulched rows. The sun had not set all night, as was typical for Alaska in the summer months, and cast its diffuse, dusky light onto the homestead and surrounding hills. Even though it was mid-June, the peonies were just starting to unfurl their dark green, glossy leaves. It would take some time yet for the flowers to bud, but the plants were fortifying themselves, absorbing the energy of the sun, quietly readying themselves for their season.

Ayana ran her fingers along the slender stems. Her mother had been correct in her assessment that planting peonies in Alaska would one day become a lucrative business. In the lower 48 states, the spring peony season had already passed. The flowers had stopped producing; their supply for Mother’s Day and spring weddings long exhausted. But Alaska’s late blooming peonies provided another surge of the desirable flower when they were available to the market from nowhere else.

Her mother had followed an instinct, even if the vagaries of the northern climate posed uncertainties. When heavy snow blanketed the meadow and ice glittered on spruce branches, she sat by the fire with flower catalogs and gardening books, reading about preparing the soil in raised beds with bone meal and ash and compost, planning the peony varieties she would coax from the hard earth after the break-up season. Ayana looked at the photographs of the soft flowers in shades of coral, pink and blush. She longed for color after the long, white winter. She, like her mother, trusted the earth to come full circle.

They planted the first tubers years ago, kneeling in the soil together, choosing varieties that would flower sequentially. The Festiva Maxima, big white flowers with a red-fringed center, would bloom early. The intense red color of the Karl Rosenfields would grace the hillside next.  Finally, the late blooms of the soft pink Sarah Bernhardts finished the season.

“We’ll have to be patient,” her mother told her. “It will take three or four years before we see the first flowers.” 

Ayana understood patience. She knew how to wait, not so much because of the rewards that being patient would allow her to reap, but because she had no other choice. All her life she had been a backdrop, waiting for things to happen to her rather than because of her. She never pushed herself into the foreground, seizing opportunities, making friends. Like the floral wallpaper that decorated her cabin bedroom, she was a quiet only child that lived in the background.

Mousy and awkward, she was overlooked by the girls at school in Fairbanks when they stood chatting next to their lockers. When they asked her an occasional question, Ayana spoke to her shoes. She was hardly ever asked to join them with her lunch tray in the cafeteria or to sit on the metal bleachers to watch a volleyball game. Ayana breathed more easily when she was on her way home again, sitting beside her father in his pick-up truck, heading north out of town until they reached the lonely mailbox at milepost 47 and the dirt track that led back into their land and to the old homestead cabin.

Finally, sometime in middle school, Ayana’s outcast status at school became too much to bear. She came home one day and sat with her head in her hands while silent tears trickled down the sides of her nose. It was her mother who suggested the homeschool alternative. Her mother had always known what to say on such days, giving Ayana a gentle press on the shoulder, the reassurance that she was not an afterthought. They researched the curriculum and ordered textbooks. Ayana absorbed her studies, immersing herself in books, letting the world fall away. Once a week, they filed a progress report to the homeschooling office in Fairbanks making sure she was in line with her syllabus. Rather than worrying that keeping her home for her studies through the years could be a further hindrance at socialization, Ayana knew that that her mother had sensed, by some motherly instinct, that she would thrive if she remained close to her surroundings, strong in her own soil. The quiet hills surrounding the homestead grounded her in a manner that no friendship at school could.

Ayana breathed in the early morning air that was tinged with the pungent scent of the wild highbush cranberries on the periphery of the peony field. It was the time of day, cool and praiseworthy, when Ayana’s thoughts could escape to a more wholesome time. Ayana walked the length of the meadow. She missed her mother.

Returning to the cabin, Ayana let herself in. Her father’s snores came to her from the back bedroom, in fits and starts, his sleep interrupted and restless. She put on the kettle to boil water for tea, then busied herself preparing breakfast. It was Saturday and they would soon have to start loading the vegetables onto the flatbed of the truck. The earlier they got to their farmstand at the Farmer’s Market, the more produce they would sell.

The Russians, their competitors who drove up from Delta Junction each week, started growing vegetables in heated greenhouses well before spring break-up. They displayed their impressive tomatoes and zucchini and cucumbers in stacked pyramids and charged six or seven dollars for a pound. Sometimes the women added other items onto their tables: honey straws, homemade jellies, crocheted doilies, cream rolls. They greeted their customers with broad smiles and thick accents, loudly pushing their wares.

Ayana sorted the vegetables from their own small vegetable patch onto the farmstand. After her father rumbled off again in his truck, she settled herself onto her stool to take in the people. As much as she cherished the quiet of the homestead, Saturdays had become her connection to the outside world. She smiled when the Russian ladies haggled with their customers, as though their prices weren’t exorbitant enough. She enjoyed watching the woodcarver across from her demonstrate his delicate carving on birch trunks. He sold wooden benches and side tables and salad bowls. She inhaled the scent of sauteed side-striped shrimp, garlicky and pungent, as it drifted to her from the food tent.

A man approached her farmstand. He ran a finger over her broccoli but did not seem particularly interested in buying vegetables. Instead, he looked at the few early peonies that Ayana had arranged decoratively in a plastic bucket alongside. She eyed his clothing and decided he was not from Alaska. He wore the tidy look of someone from the lower 48 states. His loafers, khaki pants, and half-zip sweater were quite out of place in the northern landscape of rough dirt roads and straggly wilderness. He was perhaps a decade older than her, but his handsome, shaven features were not lost on her.

“How much are you selling the flowers for?”

“Oh,” Ayana spurted out. “They are just for decoration. If you like, you can take one.”

“Do you grow them yourself?” he asked.

Ayana nodded her head proudly. “On our homestead. Some miles out of town.”

He touched one of the large, fragrant flowers, an early white Duchesse de Nemours which exuded a sweet, citrusy scent.

“How clever of you to grow them in Alaska.” He smiled at her. “It must be difficult to cultivate such flowers here.”

Even though Ayana was not sure whether his curiosity lay with her abilities as a gardener or with the flowers, she eagerly shared with him the things she had learned from her mother. It was novel to be of interest to someone, particularly a captivating stranger. Peonies were tough and could survive the harsh climate, she told him. In fact, they even relished the cold winters because they needed chilling for bud formation. If planted too deeply, they produced few, if any, flowers. She had been cutting back the blooms for the past three years to make sure all their energy went back to the roots. She was still a small peony grower, with only four hundred roots so far, but she had followed her mother’s gardening journal closely. After three years, this summer would finally bring the fragrant blooms they had envisioned.

That evening, while serving her father a bowl of moose stew, Ayana told him about the man at the market.

“He thinks he can sell our peonies down in the States. He wants to come talk to us about it all. Something along the lines of what Mama had in mind.”

Distracted, her father looked up at her and pushed food around on his plate. Ayana wasn’t even sure he had heard her. He had become a shell of the man he used to be, eyes hollow, the vigor of youth gone. In years past, before Mama died, they had always lived off the land, following the seasons and gleaning from their surroundings what the landscape yielded. In the winter, Papa kept traplines in the woods behind the house where he snared quality furbearers: arctic fox, lynx, marten, wolverine. He skinned and stretched and dried the furs. With his trapline income he bought supplies for the winter: fuel oil, boots, grains with a longer shelf life. In the summer, when the swollen rivers were thick with salmon runs, he fished first the red sockeyes, then the large kings, and finally the coho silvers to fill their freezer for the winter. During the September hunting season, he scanned distant ridges with his scoping rifle for moose. Meanwhile, Ayana and her mother grew vegetables that exploded into tangles of colors under the midnight sun. They canned and preserved and stored their harvest. They were never short on food, even in a land that was hard and inhospitable for much of the year. In the gloaming, Papa often stood on the porch of the cabin, shoulders held back, as he surveyed the homestead. The reflection of a smile had always crossed his features.

Until her mother got sick and withered. The illness descended quickly, leaving them first dumbfounded, then grasping for time. Her mother managed to hang on through a last winter, but with the promise of spring she, ironically, let go. She never saw the peonies they had planted together. Ayana’s heart was wrenched dry with the paradox of it all.

Ayana and her father tried to manage, withdrawn, living alongside in a remoteness of their own making. Her father robotically went about his chores on the homestead, doing only what was necessary. Ayana picked up where her mother had left off, trying to hold the edges together. Over time, she finished the school curriculum they had embarked her upon and graduated without a sense of future. She heard about the girls from school leaving Alaska, some for colleges in Oregon and Washington, seeking degrees and careers. News drifted back about others who had married in haste and remained there, determined to leave the wilds of Alaska for a more civilized life. Ayana felt the passage of time and a pressure to not be left behind. Yet she could not change either.

On Sunday, Ayana stood on the porch and waited until she made out the dusty approach of a car on the dirt road leading up the hill to their cabin. She had given the man directions to the homestead, telling him to come to talk to Papa about his proposition. They sat with cups of coffee at the kitchen table. Richard spoke business with her father while Ayana fell hard in love. He was a man that knew his trade. Ayana saw only his black hair and sculpted chin and dark eyes. Her heart lurched whenever he directed a question towards her, stomach knotted in excitement, as he spoke about the practicalities of shipments and stem prices and freight charges. Her father listened, then retired to the porch swing with his pipe, leaving Ayana to handle matters with the stranger.

In her bed that night, Ayana spoke to her mother. Our poenies, Mama, out in the world, for everyone to enjoy. She told her about Richard and his intentions of selling their flowers in the lower 48 states. “As long as there are brides, there will be a market,” he had said with enthusiasm. Ayana imagined the brides blushing alongside the peonies in their bouquets, linking arms with their grooms. It was almost as good as being there herself.

Ayana was glad to relinquish the business aspects of the peony farm to Richard. She had cursorily read the notebook in which her mother had jotted down a marketing plan, but she could not wrap her head around distribution methods and profit sharing and transportation. She was glad Richard outlined the plan.

Closer to the harvest, mid-summer, he brought a huge metal container on a trailer which he called a “chiller.” The cut flowers needed to be refrigerated as soon as they were harvested so the buds would not open prematurely. There were strict parameters of what the industry would buy, he explained. Only flowers with a thick stem and tight buds would bring them three or four dollars a stem. They had to harvest the peonies as closed balls, before bloom, when the balls felt like a marshmallow to their touch.

“Be sure to clip them carefully, just above a set of leaves,” he demonstrated with a pruner as they walked slowly among the flowers. “The buds must be no more than an-inch-and-a-half to two-inches. The stem should be no longer than 32-inches, with all side buds removed and clean leaves.”

He scrutinized the plants and clipped those he deemed favorable. Ayana wondered about the misfits, ones that nature had granted an entrance, then a shun. When they came across lesser quality stems, he put them aside to sell to local bed-and-breakfasts or for the farmstand at the Farmer’s Market. Ayana walked next to him and hoped for perfection.

They worked together all summer, harvesting the succession of flowers. Carefully, they wrapped the peonies in clear plastic, then packed them into stem boxes and stored them in the chiller. In the evening, they drove the flowers to Fairbanks so they could be shipped on a midnight FedEx flight to Anchorage. From there they were distributed south to their destinations: boutiques in big cities, wholesales to supermarkets, weddings. Ayana cherished the dusky evenings when she sat next to Richard in the truck in companionable silence after the long day. She watched the rolling hills unfold in front of them and quietly celebrated in her heart.

When their first sales came in, Richard smiled and exuberantly swung Ayana up into his arms. Ayana clutched his shoulders, pulse hammering in her throat, as he lowered her to the ground again. For a moment, soft and fleeting, she looked into his dark brown eyes and the world burgeoned with possibility.

As the summer progressed, his ideas became grander. They would offer subscription services so people could order flowers online. He suggested drawing up brochures to mail to clients, with photographs of the homestead and the peonies, emphasizing that the flowers symbolized good fortune and prosperity and romance. They would expand the peony field, plant more rows and varieties with lofty names: white Elsa Sass, dark pink Edulis Superba, raspberry red Felix Crousse. Their first, tentative season had launched itself well beyond their expectations. Of course it did. The name “Ayana,” after all, meant “forever flowering.”

At night, Ayana lay awake and channeled her thoughts about Richard toward her mother. More than anything, she wanted to consult with her, to tell her of the new, burgeoning swell in her chest as well as a doubt that had settled in beneath her ribs. She was suddenly drawn to the open window, where the curtain stirred lazily in the breeze. Leaning onto the windowsill, Ayana listened to the hush of the surrounding forest as it lay still and slumbering. She could make out the remaining peonies in the half-light. She thought she saw her then, at the very edge of the meadow, among the flowers that had not been harvested yet. Her mother, with her long, dark hair, was dressed in familiar gardening clothes. Her hand seemed to float above the peonies, gesturing toward them reassuringly. Ayana peered closely, adjusting to the dimness, wanting to understand, but moments later her mother was gone again.

When August brought rain and darkening nights, they packed and shipped the last of the peonies. They had sent off the flowers nightly, harvesting the latest blooms at the end of the summer. Then Richard returned alone to the lower 48 states. Ayana stood for a long while on the porch, watching the dust behind his truck settle again. He had pleaded with her to go with him, to cultivate new clients and contracts, to work on their efflorescent relationship, to plan the summer’s next harvest. Ayana gazed sadly at him. To her, the peonies meant more than money and marketability.

“What became of that man,” Papa asked much later that winter, sitting by the fire, in the glow of the embers. “The one who was interested in the peonies.”

Ayana turned to look at her father and the fragility that now defined him. It was as though he had not even noticed how Richard and Ayana had worked together all summer in the peony field. Her father’s strength had dissipated. He had given her mother his last best effort, an ultimate gift, by letting her go. He was able to do something for her still by being left behind. Her mother did not have to bear the burden of living on alone.

“He will not return,” Ayana told her father quietly and reached for his hand.

Richard had been a summer, fleeting and grounded only in her imaginings. They had walked together in the never-ending twilight with the sound of the aspens twitching in the breeze and the scent of the peonies heady and fragrant in the air. She was caught up in his stride as he laughed and talked, but she sensed that he would be gone when autumn came.

The horizon he offered was not her home. She did not need faraway places anymore, she realized, and would never leave the homestead. She was familiar with every corner of it: the willows and the birches and the river that gurgled through the land. She loved the hillsides that turned orange and crimson in the fall. She knew that the fireweed tallied the milder days of summer, blooming up its stalk until the fluffy, withered crowns indicated that winter was soon approaching. She felt the first snowfall through her nose before she even got out of bed to look out of her window. She cherished how the winter sun cast its slanting light through the kitchen window, metallic in the mornings, golden in the evenings. And she trusted that beneath the heavy snow blanket covering the hillside the peonies waited. The late blooms of the undemanding flower would turn blousy and luxurious in their season’s full potential.  



BIO

Birgit Lennertz Sarrimanolis’ work has appeared in Cirque Journal, Clackamas Literary Review, Euphony Journal, Fiction on the Web, Five on the Fifth, Medicine and Meaning, Penman Review and Shark Reef. Her memoir, Transplanted, was published by Cirque Press in 2022. She calls Alaska home and writes overlooking the Tanana Valley. Visit her website here: birgitsarrimanolis.com







Vanishing Act

by Seonah Kim


The day Crow met Robert in London, he produced from his wool cap a rabbit as white as midnight snow. She packed her bags that afternoon, left with him by morning. The trick was not part of his normal routine. In fact, Crow has not seen the white rabbit since.

She has been on tour with him for three months. This weekend, they’re in Vegas and Robert says, Baby, every other street clown is a “magician”. From now on, I’m a prestidigitator.

act 1.

The attendant on their flight from Las Vegas to Denver is just one guy. At first, she thinks he is the pilot, because of the loose authority he exhibits as they board. He welcomes them as though they’re entering his own plane, flashes his braces at them, and she thinks he must be fresh out of flight school. And even his clothes, lacking in certain trademarks, (striped shoulder pads? a particular shiny pin?) don’t register as wrong. Perhaps it’s the gummy she took at the gate, THC dosage unspecified, prescribed to her by Robert, who has flight anxiety. Crow does not have flight anxiety. She has flight anticipation, which bubbles in her stomach, muddling like a gassy thrill until she is settled in her narrow pleather seat. They fly coach, a condition which Robert assures her is temporary. As soon as he signs a Netflix special, he swears, soon.

The guy with the braces gets on the loudspeaker and says Welcome aboard folks. I hail from the beeaa-utiful Caribbean Island of Pu-erto Rico, and it is my pleasure to be joining you on this short flight from Las Vegas to. There is a pause, a scattered chuckle from the cabin and then he says Denver, and Crow observes his ignorance and the reaction of the passengers and her own impenetrable ambivalence.  

He enters the cabin and offers a tray containing tinfoil-wrapped fruit bars and chocolate-covered rice crisps. One of each or two of the same, he says. One of each or two of the same. The way he repeats it is so monotonous and bored it is almost playful. This is the smallest plane Crow has ever been on, two seats on one side of each row, one on the other. There is no business class on a flight like this, a fact which Robert no doubt relishes.

Will we fly private from Vegas to Denver once you get your Netflix special? she asks him.

Robert smiles at her with a sleepy sort of dismissal and says that private jet emissions are terrible for the environment, and he has many thoughts on the subject, which he will expound on when he is not so drugged up.

Crow selects two chocolate rice crisps when their pilot passes them the tray. Robert’s eyes are closed so Crow takes two more chocolate rice crisps on his behalf, smiling at the pilot and then glancing to Robert, as if to say, we’re together, he’ll want these later. The pilot in braces looks at Robert too, seems to contemplate making a joke, and then the woman in the seat behind Crow announces to her seatmate, to the whole plane really, that she is on a connecting flight from Venice. The seatmate asks if it was warm in California. The woman laughs tightly and corrects her: Italy is actually quite cold this time of year.

Puerto Rico, my home country, is so warm right now, the pilot says, rolling the Rs in Puerto and Rico as he had on the loudspeaker. I was there last week, but now I am flying to. Denver, the woman smiles. Denver, he says.

It’s only once the plane begins to rumble down the runway and the guy is still standing at the top of the aisle, demonstrating safety procedures, that Crow realizes he is not their pilot after all.

It’s not snowing on the Las Vegas tarmac, but once they begin to graze the clouds, streaks of wet white light race past the windows and she thinks of the way intergalactic travel is depicted in movies. Robert drops her hand, which he had gripped when the rumbling began. Crow wonders why snow doesn’t always reach the ground, if it’s not heavy enough or not fast enough, for the plane is doing the moving, at least in the perpendicular direction; the snow could be still, floating in space like dust, though it appears to her, through the glass, supernatural and screaming.

Crow turns away from the window but Robert is already asleep, having probably taken something stronger than just an edible. He would not have appreciated her observation of the violent, wintery altitude, but she would have told him anyway, had he been awake. The first time she flew with him, she found his panic endearing, was baffled but amused by his need to be unconscious for an hour-long flight. Even now, she feels a pang behind her breast as she examines his slack features, undone and half-bathed in the dark and glow of the overhead compartment. She wonders if her own face looks as empty when she is asleep, wonders if it is often snowing in the clouds on dry, sunny days.

act 2.

In London, I am almost always awake. I tend bar at a pub late into the evenings but rarely go home after my shift because I am usually still wired and restless. Instead of walking to my empty flat in Battersea, I walk from Clapham where I work into the upscale Kensington neighborhood of Chelsea. It takes me an hour and a half to get there by foot but I stay on the busy roads and listen to The Strokes and am in no rush.

It started one night when I was trying to lose a few drunk guys who had been at the pub and whom I had suspected might be following me. The streets that led home were quiet, a little seedy, and the whole evening was giving me the creeps. Imagine if I lived in one of these mansions, I thought as I entered Kensington. Imagine if I was going home to a two-story walk-up with a fireplace and a clawfoot tub. I found myself peering into the few windows lit up all orange and imagining myself inside that life, safe and dim, scented with expensive candlewax, a husband who loved me and a baby on the way.

After walking for a while, it becomes easier to believe that I am moving towards a destination, that I am heading truly home. Instead of turning back, I continue to weave deeper into the paved streets, wide and shadowed in marble.

I am beginning to shiver, exhaustion and the September chill tangling in my calves. I’ve been standing all night at the pub and have just now walked about three miles. I sit on a fire hydrant by the curb. I’ll rest for a few minutes and then go home. My music flutters into ambient silence and I follow the headphone wire into my purse with numb fingers. Locate my phone and pull it out. Dead. Sitting on the hydrant is such relief for my aching legs. If it weren’t so cold, I might have been able to fall asleep.

A navy Honda sedan pulls up to the curb, right into the empty space in front of me, and its hazards begin to blink. The driver switches on the overhead light and his features flicker half-bright. He looks through the glass and meets me with the eye that isn’t in shadow. 

The windshield bears two stickers, neatly aligned: Lyft, Uber. The street is empty besides us two and I approach the car, drawn to its warm exhaust more than anything. I open the right rear door. I climb in, holding down the hem of my skirt as I fold pale legs into the icy leather seat, pull the seatbelt across my chest.

Casey? The driver says into the rearview mirror. I can see both eyes now, brown and sunken beneath a furry brow. His gaze is blank and cloudy.

Yeah, my phone died, sorry. The location might be wrong on your app, I say. He turns off the overhead light and puts the car into reverse. My stomach lurches with the edge I feel before a flight. I shift forward in my seat, trying to see the screen of his Android, which is mounted on the dash and plugged into the stereo. We’re thirty minutes from our destination, Highgate, and then we will be a three hour walk from my flat.

I lean into the headrest, allow the city lights to stream through my lashes like something melted. I wake to the slamming of brakes and blaring of a horn. My driver is spitting what could be Arabic and flipping off a passing car which careens drunkenly through the intersection where we have stopped. He continues mumbling to himself, or actually it seems he is speaking to someone on the phone, a responding voice just audible over the stereo music.

I take account of the streets, which have blurred from ink to charcoal in anticipation of morning. You can just let me out here, actually, I say. This is fine. He stops speaking and looks into the mirror again, almost suspicious now. You sure? I glance at the map on his phone. We are still several blocks from Casey’s destination. I wonder if it’s their apartment or their parents’ house or a place where they work an early morning shift. Yeah, I put the address in wrong. He pulls to a slow stop and I throw open the door before he has a chance to park. Thanks. I hop out, hope Casey’s card doesn’t decline, how strange it is that the ride never cancelled, and enter the cemetery where Karl Marx is buried.

A small park surrounds the enclosed graveyard, which opens only during the day, but I scale the metal posts easily as the Honda’s grumble fades into side streets. When it’s gone, only breathing is left: breathing by invisible animals, by the scattered plants and trees. It can’t be later than five in the morning.

Inside, the silence which settles around stone is cold. My footsteps on the dirt path seem to echo, as though against concrete. Leaves rustle. An owl hoots. I unlace my combat boots and strip my socks and leave them in the grass under a tree.

I used to smoke weed in a cemetery across from my high school, with friends, and then later with a boyfriend. After class, during free periods, turning back up with red eyes, doused in drugstore perfume. We would make crude jokes about the names on the graves, invent stories to try and spook each other. Rebellion felt distinctly safe in high school, intentional and expected like dusty black Converse with my floral-print sundress. I see rebellion now as it is: one of many failed attempts to control the opaque inevitabilities of destiny and chance.

These days, I enjoy walking through cemeteries, surrounded by death and earth, winding trails and willows. They are a cool, perfect escape from the hot London summers. I have never walked through one so early in the morning.

When my phone is not dead, I take pictures of the statues, a stone angel dripping with moss, a Virgin Mary flanked by dried bouquets. My camera roll is full of photos of these things. I occasionally veer off-path to get a closer look at the generational plots, the ones whose little headstones sprawl outwards from some small pillar or block of marble engraved with the surname. Sometimes, the headstones themselves don’t list names, only familial titles: MOTHER, FATHER, DAUGHTER, SON, SON, SISTER, BROTHER, SISTER, BABY. These are often flat, flush with the earth, while the ones that stick straight up contain more detail:

MARY E.,
LOVING MOTHER AND WIFE
1887-1956

or

JANICE K.,
BELOVED ANGEL
MAY 12 1918 – SEPTEMBER 1 1918

+

I feel movement before I see them. A force and its adherent. First, a lanky and regal and wild-looking black dog. Then, a man with shoulder-length brown hair and violent blue eyes. He is wearing a white t-shirt under a black sweatsuit, which makes him look a bit like a priest. He smiles apologetically because his dog, off-leash, has approached and is sniffing my cold legs.

I’m so sorry, the man says, we never see anyone out here this early. He reaches for the dog’s collar. I don’t mind, I say, I love dogs. I bend down to scratch behind its silky ears. I notice as I do so that the backs of the man’s hands are spiked with intricate and dense ink patterns.

Her name is Belle, he says.

Like the princess or the instrument? I ask. My voice sounds shrill next to his measured, melodic one, my words even more out of place. I am suddenly aware of my bare white feet on the hard earth. But the man smiles and finishes attaching a leash to Belle’s collar, coils the strap around his wrist.

That depends, he says. Do you want to see her do a trick?

+

The memory returns only in dreams. I had been eighteen and dating the boyfriend I used to smoke in the cemetery with, Jamie. It’s no big deal, he had said that summer, when we found out. It’s only been a few weeks. You can still take the pill. Or maybe he had said, you can just take the pill. Just take the pill.

I had gone to my mother, trembling, and Mother, who had been young herself when she’d had me, ushered me into the car and drove us to Planned Parenthood, held my hand through the exam, no questions asked. Though occasionally, of course, I wonder what things might have been different had certain questions been asked.

It was still early enough for me to just take the pill. Luckily, said my mother. Lucky you found it so soon, the nurse said. Like cancer, I thought. We’re talking about him like he’s a lump. Which, technically, he still was. And the nurse, who was a woman, warned me fairly of the pain, and the blood, and the emotions, though not about the way bathroom tiles would never again feel normal beneath my hands. Nothing could have prepared me for the texture of his exit, nor for the emptiness after. The nurse had tried, of course, as she adjusted the white paper gown between my braced and elevated legs, as I angled my body on the cushioned gray table so as to view a constellation of white pixels blinking on a black screen of which somehow my son was comprised, but perhaps I hadn’t been listening closely enough.

The dreams are always of Jamie, bare-chested and wearing a frayed Cardinals hat, which had never been fully red in the time I’d known him, but by the end of that summer, had faded into a papery beige. In the dreams, he is holding our child, who is small and bloody and wrapped in cloth, to his chest, even as the cloth blooms red, even as his skin grows sticky and slick. I reach for them, for my son, for Jamie, whom I love, in these dreams, though I have not seen him in so many years, and sometimes these days he looks like Robert, with hair that is jet black, not blond as Jamie’s is in my waking memory. He pulls away, laughing. Laughing not at me, but at something just beyond my line of sight, something constantly in my peripheral, which seems to disappear whenever I turn to face it.

+

Of course I want to see the dog do a trick. I love to be surprised more than anything in the world. Like meeting Robert in London for the first time. He had stopped me for my hair. Red like strawberries, he’d called it. Do you want to see some magic? he had said.

Close your eyes, the man says, just for a moment. And when I clap, open them. I obey. Belle barks. A moment later, he claps. When I open my eyes, I briefly forget what I am looking for. Then I remember. But where’d she go? I ask, turning in a full circle, examining the damp grass for paw prints.

The man is smiling. He seems pleased. He says: Where did who go?

act 3.

They have a few shows in Denver, where Robert is going to try out some new tricks. In one of them, Crow will make her debut as his assistant. The new trick he’s working on is actually old, the oldest in the book, aside from the rabbit one, which she still has not seen since that first day. This trick is the one where she scrunches herself into a box and he saws the box in half, an act which to Crow feels comfortable and intimately satisfying, like she’s been rehearsing for it her whole life.

Robert will expect her to practice with him for hours in their suite, though all she wants to do is eat a room service grilled cheese in the hotel bed and watch House Hunters International on the cable TV. He will make her perfect her expression, as though her face is going to be enlarged on a stadium screen. Really, they’ll be in some mid-tier “historical” playhouse which endures cover bands and provides terrible acoustics. The drinks will be overpriced, the guests will grumble but still buy them, and the bar will make more money on the show than the box office.

Despite the false bravado and constant rebranding and embarrassed disappointment and uncomfortable travel, Crow stays. Because no matter where she is during Robert’s show, if she can see his face while he performs his act, see his hands, whether she is looking up at him from her position on the table, or sideways from a chair angled just so offstage, she gets to feel that thing all over again, soft fur as white as snow, a warm expectant window beaming through white marble, a black and barking dog slipping through the silent air without a trace.

Can I show you a magic trick? he’d asked. And she’d looked into his honey-brown eyes and seen the most radiant and terrifying possibilities, all the hope and disappointment she’d ever felt. Her mind returned to very early birthdays, when she’d been too young to name this feeling, seeing the cake float towards her, all aglow with heat and sugar. Mortified by the singing, squeezed her eyes shut and tried not to cry, puffed up her cheeks to blow out a wish.

act 4.

It’s sort of like a feeling you get in your bowels. Like a lurch at the top of a roller coaster, at the mouth of a tunnel. In the past, she has described it as an edge, though even then that word felt flat and wrong. It’s like holding the key to a lifelong enemy’s demise in your hand, knowing that your next move could destroy them forever. And you feel ashamed, because you have been granted such an easy victory with this key, but also know that your success is inevitable once they are gone, that nothing foreseeable could stand in your way ever again. You know that you must use this key or regret it forever, yet you also know that in doing so you are eliminating the only real obstacle you have ever had. It’s not a choice and it’s also your final choice.

You close your eyes. You wait for the sound of clapping hands.



BIO

Seonah Kim (she/her/hers) was born and raised in the Hudson Valley of New York. Currently, she writes and lives in Charlottesville, Virginia, where she is in the process of obtaining her MFA in fiction writing from the University of Virginia. She is also a waitress and a teacher.







Missy Anderson’s Funeral

by Viktor Athelstan


Missy Anderson’s death was highly expected for everyone that was not her family. The Andersons thought she would live forever. And no wonder they did. She was one hundred and ten years old and still going strong. Or at least she had been going strong until she tripped over her cat and smashed her head on her glass coffee table, shattering that into a million pieces as well. She probably would’ve survived the initial fall and the initial head smashing with comparatively little damage had she had been wearing her life alert button. But Missy Anderson was a proud woman and refused to wear it. She always said she’d rather starve to death on the floor of her house and get eaten alive by her pets than wear one of those buttons.

Well, that is almost exactly what happened to Missy Anderson.

Her son Eric, discovered her on the floor of her house with several bites taken out of her frail elderly body and a very nonchalant looking tabby cat named Mr. Snookums and a very guilty looking golden retriever named Eugene standing over her prone body. The names of the pets are not really relevant to this story, but it is necessary for you to know as it sets the scene of what kind of horrifying madness Eric walked into. Eric was convinced and could not be convinced otherwise no matter what anyone said that Mr. Snookums put Eugene up to eating his mother alive.

He never liked that cat.

Ironically enough Missy did survive the fall and the head smashing and the mildly being eaten alive. Eric rushed her to the hospital himself. It was a shock to the hospital staff and Eric did look a bit like a cannibal carrying his semi-eaten mother into the Emergency Room, but he didn’t really care too much about that. If he saved his mother’s life, he figured she would have to love him despite his beauty. (His beauty is relevant to the story, but not at the moment. We will get to that part soon.)

At the hospital, Missy Anderson was put in the intensive care unit and given about a million antibiotics and a copious amount of rabies shots. The doctors did not expect her to make a full recovery. But her children were insistent. Until this point in her life, Missy Anderson had survived just about everything and of course at one hundred and ten years old she would survive this as well. She had survived bee stings despite being highly allergic, she had survived bicycle accidents in which she rode into a telephone pole without a helmet, she survived giving birth to seven beautiful children and three ugly ones; hell, she had even survived accidentally being shot one time on a hunting trip. She seemed immortal.

And Missy Anderson did survive. She survived and escaped the hospital in a wheelchair of her own volition. No one could convince her to return. But no one had ever been able to convince Missy Anderson to do anything she did not want to do, so this was not a surprise to anyone.

What ended up killing Missy Anderson was the second time she fell and smashed her head and was eaten alive by her pets. This time, neither Eric nor any of her children came to the house in time to save her. Why would they? She refused to wear a life alert button or own a cell phone. Or accept any visitors from Wednesday to Monday. After birthing ten children of various appearances, and coming from a family of twenty other siblings, Missy Anderson valued her time alone and regrettably for her, her children respected that.

On Tuesday morning, Eric found his mother dead and with significantly more bites taken out of her than last time. And this time, Eugene the Golden Retriever didn’t even have the common decency to at least look a little guilty. Mr. Snookums the Cat ignored Eric as he shouted at them both and could only be convinced to stop eating Missy Anderson when he was forcefully thrown into his carrier cage. (And not without great bodily injury to Eric.)

Her family grieved tremendously. No one grieved more than her three ugly children whom she loved dearly and significantly more than the beautiful ones. After all, they would survive anything like her. In a world where beauty is everything, it’s easy to get ahead in life when you are stunning. So naturally she favored her ugly children. She had to. No one else would. (None of her seven beautiful children could find spouses or good jobs due to their lack of self esteem in any capacity. Her ugly children were all very successful as they had good hygiene and radiated enough confidence that they could convince a saltwater fish to buy ocean water.)

The Andersons were a close knit family, despite the blatant favoritism. At least that’s how it seemed to every outsider. Secretly they all hated each other with the passion of eleven trillion fiery suns. They only pretended to like each other for their mother’s sake. It’s all she had going for her. After all, she was constantly getting herself into all sorts of scraps and accidents and near death experiences. They had to give her some kind of win.

But now she was dead. And they didn’t have to do that anymore.

Nor would they.

Each of the seven beautiful children, Eric included, decided to make the entire circumstances surrounding planning their mother’s funeral the worst experience anyone has ever had in their entire life organizing a funeral. Of course, organizing a funeral is always a horrible experience, but sometimes it can be less horrible than others. The beautiful children were determined to make it exceptionally horrible. If there was a Guinness Book of World Records entry for worst funeral experience in the world–no! In the universe!–Missy Anderson’s funeral would’ve won it.

But there isn’t, so it didn’t.

The first thing the beautiful children did once everyone got to her house after Eric called them was try to resuscitate their mother. This was their revenge for years of mistreatment. It did not matter to them that Missy Anderson was very and extremely obviously dead. She had gone past rigor mortis and was now green and rotting. They were going to have the EMTs do CPR whether they wanted to or not. And the EMTs did not. However, the seven beautiful children threatened to sue if they did not try to resuscitate Missy Anderson. So, the EMTs did resuscitate Missy Anderson. Well, they tried. After a brief moment where life actually and miraculously seemed possible, it soon became apparent nothing would in fact work and any attempt at trying was futile at best and borderline ridiculous at worst. Missy Anderson got all over everyone and everything. It was only when the seven beautiful children and the three ugly children were covered in the fluids of their dead mother, were the seven satisfied that she was in fact gone and not coming back.

Now the real revenge could start.

Despite the fact Missy Anderson had indeed anticipated her death and pre-planned everything for her funeral, her beautiful children decided that wasn’t good enough. For one, the coffin she had picked out was tacky. It was silver and metallic and had little daisies painted all over it. No, that simply would not do for their mother. She was–had been a classy woman.

(Never mind the fact Missy Anderson collected about a billion Beanie Babies in her lifetime and only wore bootleg shirts with cartoon characters on them. Fun hobbies, but certainly not classy ones. There is nothing classy about getting into a fistfight at a Hallmark store over the Princess Diana memorial Beanie Baby while wearing a T-shirt with a bootleg Tweety Bird on it.)

Their mother’s coffin could be no less than mahogany and hand carved by a master carver from England or Germany or maybe Spain or Austria or Italy or maybe even Peru. Either way it had to be expensive. It did not matter that the silver daisy coffin was prepaid. They would sell it on eBay for a small profit. Who would buy a preowned silver daisy coffin was beyond anyone’s guess but the seven beautiful children were insistent. And the three ugly children were too much in mourning to argue much at that time.

So the ugly children let the beautiful children buy the expensive mahogany coffin. After all, they sort of loved their siblings. Well, they loved them enough that they weren’t going to cause a big scene at the funeral home.

Their resolve would not last.

After they bought a new coffin, they needed to pick out a plot. It did not matter that Missy Anderson had already picked out and pre-paid for a plot. The beautiful children insisted they needed a new one. It also didn’t matter that Missy Anderson’s previously pre-picked out and pre-paid plot was very expensive and on a cliff overlooking the ocean. With climate change causing all sorts of nasty storms, the cliff was slowly wearing away. Did the ugly children really want their mother’s body to fall into the sea? Is that what they wanted? They knew it! They didn’t love their mother like the beautiful children did!

The three ugly children relented to avoid causing another scene at the funeral home.

Now, the funeral which previously would’ve been free, was getting very expensive. Over ten thousand American dollars. And of course, the ugly children would be expected to pay for it. After all, the three ugly children were a CEO of a massive health insurance company, an Intellectual Property lawyer for a major media monopoly that created cartoon animals and a variety of overpriced theme parks, and a plastic surgeon for celebrities. They were also all on TikTok with about one million followers each. Some of those followers were just hate followers, but they still had at least one million followers each. Meanwhile, the seven beautiful children worked in retail, nursing homes, elementary schools as teachers, daycares for poor children, and public libraries. Clearly, the ugly children contributed much more to society than the beautiful ones. Why else would they be paid so much? Why else would everyone love them with a burning passion of ten trillion suns? People must have loved them! At the end of the day, they were the ones in newspapers and the ones everyone always talked about.

(Perhaps not always positively, but that didn’t really matter. The point was that people were talking about them and they were making a ton of money which is really the only marker of success in this world besides being beautiful. But they were not beautiful, they were ugly, so really they were the ones at a disadvantage here in the miserable existence humans call life. Obviously.)

After they sorted out the coffin and the plot, it was now time to decide whether Missy Anderson would be embalmed or not. Missy Anderson had not wanted to be embalmed. She wanted to go straight into the dirt and be worm food. At least be worm food once her silver daisy coffin disintegrated…whenever that would be. It could be a few decades, it could be a few months, it could be millennia. No one really knew and no one really cared to know. No one actually wanted to dig up Missy Anderson to make sure she was in fact, worm food. Missy Anderson not being embalmed potentially could have been something all ten of her children, no matter their beauty status, could have agreed upon. There was something nice about the thought of their mother going back into the earth.

But then, Missy Anderson’s most beautiful daughter, Denise, remembered that one time when she was seven years old her mother had made her dig in the rose garden, despite the freezing weather with no winter coat or proper boots. Missy Anderson had claimed such hardships build character. Additionally, when Denise was twelve years old, her mother made her forage for wild mushrooms. Again to build character…or so Missy Anderson claimed. Denise suspected that in reality her mother was trying to poison her. She had no proof of this, so her ugly siblings did not believe their mother would intentionally do such a thing. Their mother probably had some kind of brain damage from all the freak accidents she had been in. Years later, at a Thanksgiving meal, Denise tried to point out the fact that their mother insisted she pick the red mushrooms with the white spots on them. The classic poison mushroom! The ugly children had scoffed and called Denise crazy and that their mother did not know the mushroom was poisonous so she could not blame poor old Missy Anderson.

(Even at twelve years old Denise knew they were poisonous. But she was going to eat them to please her mother, even though she knew she would probably die. Her father stopped her just in time. At that point in her life, Denise did secretly hope she would die. Then everyone would stop seeing her mother as the paragon of the community. How could she be the perfect mother, the perfect wife, the perfect everything if her child died of eating a poisonous mushroom that Missy Anderson had made her eat? Of course, Denise, as she grew older, realized that her mother would deny being responsible in any way whatsoever for her daughter’s tragic death. She’d probably milk it too! So despite feeling slightly suicidal at all times, Denise never acted on it to spite Missy Anderson)

Denise insisted her mother be embalmed. And because Denise, one of the seven beautiful children, wanted this, the other six agreed with their beautiful sister. They fought long and hard for this. A shoe was thrown at one point. It didn’t hit anyone or anything besides the wall of the funeral director’s office, but a shoe was thrown. The act of complete and utter barbarity infuriated the ugly children. What if the shoe had hit one of them and broke their nose? Then they would be even uglier!

(Of course, the plastic surgeon could have fixed their noses, but what if it hit the plastic surgeon? What would they do?! Nevermind the fact her entire circle consisted of successful plastic surgeons.)

By this time, it was apparent to the funeral director, Alina Rollo, that the Andersons were not in fact, a perfect family and they really fucking hated each other.

But she had seen this all before, and was not phased by it at all. Just about every single family fell to pieces once the matriarch or the patriarch perished. And with the Andersons, it had been unexpected…at least to them. That always makes the family falling apart even worse. Alina Rollo’s apprentice, Judy Brick, had not seen this all before and was quite alarmed and bewildered and shocked and dismayed and horrified. How could such a fine family just evolve into senseless squabbling? How could they decide to spend so much money when everything had been paid for? Why would they decide to go against their mother, Missy Anderson’s wishes? What kind of family was this?!

(The answer is that they were an average family. But Judy Brick being new to the mortuary business, did not know this quite yet. She would learn. Oh, how she would learn. The Andersons would teach her quite well.)

After the shoe was thrown, the beautiful children and the ugly children had a nasty blowout fight right smack dab in the middle of the funeral director’s office. They shouted! They called each other names! They slandered each other! They brought up embarrassing past childhood stories! They insulted each other’s professions! Declarations of all sorts of crimes, state and federal and white collar and blue collar and otherwise, were thrown carelessly around in horrible accusations! Oh the humiliation! Oh, the depravity! Oh, the shame!

The fight was so loud that the people having funerals and wakes in the other parlors could hear the Anderson family meltdown. They were shocked and appalled. How could the Andersons have been anything less than perfect?

Their reputation was crumbling.

And oh, how it would crumble further!

It would crumble not only to dust, but straight into the sea!

(A metaphorical sea of course. And not a nice one either, with gentle waves, crystal clear cerulean water, and with some nice fish and peaceful dolphins. A metaphorical sea with choppy waves, harsh brutal winds, and a wide vast variety of bloodthirsty man-eating sea monsters!)

Eventually, the humiliation of the three ugly children by the seven beautiful children became too much and the ugly children relented once again! How could they not? Their personal reputations and professional careers and TikTok stardom were on the line! Missy Anderson would have to be embalmed. Just like the seven beautiful children wanted.

(Well, what Denise wanted. But that is neither here nor there.)

Despite being exhausted by the battle, it was now time to decide what kind of funeral Missy Anderson would have. Would it be big? Would it be small? Secular? Or perhaps religious? What kind of religion, if so? Was Missy Anderson even religious? None of the Anderson children actually knew. Their mother tended to switch her religions whenever she wanted something and the previous one was not giving her what she wanted. She cycled through evangelical Christianity, New Age paganism, atheism, and Buddhism with an alarming regularity. Sometimes she was even Wiccan for a week or two until she decided she hated Halloween. It was all very confusing. And the children did not know what she wanted. So in this sentiment, they did all agree on one thing and one thing only: Missy Anderson would have a secular funeral to avoid the children the trouble of hunting down some sort of religious leader.

Alina Rollo smiled and nodded and said that could be done. Judy Brick sighed with relief.

The fight picked up again when they had to decide what Missy Anderson would wear for the rest of her earthly existence when she was finally buried. The three ugly children wanted to pick out her favorite bootleg Tweety Bird shirt. The one she wore most often and loved perhaps even more than her husband or her children. It was the one she was wearing when she got into the fistfight at the Hallmark store over the Princess Diana memorial Beanie Baby. It was the one she wore to every fancy event. Even to the expensive galas her ugly children often hosted and attended. Missy Anderson did not care that she was going to meet important world leaders including but not limited to the President of the United States, several African Presidents, Prime Ministers, and Royalty, all the Prime Ministers in Europe and the Emperor of Japan! She was going to wear her bootleg Tweety Bird shirt, whether her children liked it or not!

It was quite embarrassing sometimes to have Missy Anderson as a mother. But she had survived so much! What harm would there be to letting her wear the bootleg Tweety Bird shirt to meet important politicians? Sometimes those politicians needed to be brought down a peg and realize that some people did not actually care if they were important or not.

(Privately, however, all of her children silently suspected Missy Anderson’s total lack of respect for authority and her extremely accident prone life were perhaps related. But none of them would ever say that out loud because that would be insane. After all, what politician would care enough to assassinate their mother? Even though she was their world, their creator, their tormentor, she was merely a blip in the radar to the authority figures of the world.)

Also, the three ugly children wanted Missy Anderson to be buried in the bootleg Tweety Bird shirt so they would never have to see that damn thing ever again.

The beautiful children wanted Missy Anderson to be buried in something classy like a little black dress and with a string of pearls and maybe even a real diamond tiara. And they also wanted to frame the Tweety Bird shirt like it was a signed sports jersey and make copies so they could all wear similar ones to the funeral.

Naturally, this caused another fight that the seven beautiful children won once again.

However, secretly the ugly intellectual property lawyer child was planning to file a lawsuit against his siblings for copyright infringement, even though he did not actually work for Universal Studios or whoever owns the intellectual property rights to Tweety Bird. He didn’t actually know or care. (He just knew his company did not own the rights.) He would ruin his seven beautiful siblings! He would ruin them for all they were worth! He did not care that none of the seven beautiful children made more than $30,000 a year (if even that). Most of them made closer to $25,000 or $20,000 or sometimes even $10,000 a year. He would sue them each for half a billion dollars. And he would win. After all, the copyright infringement of a bootleg Tweety Bird shirt was the most fighting and pressing matter of his time.

(It would turn out later, even though he did win and put all of his seven beautiful siblings highly into debt and homelessness, that the average Joe, who the lawyer never really interacted with nor cared to, would indeed care. He would be shot dead on the street. And none of his siblings would come to the funeral. Especially not the CEO and the plastic surgeon siblings, as they had also gotten caught up in the lawsuit because they were also wearing the Tweety Bird shirts. Even though they made buckets and buckets of money every single minute, half a billion dollars was still a lot of money that they really did not want to lose in a stupid petty lawsuit. The plastic surgeon and the healthcare CEO would conspire and lobby and end up making more money through new government regulations and laws they bribed Congress and Senate to pass. They would be fine even if slightly annoyed for an extended period of time.)

Anyway, the rest of the funeral planning went relatively uneventfully and there is no point to recounting it here. The funeral itself happened on a pleasant fall evening. Many people came. They mourned. They told funny stories. They had some cake and coffee at the reception. The Anderson children wore the Tweety Bird shirts. They were sued into oblivion. And the Anderson family never recovered.

The end result was exactly what Missy Anderson would have wanted.



BIO

Viktor Athelstan is the author of the 2022 Shirley Jackson Award nominated story “Brother Maternitas.” His short story “Okehampton Fog” can be heard on the Creepy Podcast. He recently published the novel “Decessit Vita Matris.” When Viktor isn’t writing short stories, he writes webnovels about medieval monks. 







Of Two Minds

by Vicki Addesso


            I rode to the wake with my sister, Paige. There was no way I could spend another second around my mother. I’d been listening to her cry between each rendition of reasons why Charlie couldn’t possibly have done what he did. “That son-of-a-bitch! He wouldn’t do that to us,” she’d say, as if she could make the facts of his death disappear.

Charlie was Mom’s uncle, her father’s younger brother. He was only ten years older than her, more like a big brother than an uncle. Other than my father, my sister, and me, Mom had no family left. She’d complain about Charlie all the time. That he came to our house unannounced and hung out for hours. That he borrowed money. That he gambled. She said his drinking was the worst. “A lush. A real drunk,” she called him. Yeah, but guess what? Mom was the first one to crack open a beer the second the clock struck noon. “You’re not an alcoholic until you start drinking in the morning,” she’d say. So, Mom and Charlie were drinking buddies, those two.

Charlie had never married; I don’t think he ever had a girlfriend. He lived two blocks away and worked down in the subways of Manhattan, sitting in a booth selling tokens. My mother worked part-time at a deli in town, the early shift on weekdays. She was in a bowling league with a few friends and went over to their houses once in a while to play cards. My dad worked two jobs, and when he was home he was up in bed, watching TV or sleeping. Not a people person, my father. So Charlie and Mom would talk and drink, sometimes after work, but mostly on the weekends. And the talking turned to yelling, arguing, as the cans piled up. About the money he kept borrowing and never paid back, or the fact that he always showed up at our house empty-handed but left full of beer. Her beer.

            It was five days ago when Paige called me at my latest job, receptionist for a realty company. I’d stepped away from my desk to grab a cup of coffee in the kitchen just outside my office. I ran back, picking up the phone on the fourth ring.

“Wright Real Estate. Beth speaking,” I said.

“Beth, it’s me.”

“Hey, Paige. What’s wrong?” I could tell she was crying. I thought maybe her son was sick. He had just turned a year. I looked at the photo I had of him, pinned to the bulletin board next to my desk — chubby round face, big brown eyes, smiling.

“Uncle Charlie is dead. He killed himself,” she said.

I laughed.

“Really. He’s dead. He jumped off the roof of his apartment building.”

“I’m sorry,” I told her. “I believe you. It’s just that…of course Charlie did that.”

She was quiet.

“Paige? He was miserable.”

“I know. But how could he do that?”

I didn’t say what I was thinking: How could he not?

            Paige’s old Toyota Corolla was a mess. I was sitting in the passenger seat, empty baby bottles with chunks of sour milk stuck to their plastic insides, pacifiers, crumpled McDonald’s bags at my feet. A smashed half-empty box of Kleenex. A brightly colored toy had squeaked as I’d stepped on it getting in the car. Her son Bobby’s car seat was in the back behind me, and there were stuffed animals, a carton of diapers, blankets piled up around it, and Cheerios splattered everywhere.

“You really need to clean out this car,” I said.

“Fuck you. You don’t even have a car,” she said. “Never mind a baby to take care of! How’s work, by the way?”

“It sucks.”

“You’re never happy.”

“I’m going to have to quit.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” she said, slamming on the brakes at a red light.

“Whoa, slow down! And don’t judge me. You sit home all day watching game shows and soap operas while Greg is out working. Must be nice. You have no idea what it’s like to get up every day and spend eight hours feeling like you’re dying.”

“And you have no idea what it’s like taking care of another person. Two people, and one’s a baby!”

Paige thought I was a loser. I was two years older than she was, still living at home, single, childless. I was only twenty-five, but she acted like I was an old maid. Blonde and beautiful, a real dumb blonde in my book, Paige barely made it out of high school. I was the mousy-brown-haired, nerdy big sister who kept her nose in her books and slinked through high school unnoticed. Paige had her clique of cool friends and a parade of guys falling in love with her. Senior year she hooked up with Greg, who managed the Mobil in town. He was twenty-one when they met. On her nineteenth birthday, they got married.

Paige turned into the parking lot at the funeral home. I saw my parents’ car. That was it. Maybe some of Uncle Charlie’s friends from work and the bar would show up later. Then I wondered, did he even have friends? Maybe, like me, he just had acquaintances. And this fucked-up family.

I walked ahead of Paige. The wind was biting. This February had been nothing but snow and ice. Inside, I was hit by the sickening sweet smell of lilies. I’d been to three other wakes. Both my grandfathers’ (my grandmothers died before I was born) and my friend Frank’s. I began to feel nauseous, yet somehow comforted. I did have friends; or at least I’d had a friend. Frank was my friend.

I went straight to the casket, avoiding my parents, who were sitting off to the side. The first thing I noticed as I looked at Charlie lying there was his right ear. The skin around it was wrinkled in big lumpy folds, and it was not where it should have been. It was too far back from its original spot, as if it were slipping away.

This was not Charlie. Where was the long, fleshy nose I knew so well, the pockmarked cheeks, the small blue eyes with golden feathers for lashes? This face was slathered in make-up and powder. Did they actually put mascara on him? That ear, his right ear, looked too small. I wanted to see those two great big pretzel twists stuck to the sides of his head. I wanted to rub my hand over his crew-cut hair that had turned from dark blonde to gray with the years. That was something I did lately, when I’d come home from work and find him sitting with Mom at the kitchen table. His hair felt like velvet, and he would say, “Oh, come back, that feels nice,” as I walked away, up the stairs to my bedroom. But I couldn’t do that now because this was not Charlie. Were the three pink moles on the back of his neck that turned red in summertime still there? I almost reached in to lift his head, to look, to prove to myself that this was not him and this was not real. Instead, I made the sign of the cross and pretended to say a prayer.

            My grandfathers had died years ago, and my parents hadn’t let my sister or me go up to the casket. I’d heard my mother tell my father, “They are too young to see death.” So we sat in the back of the room on a sofa, with our baby dolls, watching the adults chatting and laughing while Grandpa, and then a year later, Pop-pop, lay still in a big box up front.

The casket was closed at my friend Frank’s wake. Mom had come with me, as she knew Frank’s mother. Actually, my mother made me go. How do you make someone do something they don’t want to do, can’t do? How did she get me there? I was seventeen. My face covered in acne, like Uncle Charlie’s must have been when he was young. Paige, with her spotless skin, called me pizza face. But was that it, being seventeen, hating my skin, being so shy, being afraid? I told my mother I didn’t want to go, I couldn’t go. “Tell them I’m sick,” I said. But she would not leave me alone. I begged, I cried. She pulled me off my bed. She said, “You will never be able to live with yourself if you don’t show up.” Then she slapped me across the face, and something in me split apart. I shoved pieces of my mind into a dark corner. I got dressed and went to the wake.

            I’d known Frank Nunez since kindergarten. He was an only child, lived four houses away from us. Thick curly black hair, eyes the color of coal, and a slight overbite that curled his full lips into a permanent smile. He was shy, awkward, odd, like me. We seemed to recognize something in each other. I didn’t have a name for it. I still don’t. We sat together in the cafeteria, my fair, freckled arm next to his spotless olive one. When all the other children were laughing and playing during recess, we stood quietly and watched. At least we weren’t alone. He was never a boyfriend, but the other kids teased us with that old sing-song jingle: Frank and Beth, sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g… As we got older we would watch movies together, go shopping together, and spend hours sitting and reading together. And sometimes, late at night, when I felt like I needed to hear my own voice and then hear someone else’s voice responding, I’d call him on the phone. He’d pick up on the first ring so his parents wouldn’t wake up.

My mother walked to Frank’s casket, a closed casket, and knelt, made the sign of the cross, as I stood behind her. I stared at the polished oak, at the spray of red roses lying across the top, and I wondered what was inside. I imagined Frank at home, in his room, reading or writing. I’d go see him later. I’d talk him out of it. I’d stay with him to make sure he didn’t go.

The wake had been crowded. Frank’s parents had relatives, big families. Neighbors and teachers from school, accompanied by reluctant classmates, came and went. As my mother mingled, I headed to the back of the room where I had sat for my grandfathers’ wakes. No sister or doll to keep me company. I scanned the faces of the mothers and fathers of sons and daughters who were normal and happy. I saw expressions of relief mixed with shame. Their children, our classmates, were alive. Years of school with these people, and yet I knew they knew nothing about Frank and me. We had long ago ceased to interest them. Except for there, then, at the wake. It was as if a spotlight had been turned on me. Eyes caught mine, briefly, and then shifted away. I had to have known something, they must have been whispering. Frank’s parents stayed seated in front, staring at the closed casket. I looked at the back of their heads.

Frank had jumped in front of a speeding train on a Friday night in early June. It was the Friday night he and I had talked about all that week. I was watching my small black-and-white TV in my bedroom.  At 9:06 I heard the whistle of the express train. Soon after I heard the sound of sirens. It was like the howling of wild animals, a call of longing. I remember reaching for the blanket at the bottom of my bed even though it was a warm evening. I knew but pretended to myself that I did not. How does one fall asleep under the weight of such knowing?

The next morning, when I came downstairs and into the kitchen, I heard Mom talking with my father, telling him what she’d heard from one of the neighbors. That the rescue workers had to pick up the body pieces. Arms and legs. My father shushed her when he saw me.

I kept looking at the casket. Had they put him back together?

            “He looks good, doesn’t he?” my mother said as she walked up behind me and put her arm around my shoulders.

I flinched. I didn’t need to tell her this was not Charlie.

“They did a good job,” she said.

I sat on a chair toward the back of the room. My parents and Paige sat up front, and as a few visitors trickled in they greeted them with handshakes or hugs. Small talk. A few embarrassed chuckles.

An hour passed. How long would I have to stay here? Then I heard her voice. Raspy, husky, so discordant for her slight build. The remnants of a Portuguese accent, from a childhood lived across the Atlantic. Frank’s mother, Mrs. Nunez, had come to Uncle Charlie’s wake. Alone. I knew she and my mother talked whenever they saw each other, out on the block, in the grocery store, at the deli when Mom was working. Mrs. Nunez would stop in to grab a cup of coffee before heading off to her job. My mother was obsessed with telling me how well Frank’s mother seemed to be doing, as if I needed to know that Frank hadn’t destroyed her. Why was she here? She had barely known Uncle Charlie. How could she come here, to this place, this room?

After Frank’s death, Mrs. Nunez would call my mother, asking if I had said anything, if I had told her anything about what Frank had done. I hadn’t. I refused to speak about Frank. And for years now I had managed to avoid any contact with his parents, who lived on the same street as mine. You would think it would be impossible not to run into each other at some point. But I was careful. I’d look out the window, and then out the front door, up and down the road, to be sure neither of them was around. I never walked past their house. I made sure to check for their cars in parking lots at stores. Sometimes, when I was home alone, I would be overcome with a fear that one or both of them would knock on the door. They would have seen that my parents’ cars were gone, known they were at work or shopping, and come to confront me.

As Mrs. Nunez rose from the kneeler at the casket and turned to walk to my parents, I got up, grabbed my coat, and left.

The frigid air slapped me in the face as soon as I stepped outside. The steel blue sky was streaked with flimsy, pink, windswept clouds. In moments, even though it was still early — it could not have been past five o’clock — evening would fall. The sky would turn black, and I would disappear. I loved walking at night. I felt protected by the darkness. It was a fifteen-minute trek to home. I stepped carefully over patches of frozen snow at the curbs. I pulled my coat tight around me, cursing myself for not having a hat, scarf, or gloves.

At the front door I realized I didn’t have keys. I went to the garage and pulled the door up, turned on the light. I found the spare key that Mom had hidden under the toolbox on the floor in the corner. As soon as I got into the house I went to the kitchen, opened the drawer by the sink, and found the keys to Charlie’s apartment. I put them and our house key in my coat pocket and went back out into the darkness.

Only two blocks. Our small town was a bedroom community, just a twenty-minute train ride from Manhattan. It was rush hour and the streets were busy. I walked with my head down, not wanting to see the faces of other people anxious to get home, to get warm. I heard laughter, the laughter of two young women, one of them saying she needed a beer. Then I heard the train whistle. The express was flying past our town, screaming out its warning. I began to cry. The tears were hot on my cheeks.

The lobby of Charlie’s building was filled with people coming home from work or school, chatting by the mailboxes, waiting for the elevator. His place was on the tenth floor, the top floor. I watched from the sidewalk, glancing sideways through the glass doors. I waited until no one was inside.

The elevator creaked, smelled of perfume and cigarette smoke. I wiped my nose and cheeks with my coat sleeve. The tenth-floor hallway was empty, but I could hear sounds, voices, from the other apartments. Once I got into Uncle Charlie’s place, I walked to a small lamp by the sofa and turned it on. Just one large room, a studio, with a kitchenette, small table with two chairs, and the convertible sofa facing the television. The curtains were pulled closed. On the table next to the sofa, lying in the lamplight, was a small spiral notebook with a pen clipped to the cover, and a paperback. A murder mystery. A bookmark was holding his place near the end of the story. Hadn’t he wanted to finish it, find out who did it?

I took off my coat, picked up the book, and sat on the sofa. I would finish it for him. Before I began to read, though, I thought about Frank. He would laugh his ass off to see me reading a book like this, some dime-store pulp fiction paperback. Waste-time reading, he would call it.

In fifth grade Frank began dragging me to the library weekly. While he browsed the shelves in the adult section, I would grab my books off the YA shelf. At twelve, at his insistence, I finally left Nancy Drew and The Happy Hollisters behind. He told me I must read Kurt Vonnegut. He gave me Slaughterhouse Five and Cat’s Cradle. Then it was time for a shift — Richard Bach’s Jonathan Livingston Seagull. Frank also devoured poetry, and he would read aloud to me — Emily Dickinson, Walt Whitman, Dylan Thomas.

Two years before he died, Frank began to write his own stories. One after the other, and he would ask me to read them and then ask what I thought. They were good, well-written, long and intricate. He built alternate universes with such clarity that I would get lost for hours. He filled marble notebooks with his horrid handwriting. I kept those notebooks in my closet; Frank didn’t want them in his house. I’d asked him why, but he just said I wouldn’t understand. The stories were frightening, full of evil monsters and vengeful villains, and the violence was detailed and disturbing. But the endings were always happy, with a hero, or heroine, destroying the enemies and restoring hope. Somehow that disappointed me, that simplistic way he had of bringing it all to a sunny conclusion. But I always told him they were wonderful. His smile would spread wide.

Once, a few months before he died, we rode the bus to the mall to shop at the bookstore. I bought my first book ever — Sylvia Plath’s Ariel. Frank and I had recently watched the movie of her book The Bell Jar. We went back to his house and up to his room, where he read it aloud to me from cover to cover. I left it with him that night, and he copied every poem into a new marble notebook. And for all the weeks after that, Frank would talk about Sylvia. Sylvia and what she had done. He would say it was inevitable. Necessary to her greatness. I asked him, wouldn’t her poetry still be amazing if she were alive? He was emphatic. No. No one would have remembered her.

            Sitting in Uncle Charlie’s apartment, his paperback in my hand, remembering Frank, I heard a knock at the door. Mrs. Nunez? Did she follow me here? I knew that was ridiculous.

I opened the door slowly. A woman I did not know, with short gray hair and squinty, blue eyes, stood with her hands folded in front of her belly. She was shorter than me and wore a floral housedress.

“Hi. Are you Charlie’s niece?”

“Great-niece.”

“I’m Evelyn. I live down the hall. Can you come with me?”

Why I followed I cannot say. I made sure the key to the apartment was in my pocket. When we entered her place I saw a man at the table in the dining room. He sat hunched over a mug of what I assumed was coffee, wearing thick glasses, a strip of curly white hair circling the shiny bald top of his head.

“This is my husband, Sid.”

I nodded. He nodded back.

“We were sitting here, just sat down to breakfast. We weren’t looking out the window, but out of the corner of my eye I saw something, something big, fly by, and at the same time I heard a scratching sound.” 

She led me to the window. The screen had three long, thin tears.

“Look,” she said. “He must have done this.  He must have reached out to grab something.”

I looked at the screen and then down. It was dark, but the parking lot below was brightly lit. I saw the snow-covered tops of cars and a man shoveling the walkway. When did it start snowing? I saw where Charlie must have landed.

“I’m sorry,” I told Evelyn and her husband, then I left.

            I stood in Charlie’s apartment, by the table with the lamp, looking at the small spiral notebook and pen, noticing the dust. Dust gathers so quickly.

The police had found a note in Charlie’s pocket, addressed to my mother.

“Ann, I can’t take much more. I don’t know what else to tell you. I have nothing. I need more. I’m sorry. Charlie.”

Mom had shown me a photocopy of the note. The police officer had told her the original had to be held as evidence. So strange, I thought then, as if there’d been a crime.

Now I see my uncle here, in his apartment, picking up the pen and tearing a piece of paper from the notebook. He writes quickly and stuffs the note into his pocket.  He walks to the door and puts on his jacket and hat. When he leaves the apartment, he closes the door very quietly.

He climbs the stairs to the roof. He steps outside. It is cold and clear, and he can hear the morning traffic. He looks around, realizing he has to climb over the chain-link fence that surrounds him. He forgot his gloves and his fingers are cold, but he makes it over. He’s standing on the wall of the roof now. He takes his time. He sits down. He checks his pocket. The note is there. He leans to one side, onto his elbow, and rolls off.  He reaches out, fast and hard, and tears a window screen as he falls.

No crime. With Frank, too. They just wanted to be gone. The crime was ours. The crime was mine. I had let him go.

            I put on my coat, grabbed the book, and left Charlie’s apartment, slamming the door behind me. I walked and walked.

It’s Monday night, eight years ago. I’m in Frank’s room. He hands me another marble notebook and tells me to keep it safe. He tells me his parents think he is crazy. “They think I’m sick,” he says. “Do you?” he asks me.

You don’t sleep anymore; you tell me your stories are real, that the monsters talk to you. You are changing. I want to scream at him to stop. Instead, all I say is, “No. I think you’re okay.”

Then he tells me his plan. I tell myself it is just another one of his stories.

            I walked past the grocery store, the post office, the elementary school. I was headed to the train station. I can’t take much more, I thought. Of a job I hated. Of being lonely. Of being angry. Of feeling guilty. Of being afraid.

My mind told me to jump off a roof. Jump in front of a speeding train.

Change your mind.

Turn around. Go home. Go to your room. Read the book. Finish it for Charlie. Fall asleep. In the morning, sit on your bed with a pen and a notebook and write. Write it all down. And then go to your closet and pack up the marble notebooks. Mrs. Nunez needs them. Maybe she will forgive you.



BIO

Vicki Addesso has worked in various fields over the years, and in between family life and paying the bills, she works at writing.

She is co-author of the collaborative memoir Still Here Thinking of You~A Second Chance With Our Mothers (Big Table Publishing, 2013). Her work has appeared in such publications as The Writing Disorder, Gravel Magazine, Barren Magazine, The Writer, The Bluebird Word, Sleet Magazine, Dorothy Parker’s Ashes, The Feminine Collective, and Tweetspeak Poetry. Her short story, Cinnamon and Me (Sleet Magazine), was nominated for a 2023 Pushcart Prize. She has a personal essay included in the anthology My Body My Words, edited by Loren Kleinman and Amye Archer.







Influencing Henry

by Lesley Morrison


My neighbor Henry ran a small farm. He grew spring wheat, barley and alfalfa on 300 acres along the edge of a fertile valley in Northeast Washington. His father, Angus, who had run the farm before him, was still living in the original farm house his father had built, but when Angus was taken out of commission by a hip replacement and then a long bout of pneumonia, Henry took over the day-to-day operations. It was now Henry who drove the tractor around the fields, dragging various implements behind it to till the soil or plant the seed, Henry who wrote checks for fertilizer and herbicides to the farm supply store, hired local boys to buck the bales, or tinkered with the combine’s hydraulics under his father’s watchful eye.

Henry liked to shoot the shit, as it was referred to, in the evenings after the tractor had been parked under the canopy next to the combine. He’d built a large board veranda off an old milk barn, one of the original farm buildings he’d converted into a home for himself, and when farming season began, some of the neighbors, mostly farmers from the same valley, would drop over in the evenings to sit on the veranda with a view over their valley. The lack of feminine order along with little regard for late hours or occasional over-indulgence made his place a popular gathering spot for the men after a day of work. They filtered in, each heralded by a cloud of dust as they parked a pickup truck in the dirt driveway and climbed out, a farm dog or two padding at their heels. With the persistent background of crickets and strains from a classic rock radio station filtering out through an open window, cheap cans of beer were cracked open, joints were passed around and the shit-shooting ensued.

It was dusk, one of the first warm April evenings of the year. I could already hear distant voices and laughter floating across the field in the still air as I walked down the road that separated my small property from Henry’s, the flanking pines dark sentinels against the fading light. Angus, Henry’s father, walked towards me from his house that sat further down the road, both of us drawn by the promise of companionship and libation. I raised my hand to him, and we met at the top of Henry’s driveway and walked down together.

It had been over a year and I still felt a little unsure of my place in this close circle of like-minded men, what with my university degree and lack of experience in some real-life occupation such as farming. I had replaced my most casual slacks with denim after some ribbing from the group. I soon realized that my opinions, although listened to politely, were not taken seriously, so I sat back and listened, allowing myself a few contributory comments or jokes in support of the general conversation.

It helped that Henry and Angus and I were naturally bonded by our bachelor status; my move into the old place up the road had been precipitated by my wife divorcing me, while Angus’s wife and Henry’s mother, Loretta, had died some years back, and Henry had never married.

Several friends had already arrived, Ernie and Glen, who fit the red-faced, buzz-pated, belt-buckled and cowboy-booted local stereotype, plus Reed, a diminutive hippie with a shock of grey-blond dreadlocks. He had come up from California to farm, and was always well-supplied with good weed. Angus and Henry had their own unconventional look; they wore the boots, but had high foreheads with hair swept back in a regal manner, Angus’s grey and thinning and Henry’s longer, with the grey just beginning. In Angus, I could see the man Henry would eventually become, and in Henry, Angus as a younger man. Both had a skull-like bone structure where the nose and chin and cheekbones appeared to slowly grow larger, rather than the flesh receding.

Someone had put a couple of six packs on the table and I wrested a beer from the plastic webbing and handed it to Angus, then took one for myself and settled into a deck chair, while Reed absentmindedly offered Angus a soggy looking joint, to which Angus, as always, shook his head. He tolerated the addition of marijuana along with the beer or occasional bottle of whiskey, but it was a bridge too far for him to partake at his age.

 Reed extended the joint in the other direction and Henry took it, managing to hold on to it without seeming to notice he had taken several inhalations before passing it on. As scion to one of the original local farming families, lately deposing his father, Henry regarded his own position amongst the group with the importance it merited, never with condescension, but rather an air of benevolence.

Ernie was in the middle of a story of personal oppression; his wife had thrown a shoe at him earlier, something that had apparently astonished him, as he kept repeating it incredulously. When the joint was his, he took a huge drag and then exhaled with a loud sigh and settled back, darting a hurt look at Angus, who had taken the opportunity to change the subject while he was incapable of speech.

“Supposed to be a good rain this weekend,” said Angus, which was a signal towards a discussion about planting times.

This was an oft-returned-to topic, and like all of their favorite discussions, the conversation followed a well-worn track. At this point I knew the answers as well as the rest of them.

“That there’s the trick, getting in the seed before a good rain,” offered Reed, starting them off.

“A good soaker,” said Angus, “That soil needs to be saturated.” 

“But not too much rain, a’course,” added Ernie, “You don’t want to flood them seeds out.”

“It’s all in the timing,” pronounced Henry. “They got to have a good hold with the roots, and down deep enough to withstand a dry spell.”

Each point was brought up with slow relish and nodded over sagaciously, when the sight of the rising moon, gibbous waxing, brought to my mind a line from a book I’d read long ago.

“People used to plant by the moon phases years back,” I said, as a break in the conversation occurred, “before satellite weather forecasting.”

The group, who had a scornful view of college learnin’, as they called it, and most things government-run, with exceptions for farm grants or subsidies, took immediate interest, eager to hear this insight from the good old days, and I found myself with a captive audience for perhaps the first time.

“This was from a book that was written about life in the late 1800s, and it had a farmer saying he liked to get his crops in before the new moon,” I told them. They ruminated over this with nods and thoughtful grunts at first, then began the airing of opinions.

All were happy to give the idea their full attention, except perhaps Angus, who grew cooler towards it the more that Henry showed interest, probably due to a long-going contention between them over farming methods. When Angus was too unwell to run the farm, Henry had seen his chance and insisted that if he was to take over, he wanted to run things his own way, and Angus was forced to agree. To Angus’s dismay, Henry, one year in, was already dabbling in organic farming, encouraged by Reed’s enthusiastic stories of extra profits, so Angus was very sensitive to any further siren song that might fall on his son’s ears.

“Well, I might have heard of that,” mused Glen. “If I did, it had to be from my granddad.”

“If I’d-a heard of it,” said Ernie, “It would have been from old man Johnson; he had a lot of stories from their family farm back in Wisconsin.”

After each had taken a turn in reflecting where they might have heard of it, if they had heard of it at all, Angus, clearly getting annoyed, retorted, “If it was all that great, everybody would have been passing it down. I sure never heard of it.”

I decided to play devil’s advocate to see if I could draw the conversation out a while longer, as I was gratified to have introduced such an engrossing topic.

“You’re discounting the influence of chemical fertilizers in the 20th century, especially after WWII, when they really needed to increase food productivity.”

This got a wary affirmation from Angus, a devout disciple of the chemical manufacturers, although he was suspicious of my direction.

“The government had a big operation to manufacture ammonium nitrate for explosives, and those facilities were still in place. They knew it could be used as fertilizer, so there was a big push for the farmers to use this method.”

Except for Angus, none of them had been around at that time. However, the chemical was familiar to them, if not its origins, so they were still nodding, but I could sense that their patience with being educated was flagging.

“Also, since the gravity from the moon influences the tides, it’s obviously a powerful force. Maybe it has some effect on the water table or something like that.”

They were starting to look restless, so I quickly wrapped up, hoping I hadn’t overplayed my hand.

“With the advantage of hindsight, we can choose from the best of the old and new farming methods. Just something to think about.” I shrugged, disqualifying myself from any sort of endorsement.

Regardless, the bit about the moon had hit home with Henry. In a burst of inspiration, and possibly equating visibility with available mass, he hazarded, “Well, as the moon grows to full it can sort of pull…” here he rose to his feet and raised his arms expressively… “the sprouts up out of the ground with gravity!”

Henry’s declaration, along with the general impairment of his audience, was pithy enough to draw appreciation and even some applause, and that, along with his father’s obvious disapproval, convinced Henry that he wanted to try it. Although he had intended to plant the following day in time for the rainfall predicted over the weekend, he at once began talking through the logistics, and the conversation shifted to speculations about the next new moon, which eventually, with some laborious mental computations and counting on fingers, was pronounced by Ernie to be in two weeks, give or take.

Here is a good place to note that these repeated conversations had also taught me the risks of not planting at the right time. If you don’t get the seeds in during a fairly narrow range in April, soil temperature and weather permitting, you are much more dependent on the weather during harvest time – the wheat needs a stretch of hot dry days in August to ripen properly. You can’t harvest wheat that is not fully ripe and dry as it will mold in the granary. If you can get it in the ground early enough, the chance of it completing its full growth cycle before August, when the best harvest weather typically occurs, is greatest. Otherwise, you might find yourself in September, when that stretch of hot dry days with no moisture is less likely.

Angus was visibly unhappy with the new plan. He sometimes visited me in the mornings for coffee, and he showed up every morning for the next two weeks, growing more and more agitated each day over Henry’s inaction until he was practically wringing his hands. “There’s two important times in the year when it comes to farming,” he told me daily, “And that’s the planting and the harvest.”

He tried, but all his efforts to change Henry’s course were in vain. He could look uncomfortable, he could make suggestions, but he couldn’t make demands anymore.

Watching Angus’s discomfort had begun to instill twinges of guilt in me, and at the next shoot-the-shit session I hastened to say that even the character in the book had said this was just a superstition, and I couldn’t guarantee any rational reason or effect. But Henry had adopted the method so passionately that nothing could dissuade him.

The soaking rain came and went, and the moon blossomed to full and then shrank night by night until it was gone. Henry was ready. He planted his wheat before the new sliver of moon appeared and worked on adapting his other planting. He had a calendar with the phases of the moon pinned up on his wall. He started quoting the minimal forecast information in the Old Farmer’s Almanac, an annual magazine of former renown amongst its readers that had slowly lost its sway and shrunk to a slim pamphlet, full of advertising and trite generalizations. Henry had gone full-on prior century, and sang the praises of this natural, back-to-nature approach with many recriminations about modern scientific-based methods during the shoot-the-shit sessions until most of his audience, who had sensibly stuck to their current practices, started to drop off.

It rained off and on, but the wheat wasn’t where it should have been in May, and then in June there was a stretch of hot weather that dried the fields out too early, but Henry was obstinately optimistic. “It’ll turn around on the other end,” he swore, “I’ll have the best crops in the valley when it’s all said and done.”

Of course he lost the crop. It never did fully develop and withered in the field. His alfalfa yield that year was a few scattered bales. Even in the face of this obvious debacle Henry clung like a limpet to his new approach. He was stubborn that way, some would say pig-headed. He was certain it would eventually pay off, or so he told us. But things never went quite right after that disastrous season and it’s hard to keep up payments and put money back into new parts and equipment when that annual paycheck isn’t there.

Angus died several years later with the farm he’d built into a profitable enterprise much diminished, and Henry followed him a year after that with a sudden onset of lung cancer, possibly from early exposure to herbicides. The farm went back to the bank, and I ended up buying some of the adjacent acreage and equipment at a reduced sum and starting a Christmas tree farm, an idea that had come up at one of the shoot-the-shit sessions.

A few years after Henry had passed away, I was going through some old cartons I’d never unpacked and discovered the book I’d been thinking of that night on the porch long ago. I thumbed through the yellowed pages and found the passage. I read: “I was determined to get my crops in before the full of the moon… superstitious I know, but still…”

Later, as I stood gazing out my kitchen window across my field that had once belonged to Henry, I felt a heightening of the undercurrent of guilt that I had never quite been able to put behind me. But for my misquote, Henry would have noted the alignment with his intended planting time and then probably forgotten all about it.

However, as they were fond of saying in that valley, it was an ill wind that blew nobody no good, and the sight of tidy rows of spruce and fir in various stages of growth mollified me to some extent, as did the sheaf of contracts on the table with several local and city tree lots for the coming holiday season.



BIO

Lesley Morrison dabbles in speculative short fiction, experimenting with different genres and voices. Her most recent story was published in an anthology titled These Dark Things, from Briar Press NY, in October, 2024. She has published stories in Luna Station Quarterly, Pif Magazine, horror anthology From the Yonder II, The New School’s DIAL magazine in NYC, and Canadian magazines TransVersions and On Spec. She recently fled NYC for Oahu. You can connect with her at https://lesleymorrisonspeculates.com.







Sam the Fishing Dog

by Jeff Hazlett


Henry Weaver and his dog Milo lived at the end of Chestnut Street on the western edge of Augustana.

            Their one-story home was small and simple, built in the prairie style with a low-pitched roof and broad, overhanging eaves to blend into the surroundings. It sat modestly among the dwarf apple trees and flowering shrubbery that dotted the front and side yards.

            Yet Henry always felt his home to be embarrassingly extravagant. The stone fireplace and hand-carved surround belonged in a castle, he thought, and the leaded glass window in the front door, with its intricate design of tulips and daylilies and wildflowers, in a cathedral. He admired the built-in cherry bookcases that covered one wall of the main living area, but he didn’t own any books. Not one. The shelves, instead, held framed photos of each of his dogs since the very first, since Sam.

            On this late-winter morning, the sun steadily climbing through a clear blue sky that held only the whisps of a cloud, Henry sat in his kitchen drinking coffee, checking his watch and looking out the back window across the familiar field of undisturbed prairie grass and to the Three Sister Hills in the distance. Milo laid sleeping underneath the kitchen table.

            “Missy has a little snow on her,” Henry said. “Reaching just into the treeline.”

            Milo’s left eye twitched; otherwise, he didn’t move.

            “It’s been a dry winter. But you never know. Something might be coming.”

            Henry checked his watch again – ten o’clock.

            “It’s time,” he said.

            He rinsed his coffee cup, left it in the sink and took Milo’s leash down off its peg. The soft leather uncoiled, the metal clip at the end tapped lightly on the floor. Milo came out from under the table, shook himself awake and stood expectantly.

            “I’m sure it’s okay if I bring you,” said Henry. “I mean, I didn’t check or ask or anything. But I’m sure it’s okay. You’re a good dog.”

            Of all the dogs Henry had ever owned, Milo reminded him the most of Sam. It wasn’t just Milo’s similar heritage – part bloodhound, part bluetick coonhound and part something else entirely – or his quiet steps and easy manner. They just understood each other, the way he and Sam used to.

#

Henry stepped from his front door with Milo at his side and started the familiar walk toward the center of town. He followed Chestnut Street to Seventh Avenue and turned north.

            He patted his pants pockets as he walked. Did he have his wallet in his back right pocket? Yes. His house keys in his front right pocket? Yes. His comb and handkerchief in his back left? Yes. And in his front left, yes, his 1876 silver half-dollar with its mysterious bullet hole.

            “I could talk about my lucky coin,” said Henry. “Yes. I could make something up about that. About where and when it came to be shot and by whom. Whom, right? Whom, not who?”

            Milo didn’t seem to have an opinion.

            “Yes, that might be a nice story. Kids might like that. Fun and adventure. But then, no, no, maybe not. Guns and bullets. That might not go.”

            A cool breeze from the west pushed a few dead leaves and an empty paper bag across Seventh Avenue. Henry heard a window slide shut in one of the houses to his right. The wind rushed through again, feeling just a bit wet.

            “Maybe I should have grabbed a jacket before we left,” Henry said to Milo. “The weather might be turning.”

            He had dressed lightly in a pair of gray cotton work pants and a short-sleeved cotton shirt with a blue-gray plaid pattern; the top of a white crewneck t-shirt peeked out from underneath the unbuttoned collar. His dark brown shoes were clean and polished.

            At Sprague Street, he and Milo headed east again. Augustana Elementary was just a few blocks ahead, shielded from view by the copse of black walnut trees on the schoolgrounds.

            A squirrel darted across their path on Sprague and stopped a few feet from a barren maple tree in one of the yards; it rooted into the brown grass, stopped to glance at Milo, then rooted again more diligently.

            Henry gripped the handle of the leash a bit tighter as they walked. Milo looked toward the squirrel but made no move to chase it. He snorted and turned his gaze back to the sidewalk and the coming intersection.

            “You know,” said Henry, “it wouldn’t hurt you to bark or try to chase a squirrel here and there. You don’t want people to start thinking you’re stuck up or something. Or maybe you are a bit stuck up. Maybe you think you should be living among the presidents. They say Jefferson was a bit stuck up. Or Washington. They say he was kind of a prude. But then, no, you’re not a prude, I guess. At least not when you get a chance at Miss Emerson’s goldendoodle. What’s her name? Honey? Don’t know what you see in her. She shows absolutely no enthusiasm for you. Talk about stuck up.”

            They crossed Twelfth Avenue and as Henry stepped up the curb to the sidewalk his left knee buckled slightly. He felt no pain, only a familiar wariness that reminded him to step up with his right leg whenever he could. He felt thankful that the first grade class at Augustana Elementary was on the ground floor.

#

Mid-morning, the kids were outside on the playground, boisterous and intense at their games. None of them were bundled in spite of the season; the bright sunlight kept them warm.

            Inside the school’s foyer, Henry stopped for a moment. The familiar bulletin boards and display cases held important-looking notices and, in a long row along the right hand wall, a string of drawings, some in crayon, some in color pencil, some in watercolor.

            “Look, Milo,” said Henry. “One of the kids has drawn a yellow lab, like your friend Trixie, but, no, wait. I didn’t see the wings. So maybe this is, uh . . . hmmm.”

            The first grade classroom was at the end of the hallway to the right, he knew. On the way, Henry stopped outside the steel double-doors that led to the school’s kitchen, careful to stay far enough back so that a sudden swing of a door wouldn’t catch him or Milo by surprise. The clang and clatter of metal trays resonated into the hallway. Henry heard someone from inside the kitchen barking orders. “You’ve got to spray those trays first,” she called. “And get those other trays into the warming cabinets. No kid gets a soggy fish stick from this kitchen.”

            “Fish sticks,” said Henry. “There we go, Milo. Yes, fish sticks.”

            Milo’s left eye closed and he dipped his head slightly to aim his right eye at the crack between the doors. He sniffed once, twice, three times and then let out a low, trilling growl that settled into a gentle kitteny purr.

            “Mr. Weaver!” A voice called from further down the hallway. “Henry, hello.” It was Mrs. Baker, the first grade teacher, outside her classroom, shining like the coming spring in a flared green skirt and a flowing, flowery top of purple and yellow and blue. Mrs. Baker had moved to Augustana from the state capital just a few years earlier, when she was Miss Helen Atchison and fresh out of teachers college. Not long after and to everyone’s delight, she met and married young Roger Baker, whose family owned the local mortuary. Everyone liked the match: the lively bride, beloved by her students, softened the handsome yet always-too-serious groom. More than five hundred people showed up for the dance after the wedding reception, packing the high school gymnasium well into the night, and no one danced lighter or stayed longer than the school board members who felt that the wedding vows no doubt sealed a lifelong commitment to the children of Augustana from their new first-grade teacher.

            Henry and Milo walked down the hall to greet her. Milo kept to Henry’s side but glanced back over his shoulder more than once to the steel double-doors.

            “I hope it’s okay,” said Henry, motioning to Milo. “He’s never been to school. And I thought the kids might like him.”

            Mrs. Baker glanced at Milo and then to Henry and then to Milo again.

            “It wouldn’t be Augustana without a dog in the classroom,” she said finally. “But let’s get you two out of the hallway. I’ve got your spot set up.”

            Inside the classroom, Mrs. Baker motioned Henry to a wide, solitary wingback chair with a deep, curved barrel-back and upholstered in a rich dark-brown leather. The chair, by itself, would seem out of place in the classroom; but, set as it was on a thick gray rug and accompanied by a side table and floor lamp, it provided just the right bit of staging for story hour. This is where all the storytellers sat – on the wingback chair, against the far wall and its row of low, full bookcases running underneath the tall windows that looked out onto the playground.

            Mrs. Baker pulled the black shades down on the two windows behind Henry and turned on the floor lamp; her preparations were nearly complete.

            In front of the chair, the floor was open. There, Henry knew, the first-graders would sit and listen and laugh and groan and interrupt and poke at each other and then poke at him with questions – oh so smart questions and silly questions and questions from the furthest reaches of their minds that they could barely put into words, as they pondered the story he’d tell and try to find a place for it within their nascent understanding of the world.

            Mrs. Baker unstacked the books on the small side table and set them out in an array, so that Henry could see the various covers and titles.

            “A lot of our guests for story hour let the children choose from their favorites,” she said. “You know you’re always free to read a story if you like. Last week, Miss Emerson read The Dragon’s Missing Tooth. She did a wonderful job voicing out all the characters.”

            Henry really didn’t want to hear anything about Miss Emerson. The week before she’d also turned a hose on Milo, which seemed so unjust. So he had a thing for Honey. He was just being a dog.

            Henry settled into his chair and patted one of the books on the table as if considering his options. He unclipped the leash from Milo’s collar and his companion settled himself comfortably on the rug.

            A gust of wind came in through an open window near the front of the classroom, rustling papers and rolling pencils off desks. Mrs. Baker pulled the window shut and pulled down the remaining window shades as well. The school bell rang, sending its call outside and up and down the hallways.

#

The first-graders streamed into the classroom, their faces flush and their voices still calling loudly to each other. One young boy clung to a kickball, even when he sat down on the floor in front of Henry. A young girl with a ponytail and a purple sweatshirt sat down next to him.

            “Bobby and Anna!” teased a nearby classmate.

            “Anna and Bobby!” echoed another.

            Henry counted the kids around the room. If his memory served, Mrs. Baker had twenty kids the year before and now, this year, just sixteen. All so tiny and new, thought Henry. And one, he noticed, who set himself just a little bit apart and off to the side. His nice yellow sweater was embroidered with the name Jeffrey.

            The kids jostled each other as they sat on the floor in front of him, but the rowdiness and buzz of the playground disappeared instantly when Milo sat up. The kids turned to look at Mrs. Baker and then back to Milo and then back to Mrs. Baker again.

            “Mrs. Baker,” said one little girl. “There’s a dog.”

            “Just for today,” said Mrs. Baker. “And just for story hour.”

            An excitement swept over the kids, as if they’d just been told they were having cake and ice cream for lunch. A few gently whistled; a few patted the floor in front of them with their hands, coaxing quietly, “Here, boy.” For his part, Milo stood, his tail wagging but only modestly. He did not rush forward to play; instead, he laid back down on the rug.

            Henry sighed and considered his companion. Perhaps it’s true, he thought, dogs really do take after their owners. And Milo takes after me too much. He’s just three years old, but he behaves like an old man, not barking or chasing or playing, just being there, observing, from a chair, from a spot on the sofa, from a spot on the floor.

            Mrs. Baker stepped next to Henry and put a hand on his shoulder.

            “Class, this is Mr. Henry Weaver,” she said. “Mr. Weaver grew up in Augustana, just like you. He still lives in the house where he grew up – right, Henry? A cute little house at the end of Chestnut Street. He visits my first-grade class once a year and always tells a fantastical story. All of my other classes have loved him, and I know you will, too.”

            Henry smiled to the class as Mrs. Baker moved to the light switch near the classroom door.

            “How old are you?” asked one boy, fidgeting and fussing with his shoelaces.

            “How old am I?” asked Henry. “I’m seven dogs old. That’s how old I am. And that’s saying something, let me tell you.”

            “You look like a baby,” said a girl near the front.

            The children giggled.

            “You look like my baby brother Arlie,” said another girl. “Your head is all shiny and your face is all smooth and round and your cheeks are all red.”

            Henry had heard this before – many times, though never in such scrupulous detail. He could barely visit the barbershop or the diner or the grocery store without someone, somewhere on the scene, commenting, “I hope I look as good as you when I’m your age.” He was, he knew, baby-faced. He didn’t mind.

            “Did you go to school here?” the first girl asked.

            “Was Mrs. Baker your teacher?” asked Arlie’s older sister.

            “Oh, no,” said Henry. “When I was your age, this school wasn’t even built yet. The elementary school back then was a lot smaller, over on Monroe, and my teacher’s name was Mrs. Ortega. She was a short gal, kind of hefty, not pretty at all, looked like a man in a dress. She had hairy legs and a twin brother named George. And I remember she had a thing for smoking cigars.”

            Mrs. Baker coughed loudly and Henry noticed her head shaking no – shaking no, no, no.

            “But today,” said Henry, “I was thinking maybe I’d tell you a story about a dog, about my first dog, the one I had when I was your age, my dog Sam. We used to have so much fun together and get into all sorts of adventures, just by accident, it seemed. That is, if you like dogs and it seems that you do.

            “Sam looked a lot like Milo here. He had short hair, all gray and black speckled like Milo. And he was real, real smart. So smart. Smarter than me.

            “But the interesting thing about Sam, the thing that made him unlike any other dog I’ve ever owned, was that Sam was a fishing dog.”

            Henry waited for a reaction.

            The ponytailed girl named Anna raised her hand. “A fishing dog?”

            A few others chimed in. “What’s a fishing dog?”

            “Well,” said Henry, “a fishing dog has a sharp eye and a keen nose. He can see things and smell things that people can’t and regular dogs can’t either. He can help you find the best fishing spot and help you choose just the right bait, too. He can help carry your gear or your catch and if he’s been trained right – and, oh, Sam was such an educated fishing dog – he could help you clean and prepare your catch and even start a campfire.”

            The kids looked at each other. This was a lot of new information. Some glanced back at Mrs. Baker, but she maintained a steady gaze on Henry.

            “My goodness, Henry,” she said. “Sam must have been such a special dog. And you loved him so, too. I can tell.”

            A gust of wind pushed against the windows, and with a stronger gust the widows rattled in their frames.

            Mrs. Baker dimmed the classroom lights, leaving Henry in his chair and Milo on the rug under the solitary glow of the floor lamp. Henry began in his usual way:

From the Three Sister Hills,

Missy, Mandy and Mabel.

Down the Whispering Stream,

Past the Stone Creek church gable.

A white winter storm,

A fierce grizzly bear.

With just a few words,

You’ll find yourselves there.

So sit close together,

As close as can be,

And listen . . . listen to me.

#

It was a Saturday morning. Yes, a Saturday morning. What other morning could it be? Everyone knows the greatest adventures begin on a Saturday morning.

            I was just a little fellow, a first-grader, so many years and years and years ago, and it was the middle of a Saturday morning in late winter and I was just sitting on my bed at home with nothing to do.

            And then I heard my dog Sam.

            Short little barks. Low little growls. He was barking to himself. Growling to himself. Like people do sometimes, talking and muttering under their breath.

            Sam was dragging something down the hallway toward my room. It got snagged on the rug. Ruff! It got caught on a chair leg. Grrrr!

            Then there he was. He had hold of both of our wicker creels by their straps and he dropped them, finally, at the foot of my bed.

            Sam wanted to go fishing.

            Part of me thought this was silly. It was still winter! Part of me thought it was too late to get started. It was already ten in the morning! But another part of me knew that Sam was a fishing dog and not just any fishing dog but the world’s greatest fishing dog. And, if Sam said there were fish to be caught, well, Sam was never wrong.

            So I changed into my jeans, put on some thicker socks and pulled on a warm, hooded sweatshirt. I stepped into my brown boots and tied the corded laces tight.

            I strapped the two creels across Sam’s back, almost like a saddle. Empty, they’d be no burden to him, but if we had the kind of luck Sam seemed to be expecting, they’d soon be packed tight with cutthroat trout and then I’d have to carry them myself on the way home. And that would be okay. That would be wonderful.

            Then I threw on my pack jacket, grabbled our tackle kit and my best rod and spinner and the two of us together rushed out the door. Rushed. Raced. Ran. In such a hurry that we forgot to pack any lunch at all. Not even a cracker or a cookie.

#

Sam got ahead of me. Across the yard out back and down the trail to our usual spot. Mulberry Pond. In the woodlands off from Stone Creek.

            The trail was muddy and I had to go around in a few spots, trudging off into the taller fescue and prairie grass. But when I got to the pond I didn’t see Sam. Just the dark pond, covered in shade from the surrounding Mulberry trees and quiet. Our spot’s no good, I thought. Not today, anyway. And good spots from the bank are hard to find. Where’s Sam going?

            Then I heard Sam bark; he was waiting for me, not far, climbing, up Stone Creek and toward the Whispering Stream. I trudged on.

            As the woodlands cleared, I could see the Three Sister Hills off in the distance. Missy and Mandy both had snow on their tops, reaching down to the treeline. Maybe Mabel, too, but some hilltop cloud cover kept me from knowing.

            Sam kept barking and I kept following. We were reaching the mouth of Stone Creek and approaching the more rapid waters of the Whispering Stream. We had never gone this far before, and I thought I felt the wind turn wet, as if a winter storm might be coming.

            I stopped and called for Sam to come back.

            He barked.

            I called.

            He barked.

            I called.

            Finally, with great exasperation, he came back to find me sitting on the ground off from the juncture of the creek and stream.

            He sat and stared at me and seemed to roll his eyes as if to say, What in the world am I to do with such a boy? A boy who won’t come when I bark?

#

And so we went on, Sam leading and me following. The ground got steeper. The stream narrower. The water faster and louder.

            We climbed and climbed and climbed.  To spots I’d never seen before. To trees Sam had never peed on before. And that’s saying something, let me tell you.

            I lost my sense of the Three Sisters. I no longer knew which hill we climbed – maybe Missy to the north, maybe Mabel to the south or maybe Mandy, the middle sister. I only knew the ground under my feet and the trail that led up and up – covered here and there with leaves and pine needles, marked here and there by loose stones, crossed here and there by an exposed root from a nearby tree.

            And then a sharp bend in the stream; it turned away from us and I saw, behind a huge boulder, a small eddy where the water swirled and overflowed and chased down a curve in the ground to our left.

            This couldn’t be it, I thought. This little eddy. This tiny bit of water. It would be way too small, way too cold, too close to the trees, always shaded.

            I looked at Sam and, as if reading my mind, he snorted.

            In a bit of a huff, he stomped off to the side now, away from the stream, barking for me to follow.

            Then just a few paces further I saw it, where the water fed off from the eddy and created a large backwater pond, on a level bit of ground, clear and beautiful and exposed to the sunlight from edge to edge. I saw in the middle of the water a steady, gentle run flowing from the eddy back to the rocky hillside where it hit and then split off left and right to push shallow little riffles back along the edges of the pond.

            Sam stood on the bank of the pond, his head lowered, his left eye closed, his right eye targeted on the water. He let out this low, little, trilling growl . . . grrrrrr . . . that turned into the gentlest little purrrrrrr . . . softer than you ever heard from any cat or kitten. This is how he let me know, this is how he always let me know, that we’d found our spot.

            I stepped next to him, and Sam sat down, looking out onto the water. He was, I could tell, quite satisfied with himself and I patted the back of his neck and rubbed his shoulders.

            “I see it now,” I told him. “I see why you hurried to get here.”

            The sun was high, the pond lit. What fish it held, we would soon find out.

            I grabbed my tackle kit and looked for my favorite lures.

            Jumper – a giant cicada with a shiny brown head and orange body and giant see-through wings. The wings would stay tight to the body on the water but if you tugged on the line a bit the wings would open like it was going to fly off. Real eye-catching for a trout or a bass. I thought the still water of this backwater pond would be perfect to really work it.

            Or maybe Spitter, a grasshopper lure that I liked. If I worked the line just right it would pop and dance across the pond and even spit water out of its mouth.

            When I grabbed for Jumper, Sam howled. A long, awful howl. And then another that cried into the hillside. “Oh, in the name of all my lost toys and long-forgotten buried bones,” his howl declared. “Do I have to teach this boy everything?”

            He came over and put his paw on my hand and then he rummaged through my kit with his nose and grabbed a neatly arranged sheet of nymphs and mayflies and stoneflies and midges and scuds and worms and sculpins.

            I didn’t understand at first, but then I got it.

            He wanted me to do some bottom bouncing. Tricky. And I could lose some leaders and lures that way. But I wasn’t going to argue. Not with Sam.

            When I got older, I would learn all the keys to winter fishing that Sam already knew – that the fish weren’t going to jump to the surface and chase Jumper or Spitter. They weren’t going to rise and chase any surface lure at all. They were feeding on nymphs and minnows and crayfish or whatever else they could find along the bottom. In winter, they were nesting, almost hibernating like a bear. Even in the warm, sunlit waters, they’d maybe dart six inches or a foot for a meal. But no more than that.

            So I took a nymph lure – a hare’s ear, all gold colored beads and wire wraps. It would sink. And it was a chameleon; it could look like any kind of bug to a fish, any kind at all.

            I looked for where the sun hit the water, where the fish might congregate. From the bank, I cast my line and I must have spun it out forty feet or more and I slowly worked the rod and the spinner to bounce the lure back towards me and sometimes a little left and sometimes a little right.

            A strike! I pulled back hard on the line. But I felt nothing. Did I miss? No! He had the lure and had turned toward me. I waited for him to turn away, and when I felt the tension in the line I pulled back hard. My rod bowed. I had him! Sam let out a yelp.

            What a fight! I held the line and let him struggle and, when he turned towards me on the bank, I reeled in as much line as I could. When he turned back out to the middle, I held again, all the time worrying that my line might break. Holding and reeling, holding and reeling, I brought him in. Our first catch – a cutthroat trout with the bright red stripes below his jawline. Into the wicker creel.

            And then I saw the pond churning, clearer than ever, thick with fish. We could have dipped them out with a fishing net, but where would the sport have been in that?

            “My goodness, Sam!” I called out. “What a spot!”

            I reeled in cutthroat trout, rainbow trout, brown trout and, when I switched to a worm lure, six straight mountain whitefish – small but still good eating.

            Our two creels were overflowing when Sam grabbed my coat sleeve to keep me from making another cast.

            “Sam,” I said. “You’re all white!”

            I hadn’t noticed the quickening snow, falling thick and growing on the banks of the pond, on Sam and on me. Sam shook himself free of his snowy coat, and I noticed the hood of my sweatshirt, hanging  heavy and wet down the back of my pack jacket. It’s funny, sometimes, how things can sneak up on you and leave you wondering . . . just leave you wondering.

            Sam tugged again at my coat sleeve, just a gentle tug. Then he nudged me in my legs with his nose, nudged me with some urgency away from the pond and back up the bank.

            “You’re right,” I said. “It’s time to go.”

            We were tired and hungry, and it showed when I cut my lure from my line and dropped it in my kit instead of untying and cleaning it first. I picked up handfuls of the new snow and packed our catch tightly into the creels for the walk home.

            I heard a tiny growl. And a second.

            “Is that you or me, Sam?” I asked. “I know I’m hungry.”

            Sam tugged at my sleeve again, harder this time.

            Then I heard the tiny growls again. Not my stomach. Not Sam’s either. From the direction of the eddy. First one. Then the other. Back and forth they went. And then the growl that filled my ears and shook my bones. Louder, deeper, tripping toward angry and coming closer.

            “Grrrrrarrrhhhhh!”

            Sam let go of my sleeve. We stood there. Quiet. Unmoving. Staring each other in the eye. I turned my head just enough to look back towards the eddy. Just over the rise, I knew, they were coming – a momma grizzly and two cubs, out from their den early this season and without a doubt hungry.

As quietly as I could, I grabbed my gear and the two creels crammed with our catch. But where to go?

Sam tugged again at my coat sleeve. He didn’t bark or whimper or make a sound. He just tugged. Away from the eddy, away from the backwater pond, and up the hill. So we climbed.

Up and up and up.

Did the bears see us? Hear us? Smell us?

We climbed up the trail. Up and up. We climbed until I thought we were in the clouds. But no, not the clouds. Snow, thick in the air, and blowing down from the hilltop.

We wanted to run but the hill grew too steep, the trail too slick. With each step we struggled against the hill, against the wind and against our fear.

We heard the grizzly growl again.

“Grrrrrarrrhhhhh!”

She’d found our spot on the bank of the backwater pond.

#

Finally we reached level ground and a small clearing – and at the back, set against the rise of the hill, a cabin with a log frame, finished sides and a simple shed roof sloping from back to front.

            We rushed for it and didn’t bother to knock. The heavy door resisted us at first but unlocked and unlatched it finally gave way. We scrambled inside and pushed the door shut. I saw steel brackets set in the doorframe and, leaning against the wall, a stout wooden bar. I placed the bar across the door and let it fall into the brackets. A heavy bar lock for a heavy door. More, really, than we could have hoped for.

            Sam and I sat on the floor and caught our breath and stayed as quiet as we could as we turned our eyes to our new surroundings.

            The cabin was one large room with a couple of cots, a table and chairs and against one of the side walls a number of wooden barrels of different sizes. A row of large cupboards ran across the back wall. In one of the back corners, an antique copper washtub held firewood and kindling. In front of the cupboards sat a prominent cast iron stove with a black flu climbing up through the ceiling.

            “Sam,” I whispered. “Where are we? Is this somebody’s home?”

            Then I noticed on the floor one of my creels, unclasped and lying open. The six little whitefish I caught . . . all gone. They’d fallen out, somewhere outside, somewhere on the trail.

            “Sam. The whitefish.”

            I worried that I’d left a trail of appetizers from the pond to the cabin. Grabbed by the momma grizzly, “Mmmmmm, yes, please and thank you.” Snatched up by the cubs, “Mmmmmm, please, sir – may we have another?”

            A heavy blow against the door proved my worries true and brought us both to our feet. With a second blow, we were both howling and crying – the wooden bar securing the door was cracked. With each succeeding blow, the crack grew wider and deeper. How many more blows could it take?

            The momma grizzly turned away. But we knew she’d be back. She and her two cubs. No doubt they smelled our catch. And me. And Sam. If and when the bar gave way, she and her cubs would have the rest of our catch for a snack and us for dinner.

“Grrrrrarrrhhhhh!”

The large grizzly slammed against the door again. The bar held.

In the next instant, Sam grabbed our two creels and carried them back to the stove. He began rummaging through the cupboards, whacking their doors open and shut as he searched and searched.

Rushing back and forth, he pulled out a large sack of flour, a five-gallon bucket labeled applesauce and box after box after box of cornflakes.

“Sam!” I cried.

I shook my head no, emphatically no, this was not the time to worry about eating. This was a time to worry about getting eaten.

But Sam had an idea.

He was putting everything to work now, absolutely everything he’d ever learned through his studies. His standing as the world’s foremost fishing dog was not an empty boast of his child owner. He carried the highest honors ever received from the Université des Chiens de Pêche, located on the outskirts of Saint-Bernard-Les-Faux in northern France. The prestigious university’s most decorated graduate was going to take our catch and turn it into an irresistible bear trap.

#

The stove looked new. Square. Dark gray. Cast iron with a steel cooktop. The front had two doors with glass viewing windows and long spring handles for opening and closing. The top door was the firebox; the bottom door was for the huge baking oven, which had a lining that looked like brick and two wire cooking racks.

            I opened the door to the firebox and placed a log on each side. I used them as a base for three more logs set crossways and then filled the space in the middle with kindling. With a long match from one of the cupboards, I lit the kindling and nursed it along. When it looked ready, I loaded a couple of smaller pieces of firewood into the middle. Soon I was out of my pack jacket and helping Sam with the other tasks.

            We cleaned our catch and prepped the cutlets.

            Sam insisted I slice the cutlets into little strips, not more than a half-inch or three-quarters of an inch wide. They looked so tiny. Like little sticks. I’d never seen fish prepared like this before.

            Sam showed me how to roll the sticks in the flour, dip them in the applesauce and roll them across the crumbled cornflakes, which he had seasoned with other things he’d found in the cupboards – parmesan cheese, garlic powder and a lemon pepper mix.

            To a grizzly, nearly any scent smelled like food – good smells, bad smells, anything at all. So Sam wanted to create something that would overpower any other scent in the cabin and draw the momma grizzly and her cubs straight to the fish. He planned to arrange the baked fish in a pattern on the floor under the cupboards and have the trail of fish lead the bears to an open five-gallon bucket of raspberry preserves. Irresistible.    

            We found trays.

            I was about to load them with the fish and shove them in the oven when Sam howled loud and clear. I needed to coat the trays in cooking oil first. Or the fish would stick to the tray and that was no good.

            With everything in the oven, we had about fifteen to twenty minutes for the other parts of Sam’s plan – that’s how long it would take for the fish to bake. The scent of the baking fish escaping through the flue seemed to reach the bears – the two cubs cried louder and louder. We glanced at the wooden bar securing the front door and hoped it would hold at least one more time.

            We turned our attention to the empty wooden barrels off to the side of the room. This was the trickiest part of Sam’s plan and presented me with the greatest unknowns.  We needed to break apart the barrels without breaking the individual staves. Within a few minutes, we had done enough, and I had picked out two longer ones and Sam four shorter ones.  

We took the trays out from the oven and Sam arranged the fish in what he felt was a suitable presentation leading to the raspberry preserves in the furthest back corner. Then we tied the barrel staves to our feet with some paracord from my own pack.

We were ready.

            I lifted the wood bar lock out of its latches and leaned it against the wall. Then we both stood beside the door, our backs to the wall. The next time the momma grizzly attacked, she and her cubs would be inside.

We waited.

            Suddenly Sam turned his attention back to the meal he’d prepared. Something wasn’t right. He clomped to the back of the cabin in his barrel staves.

            “Sam!” I called, as quietly as I could.

            He was re-arranging the array of breaded fish cutlets, grouping them differently, ordering them differently. I did not know why.

            “Sam!”

            He ignored me.

            “Sam, they won’t care!”

            He was in his own world. His perfectionism possessed him.

            “Sam, you might as well set out napkins, too! It won’t make any difference!”

            The door flew open and the momma grizzly sauntered in, stepping slowly, patiently.

            “Sam! Let’s go!”

            The grizzly stood on her hind legs, her short arms reaching up, her head thrown back as she let our an enormous, deep-chested growl. Her two cubs ran in and joined her, one on each side, mimicking her every move and sound.

            I put my fingers to my mouth and blew the loudest whistle I could – a shrill, high-pitched whistle that penetrated through the low guttural threats from the bears.

            I was out of breath.

            “Sam,” I wheezed. “Sam, please. I don’t want to lose you.”

            I caught Sam’s eye. He looked at me. Strangely. He seemed to have forgotten where we were and what we were doing. All of the cooking, all of the preparation, all of the fine and disciplined details – they had transported him back to his university days and his life in France.

            “Sam,” I mouthed to him. “Come. Now.” I held my right arm straight out and then brought it to my left shoulder. I rarely commanded him. But I tried now. Did he even remember the command? My eyes were wet and their wetness was spilling down onto my cheeks. I repeated the motion. And waited. Never taking my eyes from his.

            The bears rushed to the fish and they took no notice as Sam dodged between them and joined me at the door. We were off – slow, slow, slow across the small clearing, awkwardly clomping, lifting our knees high to get the staves above the ground and then stepping forward and repeating and repeating and repeating. I was nearly exhausted by the time we reached the top of the trail.

            Then it was all speed, a blur, faster and faster and faster. Downhill. Gliding down the snow-covered trail. First Sam was ahead and then me and then Sam again as we ducked tree limbs and took flight from snow drifts and tree roots across the trail, navigating turns, sometimes on the edge of a single stave.

Sam howled and I howled louder back at him, until we finally tumbled to a stop in a large snowdrift at our spot on the bank the backwater pond.

I started laughing.

“Let’s do it again, Sam!” I called. “Let’s do it again!”

I laughed from the thrill of it all, from the joy of it all, from the joy of the day, from the joy of having a friend like Sam, from the joy of the sport, of the catch, of the cold, of the wind, of the snow. I laughed and didn’t want to leave. I wanted to stay right there at the backwater pond with Sam.

When I stood up, I realized Sam had already untied the staves from our feet. And I saw that the once clear pond was now cloudy and gray and framed in white billowing snowdrifts all along its banks.

I knelt back down and hugged Sam and he in turn licked my face warm.

“Okay, okay,” I said. “I know. Time to head home.”

We looked east and began the walk back to our little house on Chestnut Street.

#

“And that, my young friends,” said Henry, “is how Sam and I escaped the momma grizzly and her two cubs, how Sam invented fish sticks . . . and, incidentally, how I learned to ski.”

Henry waited. For laughter. For groans. For hands shooting up in the air.

            Mrs. Baker turned the lights on.

            Henry scanned the faces of the children – kickball Bobby, ponytail Anna, monogrammed Jeffrey. They weren’t looking at him, though; all of the kids were focused on Milo, who was standing next to Henry’s chair, his head low, his left eye closed, his right eye focused on the classroom door. And he was purring. Like a cat.

            “Look, Mr. Weaver,” said Anna. “Look. Milo’s a fishing dog, just like Sam.”

            “Yeah,” came other voices. “Milo’s a fishing dog.”

            “That’s just silly,” said the boy forever fussing with his shoelaces. “What’s he pointing at? There aren’t any fish around here.”

            The kids considered this puzzle, looking to each other, to Milo, to Henry, to the floor.

            “Well,” said Mrs. Baker, from her spot by the door. “It is fish stick Friday.”

            The school bell rang.

            The kids jumped up.

            “Can Milo come with us, Mrs. Baker?” asked Bobby. “Can Milo come and have some fish sticks?”

            The others chorused the plea.

            “You know he wants to, Mrs. Baker,” said Anna.

            Henry joined in, “Oh, my, yes. Milo loves fish sticks. And well he ought to.”

            The kids heard Henry’s “yes” and took it as permission granted. Without waiting to hear more, they were gone and Milo, too – much to Henry’s surprise and satisfaction.

            “I’m sorry, Henry,” said Mrs. Baker. “They’ve rushed off without so much as a thank you. But I know they loved your story.”

            Henry picked up Milo’s leash from the floor and coiled it tightly in his hands.

            “Tonight,” Mrs. Baker said, as she and Henry started down the hallway to the cafeteria, “half of them will ask their parents for a fishing dog and the other half will ask for a spinner and a box of nymphs and worms. Then their moms and dads will ring me at home after dinner for a full and detailed explanation.”

            Henry saw Jeffrey hurrying back toward them in the hallway. The young boy stopped in front of them, his eyes anxious, but he had no words. Henry handed him Milo’s leash and Jeffrey hurried back to the cafeteria.

            “Sam sure was a special dog,” said Mrs. Baker, taking Henry’s arm. “Was he the same dog who invented Sloppy Joes in order to catch a gang of cattle rustlers?”

            “Oh, no,” said Henry. “That was my third dog, Fido. And they weren’t cattle rustlers, they were horse thieves.”

            “Ah, yes, I remember now. The calls I got that evening. Moms and dads wanting to know why their kids were begging for roping dogs and chewing tobacco. Yes, I remember.”

#

The next morning, Henry sat in his kitchen, drinking coffee. Milo was asleep underneath the kitchen table.

            Henry considered the view from his kitchen window. The good weather persisted and Friday’s wind had quieted.

            His doorbell rang.

            Henry opened his front door to find a small group of youngsters from Mrs. Bakers first grade class outside – Bobby, Anna, Jeffrey and two others. Anna stepped to the door.

            “Good morning, Mr. Weaver,” she said. “We were wondering if Milo might like to come fishing with us.”

            Henry glanced around at the kids again.

            This is a wonder, he thought. An absolute wonder.

            Bobby stepped forward, too. “Please, Mr. Weaver.”

            Henry noticed that Bobby and one of the other boys each carried a rod and spinner and a wicker creel.

            “My goodness,” said Henry. “What nice looking rigs you’ve put together.”

            “Our dads both fish,” said Bobby, “and we’ve been a few times, too.”

            Milo came onto the porch, circulated among the kids and settled next to Jeffrey, who held something that Henry did not recognize.

            “Yeah,” said Bobby, following Henry’s gaze and reading his expression. “Jeff is such a dork. He brought his older brother’s snowboard.”

            The kids laughed.

            “Well,” said Jeffrey. “Just in case, you know? Right, Mr. Weaver?”

            Henry went back inside and grabbed Milo’s leash from its peg; he returned and gave the leash to Jeffrey.

            “Just in case,” said Henry, smiling.

            “We won’t go far,” said Anna, as the kids and Milo hurried away.

            “No, don’t go far,” called Henry. “But bring back a good story.”


BIO

Originally from Kansas City, Missouri, Jeff Hazlett today lives in Omaha and is a member of the Nebraska Writers Guild. His short stories have appeared this year in Lighthouse Digest and the Ginosko Literary Journal and are expected soon in Talking River Review and other publications. Find him at: jeffhaz.com.







Covet Thy Brother’s Truck

by Travis Lee


Earl had just slathered the first lick of peanut butter on his toast when Chuck gurgled. Earl held the knife and the bread steady, watching his brother. They sat across from each other at a small, round breakfast table. Flies buzzed above dishpiles in the sink. Behind Earl, a cool morning breeze whispered through the screen door and groundfog crawled over the fields. Chuck gurgled once more. Then he keeled over in his chair, his elbow plunging into his cereal and splashing milk and Froot Loops on a stained, Dollar Store tablecloth.

Earl stabbed his butter knife upright in the peanut butter jar. Couldn’t you’ve waited till I was done fixin my damn toast?

#

Earl wolfed down his toast, saving the crust for the stray mutt who wandered by sometimes. He tossed the crust into the backyard one piece at a time. In high school he was the baseball team’s ace and twenty some-odd years later he still had his arm strength. He balled up the last piece of crust in his palm and launched it, a rocket that landed somewhere behind the natural gas tank Chuck once tried to shoot while drunk. Too many Michelobs mixed with jars of God knew what. When Chuck got to drinking, he got to thinking, and he wasn’t too good at either one.

I seen you out here, Earl whispered to the groundfog covering the fields. And now it’s time.

Earl went back in, latching the screen door behind him. He stood with his hands on his hips, eyeballing the scene. Chuck lay slumped in his chair, elbow still in the cereal bowl. Stray Froot Loops floated in a puddle of milk. It would dry and ruin the tablecloth if he didn’t wipe it up.

Earl sipped his coffee and checked the time on the stove. County Clerk’s office opened in about an hour and if he hurried it might be first in line.

#

Earl showered and got dressed. He sat in his truck, letting it warm up. All the work he’d put into it. A Ford F-150 from 1987, two gas tanks and beaded seat covers. In high school he’d pulled up to the bonfire like a king, the dual-exhaust roaring for miles. Earl on the tailgate in his letterman jacket with Susie and Sara, the S twins, while Chuck wandered around the party with a jar of homebrew. A man six years graduated, still partying with high schoolers. Chuck was a joke in Oakwood’s hallways, but it wasn’t Earl’s house or Earl’s land, it was Chuck’s, and it wasn’t Earl’s liquor or Earl’s keg, it was Chuck’s. Sumbitch was good for that much at least.

Motion in the groundfog jarred Earl from his dreams. The blur was quick and brown, the deer hopping into the woods. Gimme my thirty-thirty and I’ll knock your head back, but Earl hadn’t gone hunting since his daddy passed.

#

The County Clerk’s office was in downtown Easton and there was no line. The courthouse, the clerk’s office and city hall occupied the same building, facing a main street longing for better days. In his daddy’s youth Easton’s main street was bustling. Now it featured a few salons, a gunshop only open on Thursdays, the Dollar Theater boarding up its doors last summer.

Earl got out of his truck and bounded up the steps, wiping his boots on the welcome mat. Inside, the receptionist smiled at him from behind thick glass.

Yes sir?

I need to report a death.

Oh sorry to hear that sir. She wore thick-framed glasses and Earl was certain he knew her. She went on, I’ll just need you to fill out a form. Were there any medical professionals present at the time of death?

He died at home.

So no doctors or nurses?

No. Just me. Why?

She pushed up her glasses. Well, sir. First, we gotta notify—

While she babbled, Earl saw himself behind the wheel of the beautiful Cummins diesel that had belonged to Chuck. Big rims, a dual-exhaust purring at normal speeds and roaring louder than any other truck in the county. Cruising these country roads, envy of Carter County. Earl’s eyes watered.

Sir?

Earl wiped his eyes. Sorry. You were sayin?

You can go ahead and get this form done if you want. Only fill out the first two pages.

I ain’t got a pen.

She dug around in the drawers some more, turning up a pen, and passed the pen and the form under the glass.

Earl sat on a bench and filled out the form. Scratched letters on the pen identified it as property of Easton Motel. Earl finished the first two pages and went back to the desk. He pushed them under the glass.

The receptionist glanced over the first page. Alright sir, looks in order. That’ll be forty-four oh two.

Earl grunted. Death wasn’t cheap, but at least he wouldn’t have to worry about a funeral. He opened his wallet, attached to his belt by a silver chain, and forked over two twenties and a five.

The receptionist dumped his change in his palm and he stuffed the change in his pocket and hooked his thumbs through his beltloops. That the old governor? he asked.

Yessir. New one ain’t sent in no picture yet.

Shame. Earl looked at the receptionist. There any way I can just get it all done today? I’ll be needin that certificate.

Well sir, if you’re worried about the funeral, home don’t need one to store the body.

He ain’t gettin no funeral.

Oh. Well sir, you know you can’t legally bury your deceased till you get that certificate. And if you ain’t usin the morgue, you gotta keep the body on ice yourself. Now I can give you the funeral home’s number and the director over there’s ken to me, I know he’ll be happy to walk you through it, won’t be no trouble at all.

Alright. I’ll get that number from you.

#

Earl started his truck and read over the number. The receptionist crossed her 7’s and it weirded Earl out when people did that. The 7’s looked like they couldn’t make up their minds if they wanted to be F’s or t’s.

Earl folded the slip of paper and shoved it in the cupholder. Shouldn’t have to wait, he whispered, putting his truck in reverse. Done waited long enough.

He drove across Easton to First Volunteer Bank. The bank occupied an island of artificial grass in a concrete sea, a vast parking lot serving the bowling alley next door and the Electrolux plant in the back. Earl did a circle through the parking lot, letting his dual-exhaust roar. In high school all the dualed-out trucks backed in to the spots along the gym. Earl and the guys called it Murderer’s Row.

Earl backed in to a space a few feet from the door and got out of his truck. Guy backed in next to him drove a black GMC Sierra with Hunters displayed on the back window in fiery letters. Giddy, Earl picked up his step and hurried inside the bank.

He didn’t find Ricky Anderson, star running back Earl’s senior year, but Susie Bennett behind the glass, doing a crossword puzzle.

How about it? Earl said as he waltzed up to the counter. One of the S twins, the years after high school had done her no favors. She still had a big butt, but the rest of her had grown to match it and all that remained of her high school beauty was her eyes, deep blue and fixed on him with recognition.

Earl, she said with no sign of joy.

Hey it’s been a while. How was the reunion?

That ain’t till next month.

Well shit guess I’ll find out myself then. How was the other one?

That was ten years ago. What can I do for you?

Earl cleared his throat. He wanted to remind Susie that in high school she’d worn his letterman jacket and while she’d never let him hit it, Earl knew he’d come close. 

How’s Ricky?

Still doin landscapin.

Yeah. I remember him sayin somethin about wantin to start up his own business after high school.

Yep. Susie nodded, one hand on her crossword puzzle book. Well he did.

Guess I should keep in touch more. Earl grinned. His teeth were crooked, his gums receding. Last time he visited a dentist the dentist told him that he was suffering from chronic gum recession. Eventually his teeth would loosen and fall out, but he could hold it off by brushing and flossing every day. Five years later, and Earl’s teeth were still intact and saw a toothbrush whenever he felt like it.

You know people get educated and think they’re smart, Earl said.

Do what?

Oh nothin. Just thinkin out loud.

Yeah. She pinched a page in her crossword book. Can I help you with something?

Yeah you can actually. I need to open Chuck’s safe deposit box.

She closed her crossword puzzle book. You got the papers for that?

Not yet but the clerk said come on down here and open it. Earl smiled at her.

Susie returned none of his good humor. Earl couldn’t remember if she was this much of a bitch in high school or not. Oakwood was in short supply for hot girls, and the ones who did meet Oakwood’s standards flocked together, going not just for athletes but clean-cut athletes. Guys who lived in the country but were not of the country, guys like Ricky Anderson.

Like I said, clerk sent me over here to open it.

I need the forms.

Forms?

Yeah, the forms.

Earl shrugged. Clerk didn’t say nothin about no forms.

You either gotta have the forms, Susie said, Or you need you Chuck’s written permission.

Earl laughed. I ain’t gettin that. Chuck passed away this morning.

Sorry to hear that.

When the Good Lord calls your number, there ain’t no refusin it. Chuck’s in a better place now and he wanted me to open his safe deposit box when he passed, so…that’s why I’m here. To get that thing open in accordance with his last wishes.

Susie’s face reminded Earl of statues he’d seen in a social studies book. Earl hadn’t bothered to pay attention much in school. But what stood out to Earl was those statues, on some island in the Pacific Ocean. Someone built those things. Purpose didn’t matter to Earl—only to the builders. A huge undertaking, for themselves, and Susie’s expression was cut from the same sort of stone those Indians had used.

Earl, you ain’t openin your brother’s box without the forms.

#

Earl got home that afternoon. The groundfog had burned off but the sun remained locked behind sliding scums of clouds. Earl went in the house and the buzzing caught his ears. He approached the kitchen at a lope, catching sight of Chuck slumped in the chair, and a black blanket of flies covering the screen door.

A few flies lifted off, zipping in confused circles. The rest of them writhed as one black mass on the screen, and Earl curled his lips. He charged the door, yelling, and the flies billowed like a cloud of black smoke, settling once Earl retreated.

Sumbitches. Got the cure for you, and Earl grabbed a bucket from under the sink and filled it with tapwater. The faucet belched a few splashes of brown before pouring clear. Earl tilted the bucket, leaning it on the pile of dishes, letting the water swirl round and round. Then he shut off the faucet and hauled the bucket to the screen door.

Earl raised the bucket, Get yourselves somethin to drink, and he dumped the entire bucket on the screen door. Some of flies fell from the screen like torn velcro strips, others buzzing to safety on the outer edge of the porch.

Earl tossed the bucket aside and turned to his brother. Look what you done, draggin all these flies over here. He snatched a chair and sat facing Chuck. Earl glanced at the stoveclock. Just after four. Time for Chuck to start drinking, catch his first buzz and stare dully at a rerun of Cheers before drinking more and yelling at the nightly news.

You never reckoned it happenin like this, did you? Thought you might outlive me, but you didn’t. And you know somethin? Here in a few days, they’re openin that box you got at the bank, they’re givin me your keys and that truck of yours is mine. And don’t you worry none. I’ll take good care of her.

Earl got up and went to the living room. A sofa wrapped in yellowed bedsheets faced a rabbit-eared TV that picked up five channels, six if the weather cooperated. Earl plopped on the sofa and picked up the telephone. He called a family he knew and got their son on the phone, a teenager who cut his grass in the summer.

I need you to bury something for me, Earl told the boy. There’s fifty bucks in it for you. Can you come over tomorrow morning?

Blade agreed, and Earl hung up, thinking about what a stupid name that was. Blade. But that was the trend these days. Special kids grew up to become special adults, giving their kids special names. Where did it end? In some dim way, Earl understood the world had passed him by and that was fine, he was content to let it keep going.

#

Earl woke up several times in the night and the last time he lay in bed till the first hints of a new day snuck in under the curtains. Earl and Chuck’s old man had trusted them to take care of his legacy, and how had Chuck mourned him? Chuck, a grown man six years out of high school, threw a kegger on their property and he’d brought the kegs not in the F-150 that Earl drove around, but a brand-spanking new Cummins Diesel. Huge rims, a dual-exhaust that silenced every other truck. Nearly a hundred grand, and watching his brother, his dumbass brother too stupid to appreciate the wealth that had fallen in his lap, Earl had decided that Chuck’s truck would be his. He deserved it. Chuck didn’t deserve anything.

And now the day’s come.

Earl got out of bed and got dressed. He went to the back porch. The pile of dead flies was smaller than he remembered. Earl hosed off the porch and dug some flypaper out of his shed and strung up two pieces, flanking the screen door.

As Earl admired the flypaper, Blade pulled up in a beat-up Chevy S-10. Decent starter, nothing to brag about. Earl went over and shook his hand. The boy had a weak grip, but that was par for the course considering kids these days. He played on the football team and they chatted about the season. Blade thought there was a good chance the Warriors might make the playoffs this year and Earl thought if so, they wouldn’t make it past the first round with a handshake like that.

You need somethin buried? Blade asked.

Yeah come on in. Earl threw open the screen door and waved the boy inside.

Blade took a step back. That’s your brother.

Sure is. He passed yesterday morning, God rest his soul, and now I need you to give him a proper burial.

Don’t he need a funeral?

Didn’t want one. Wanted to be buried here on the family property like our daddy. Told it to me out of his own lips.

Blade wrinkled his nose. He scratched the few whiskers on his chin, nothing you’d call a proper beard. Ain’t there rules about this kinda stuff?

Ain’t no rules about a funeral. All I gotta do is bury him twenty-five feet from the road and as you can see, we’re plainly more than twenty-five feet from that there road.

I don’t know, Blade said. When you said you needed me to bury somethin, I was thinkin i a cat or dog.’

Since when’ve I had a dog? I’m payin you fifty bucks and it ain’t hard. I’ll even help you carry him.

I don’t know…

Hundred bucks then.

The boy’s gaze settled on Chuck and quickly shifted elsewhere. Lemme head out to my truck for a sec.

The screen door opened and slapped shut. When the motor started, Earl went outside. The boy’s truck cruised down the driveway, took a left and disappeared up the road behind a blend of creekside trees.

#

Earl was halfway through his peanut butter toast when the phone rang. With the bread in one hand, he picked up the phone with the other.

Yeah?

It was Blade’s father. Earl, you really ask my son to bury your brother?

Yeah.

Why the hell—  and Blade’s father laid into him.

Earl relaxed on the couch, chomping on his toast where it could be heard clearly on the other end. After Blade’s father was done, Earl said, What if I up it to a hundred and fifty?

My son ain’t buryin your damn brother, Earl.

Alright. Let me ask you somethin though. How come you give your boy such a dumbass name? Hello?’

Earl dropped the receiver back in the cradle and finished his toast on the couch. He got up and passed his brother and opened the screen door.

Past the gas tank, the mutt was sniffing around. He was mostly white, with a brown splotch stretching from his neck and ringing one eye. Earl couldn’t place the dog’s mix to save his life. He placed two fingers in his mouth and whistled. Hey!

The dog trotted up to him, tongue out. Earl knelt down and rubbed his ears, You’re a good boy aren’t you? You hungry? Earl held out his hand and as the dog went to gobble up the crust, Earl pulled his arm back and stood up straight, Check out my fast ball, and he balled up the crust and launched it past the natural gas tank. The dog ran after it and when the dog returned, Earl rubbed his ears again, There’s a good boy.

#

In the kitchen, Earl fit his dish in the pile like a Jenga piece, then turned to face Chuck. He guessed his brother weighed two-hundred pounds. In his heyday Chuck had clocked in at a buck fifty but that was before post-high-school pudge. The football team Chuck’s senior year, everyone picked them for State. The highlight of their season was keeping within one touchdown of eventual state champions Ezell-Harding, a private school recruited all the good players and best coaches, as Chuck was happy to point out, And we almost beat em. It’s alright though. We’ll see em again in the playoffs and beat em then, but the rematch stayed a fantasy. The Oakwood team Chuck and his buddies claimed was the best in school history bowed out in the first round of the playoffs, Chuck losing four fumbles.

Ya’ll just got lucky against Ezell, Earl said. Outside, thunder popped. It was cold already and the storms would roll over the house, leaving worse cold in their wake. Chuck once said tossing the football in the cold was like throwing a block of ice around, but it would be worth it to play on Thanksgiving, Except you never did. All that shit ya’ll talked, couldn’t even make it past the first round. What were ya’ll doin the night before? Partyin. Pretty hard to hold onto the football when you’re too hungover to know which way’s up.

Earl assessed his brother. The skin on Chuck’s forehead sagged like his flesh was sloughing off his skull and gray hairs curled from nostrils spiderwebbed in capillaries the color of a fever.

Earl thought over the steps needed to give his brother a proper burial. It wasn’t too complicated, and for a hundred bucks, a teenage Earl would’ve dug that hole with no gripes.

Kids these days got no work ethic, and Earl went out to the shed. The wind picked up, the shed’s sheetmetal walls groaning in a strong gust. Earl grabbed a shovel hanging from a hook on the wall and on the way back in winter winds tickled the back of his neck.

Earl leaned the shovel by the screen door and went in the kitchen. Thunder boomed, the house rattled, and Earl looked through the screen door to see the first explosion of rain, and the mutt whining in the downpour.

#

It rained all night and Earl slept dreamlessly, waking a couple hours before dawn. He listened. The mutt snored at the foot of the bed. Slowbeat of rain on the roof. Earl sighed.

He got out of bed and downstairs heard the buzz. The stench of the cerealmilk had grown worse and Earl pinched his nose as he leaned toward the back door, listening.

He opened the door and the buzz vanished. Earl switched on the kitchen light. One of Chuck’s gray eyes stared sightlessly at him. Earl checked the screen door but there were no flies and no noise but his own breathing, raspy, and the rainbeat of a Tennessee winter storm.

#

Earl let the mutt out through the screen door and grabbed the shovel. He pulled on his workboots and walked the wet grass and mud of his property. The mutt trotted playfully behind him. Scent of morning dew. Earl savored it as he did all things about this land, God’s country, let no one tarnish it.

The patch of land he chose was in the woods. Earl stabbed it with his shovel. The ground was soft enough and Earl looked back but the mutt was gone. Earl turned, clutching the shovel with both hands, and lowered his head. His own daddy was cremated, his ashes spread in the creek. Chuck had never specified what to do with his body, And besides it don’t matter. Oughta be happy you’re gettin a burial here and I’m not haulin your ass off to the morgue. Payin out the tail-end for some ugly motherfucker to pretty your ass up and put you in a nice box with a nice gravestone, beloved son and all that. You oughta be happy you’re getting this much, and Earl started digging.

By the time the hole was hip-deep, Earl stopped, leaning on the shovel. Sweat stung his eyes and he wiped at it with his shirtsleeve. The ground got harder to penetrate the deeper you dug. He thought about asking another kid—for a hundred bucks, they ought to be grateful—and pushed the idea away.

Earl left the shovel in the hole and climbed out, brushing himself off. The mutt came trotting out from around the gas tank soaking wet and Earl rubbed his ears, You been in the creek again? You been swimmin in the creek again ain’t you? You’re a good boy you’re a good boy, and Earl went in the house, latching the screen door behind him.

The stench hit him like a gust from a landfill. It reminded Earl of the cat. He and his daddy had been walking their property when they chanced upon a stray cat, its belly torn open. Earl gulped, half-digested scrambled eggs crawling up his throat, his daddy unaffected, Go grab my shovel, and Earl had gone to the house and brought back the shovel and he and his daddy had alternated digging a shallow grave for the cat, Chuck couldn’t help cause he was out working the drive-thru at the Hardees in Easton, one of the many jobs he’d fired from.

Earl hooked his shirt over his nose and stared into his brother’s gray eye, You never could keep a job longer than a week. Only reason Hardee’s didn’t get rid of your ass sooner was that manager had a crush on you. Can’t begin to imagine why, and Earl carefully lifted Chuck’s elbow out of the cerealbowl and dumped the sour milk over the dirty dishes. He placed the bowl outside the main formation of food-encrusted plates and stepped outside.

Earl lowered his shirt, sucking in cold, dry air. He looked at the sky. Plenty of daylight left. He looked out at the gas tank. The mutt was gone.

Alright then. Earl backed his truck up to the porch and lowered the tailgate. He went in the house through the front door and upstairs grabbed one of Chuck’s shirts from the closet. He used garden shears from the shed to cut a slice from it and tied that slice around his nose and mouth. In the kitchen he sifted through expired bottles of cleaner under the sink and snagged a pair of dishwashing gloves from the back, peeling cobwebs from between the fingers.

Earl pushed open the screen door and stood in front of his brother. Last job Chuck ever held was in the year after their daddy died.  On a Sunday morning Chuck stumbled home reeking of Michelob Ultra, Got fired they caught me bangin Cassie, and whether the part about Cassie was true or not, Kroger had indeed fired Chuck from bagging groceries. From there his life unraveled into a steady cycle of drinking and hangovers. Eventually the hangovers stopped but the drinking plowed right along, finally ending the other morning.

Earl gripped the top of the chair and tilted it. The weight nearly knocked him over. Shaking, Earl dragged the chair toward the back door.

He saw the problem but tried to force the chair through anyway, the sides knocking against the doorframe. Earl steadied Chuck and leaned on the doorframe, catching his breath. Angle, he whispered between breaths, and tilted the chair, grunting, its legs leaving scratchmarks on the floor. This house wasn’t much and once the interment was done, Earl thought he might build a new one. He deserved a nice house to complement his nice new truck.

C’mon. Earl angled the chair, but it still wouldn’t fit. Chuck’s body began its slide and Earl reached out, but it was too late.

Chuck slumped in the doorway, sour milk leaking out his lips.

Shit fuck shit. Earl worked the chair through the door and launched it into the yard, where it tumbled into a cherry bush. Panting, Earl looked down at his brother, You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me, and Earl wiped his forehead with his shirtsleeve. Way this was going, it might be better to do a damn funeral after all and the thought of all that time and money made Earl’s head hurt. Funeral directors were conmen. No better than carnival grifters. It was his damn land and his damn brother, and he’d bury the motherfucker any way he liked.

Earl took off his gloves. He went inside and drank water from the bathroom sink. He cupped handfuls into his mouth and on the way to the backporch heard the familiar crunch of tires on gravel.

Earl pushed open the screen door as the Carter County Sheriff’s Department cruiser rolled to a stop. It parked too close to Earl’s truck for his liking and he winced as the deputy swung open the door. The man who stepped out, his uniform clung to him like saranwrap, his belly sinking below his belt. It took Earl a moment too long to stamp a name on the cop’s face and when he did he grinned, Damn they’re still lettin you run around with a gun?

Guess they are, Tyler said. Got a call about you yesterday.

Yeah? Bout what?

I— Tyler began, but Earl cut him off.

Don’t shoot my guns off at the creek no more. Told ole Miss Annie sorry for wakin her granbaby up and now when I shoot em off I make sure and do it here.

It’s not that, Tyler said. It’s that.

Tyler jabbed a stubby finger at Chuck.

Yeah he passed yesterday.

Earl, there’s procedures you gotta follow.

I know. I’m buryin him twenty-five feet from the road.

Not just that. You gotta a casket of some kind?

I got some tarp in the shed.

Tyler rubbed his face. Look Earl, you gotta get a death certificate first, but before that a doctor’s gotta declare him dead, the medical—

Lady at the clerk’s office never mentioned that.

Well I spoke to her about an hour ago and she said she told you everything you need to do.

She didn’t tell me nothin, Tyler.

Well whatever you think she said or didn’t say, medical examiner’s gotta take a look—

What the hell for?

Rule out foul play.

Foul play? Shit. It’s Chuck, Tyler. It’s a damn miracle he lasted this long and you know I’m right.

Don’t matter. You gotta follow the rules, Earl, and once everything’s done, then you can bury him.

Earl squinted at the gas tank. He squinted instead of rolling his eyes ever since his daddy slapped the taste out of his mouth when he was a boy.

Fuck.

Earl pursed his lips, Listen Tyler. I gotta tell you the truth. I really don’t care how my brother gets buried. I already talked to the lady at the clerk’s office and I’m just waitin on them documents so I can go open his box at the bank. You know what’s waitin for me in there?

I sure don’t.

Keys to his truck. I’m getting ahold of Chuck’s truck, God rest his soul. Remember how he used to come out to parties drivin that damn thing full of kegs like he was cool or somethin. Fuckin grown man partyin with high schoolers. The fuck was wrong with him?

You oughtn’t speak ill of the dead, Earl.

Well shit, you know I’m right Tyler. Only reason anybody liked him was he got em beer.

Still, Tyler said, It’s not proper.

Yeah. So you gonna help me?

Help you what?

Haul Chuck to his final resting place. It ain’t far, just down yonder.

Did you hear a word I just said? Tyler stared at him wide-eyed and the look was the same one Earl gave Chuck many times. Shooting at the gas tank. Doing donuts in Old Lady Landry’s yard. Starting fights in the drunk tank before Earl could bail him out. Lighting—

—fires he can’t control, and Earl took a breath. Pain in the ass, Tyler. You know it and I know it.

Ambulance’ll be by soon to get him, Tyler said. You can ride with them or not, it don’t matter. Just need you to sign some papers when the morgue’s done pokin at him.

And then I can bury him?

You gotta get him a casket, Earl.

I said I got some tarp in the shed.

Tyler sighed, got back in his cruiser and left.

#

The ambulance showed up later that afternoon, no siren. It turned around and backed up beside Earl’s truck, putting more distance than Tyler had bothered with. The back doors opened and the EMTs were young, looked to be in football shape. The driver joined them and got Earl and Chuck’s names.

Bout how long’ll this take? Earl asked as the EMTs zipped up Chuck in a bodybag.

Will what take? the driver said.

Examinin my brother. Earl disliked the driver’s tone. He sounded like some college kid too smart for his own good, the types Earl and his buddies used to flick spitballs at in Algebra.

All told, takes about a week.

A week? I ain’t got a week.

Sir, the driver said, I don’t control the time. If you got an issue with it, you need to talk to the medical examiner. She’s the one who sets the pace and I can tell you your brother’s just the latest in the queue.

Latest in the queue…who the hell talks like that? Earl fumed, and after the ambulance was gone, he went back inside.

The chair was missing but Earl didn’t feel like retrieving it. Chuck had died in that chair and it could be infectious. Earl sniffed. The stench lingered, and he reached back and pulled the screen door shut, latching it.

He got on the phone and dialed the county clerk’s office. It took two tries to get ahold of her and he asked where his paperwork was.

Sir you gotta let the doctor and medical examiner take a look first.

Since when?

Sir, I told you yesterday what you need to do.

Earl stared at the TV and the antenna. Chuck used to say the rabbit ears looked like a hooker’s legs the way they were spread.

You sure there ain’t nothin you can do for me?

I’m sorry sir. Wish I could be of more help.

Earl hung up without saying goodbye. All this, over his dead brother. He rubbed his eyes. Making sense of the world was a tall task. Earl had anticipated Chuck’s death for years, only not like this. His brother would croak, Earl would toss him in some hole in the woods, and go riding around in his truck. His truck. A mighty Cummins diesel.

Earl got up from the couch.

#

After Chuck’s last trip to the drunk tank, the state took away his license—this time for good. Chuck was confined to the house or riding with Earl, and the longer Chuck drank, the more he stayed in. It often fell on Earl to head down to Herndon’s and buy his beer, but sometimes Chuck would walk down there. A couple times he hitchhiked. After all, everyone around here knew the Oakwood running back, greatest class in school history even if they did get upset in the first round of the playoffs thanks to Mr. Football’s four lost fumbles.

Earl had got onto Chuck for walking to Herndon’s, What the hell’re you thinkin? You lookin to get robbed or somethin? and Chuck just smiled that wide smile of his, blackening teeth strangers to brush and floss, and the longer Chuck drank, the more he cast his eyes away when Earl talked to him, only coming alive after several beers, waking up the next morning not with a hangover but with a dull glaze in his eyes, eager for the next drink.

It was Herndon’s Earl pulled into. A lone gas pump served the town, a parking lot on the side. Earl backed into a space, and spotting some girls coming out of the store, old habits took over. He revved his truck, the trick not to press the gas too hard, let her purr, don’t let her roar. Purring brings them in but the girls, who as they passed looked high school age and it was a coin-flip for legal, didn’t even glance in his direction. They piled into some loser Honda sedan and drove away.

Earl got out of the truck. The temperature was down and he stuffed his hands in his pockets and went inside. He bought a box of chicken tenders, asking the Indian man behind the register not to be stingy with the honey mustard. Earl also grabbed a liter of Sprite and paid for everything then sat eating his tenders in his truck. Across the street from Adams’ lone gas station was the Methodist Church. Earl couldn’t recall the last time he went—must’ve been before daddy’s passing.

Earl finished his tenders, burping the biting aftertaste of Sprite. He glanced around the parking lot hoping for another truck—a Chevy would work best—but there were none, and so he tossed his trash on the floorboard.

Earl followed the highway north. Miles of farmland later, Earl crossed the state line into Guthrie, Kentucky. Red neon lights danced on a sign for a country club, Billy’s, and the highway hauled Earl over the traintracks, past a buy-here pay-here lot and the scraps of Guthrie’s former downtown. Only place open was the historical society.

At the four-way, Earl drove straight.

He didn’t listen to the radio, the growl of the dual-exhaust his companion as night crept into the world, last signs of the sun burning out behind grain silos and smokebarns, skeletal winter trees framing a sparse country path and it was full night when Earl made it to the storage units.

Earl punched in the code. The gate opened and he cruised down a gravel road, triggering motionlights above the corrugated rolling steel doors guarding each storage shed. The road dead-ended at a caution sign and a rusty engine block painted in bird droppings. Earl parked facing the storage shed and killed the motor and sat there, his windows rolled down. He waited until the motionlight died. Then he stuck his hand out the driver’s side window and waved. The motionlight flickered to life. When it was dead again, Earl tried the passenger window.

When the motionlight remained dull, Earl got out of his truck through the passenger door and reached in the bed of his truck without looking, feeling for the bolt cutter. He grasped it with both hands and approached the massive steel door. Hundred and fifty bucks a month, more of daddy’s money down the drain and the morning of, Earl had tried to talk some sense into his brother, Ain’t no reason you can’t keep it in the driveway, and Earl went down the list, Disconnect the battery and Cover it up with a tarp and I’ll keep the tires inflated and at last, as a light sparked in Chuck’s eyes so rarely seen that it frightened Earl, You don’t trust me? Just keep em with the rest of your damn keys. It ain’t like I’m gonna go joyridin in it when you’re sleepin.

But Chuck insisted on storing his truck after the state revoked his license and got two of his buddies drive it out here—he wouldn’t even allow Earl that small pleasure. And the keys? In a lockbox, their freedom depending on red tape, bullshit to stop Earl from claiming what was rightfully his. 

Earl whispered, I’m glad you’re gone.

He knelt and worked on the first lock. Two padlocks secured the door and Earl grunted, squeezing the bolt cutters, pressing all his weight into them. The first lock snapped, the second.

Earl raised the corrugated door.

The truck was so beautiful it robbed Earl of his thoughts. He stared at it, awestruck. The motionlight died and in the dark he wetted his lips. He pulled the chain for the bulb hanging above the truck.

The truck was backed-in and unlocked. Chuck used to leave the keys on the dash when he was still allowed to drive and would stumble in drunk around midnight and pass out in the living room after doing donuts in the yard, the dual-exhaust terrorizing poor ole Miss Annie who lived across the creek. Earl held out some hope that Chuck’s buddies had accidentally left the keys here—like Chuck they weren’t the brightest crayons to come rolling out of the Crayola factory—but the dash was empty.

Ain’t no worry. I come prepared, and Earl eased his own truck close enough to kiss Chuck’s. Then he got the screwdriver and drill and jumper cables from his passenger seat. He laid in the seat of Chuck’s truck and compared his truck key to the drill bit, doing so until he knew the length by heart. Then he drilled into the keyhole. He drilled three times and lowered the drill and maneuvered the screwdriver in place. Leaving it alone, he got out of Chuck’s truck.    He popped both hoods and hooked the jump starter cables to the battery in Chuck’s truck. Earl started his own truck and waited a couple minutes.

Then he started Chuck’s.

His eyelids fluttered at the purr of the dual exhaust. He closed his eyes and he was back in high school, pulling into the party in a brand-new Cummins diesel. The girls couldn’t ignore him and Earl stroked the steering wheel.

He smiled.

He disconnected the jumper cables and backed his truck up. He cut the engine and got back in Chuck’s, now his truck, Should have always been mine now let’s see how you handle these roads, and Earl put the truck in drive.

He pulled out of the storage unit’s lot and cruised down the road. The dual exhaust purred, but dual exhausts weren’t meant to purr, they were built to roar. Earl stomped on the gas and hooted as the dual exhaust roared, triumphant in the hands of someone who could appreciate its beauty.

He turned without signaling, swerving onto a country road lacking a centerline. No barriers on the curves. Earl hooted some more and whooped and screamed Fuck yeah and approaching the traintracks, he gunned the motor.

The truck started to pass over the tracks, and rocked.

Motherfucker. Earl stomped the gas pedal. The dual exhaust roared like it was supposed to, but the truck refused to budge. He stomped again on the gas pedal. The dual exhaust belched.

Then it died.

Earl tried the keys. Icons flashed on the dashboard, but Earl couldn’t make heads or tails of them. Motherfucker, mother God damn—

Earl got out of his truck and popped the hood. He’d brought no flashlight and the engine was a cluster of vague shapes in the dark. Chuck wasn’t a gearhead and Earl apologized to the truck, Sorry. I’ll get you fixed up, don’t you worry.

A whistle blew.

A blinding light cut between families of crooked trees. It took a second for the situation to register in Earl’s mind and when he understood, he uttered a primal scream, his fingers and toes tingling.

No fuck no please, and Earl got behind the wheel. He shifted to neutral and ran to the back of the truck as the whistle blew again, louder, and he pushed. He groaned. He screamed.

The truck didn’t budge.

C’mon c’mon come the fuck on. Earl pushed, he slapped the tailgate, and now the light was upon him, swallowing him, the truck, and he fled back, waving in vain for the train to stop.

It didn’t. It collided with the truck and dragged it down the tracks, dumping it off in a pile of gravel.

Earl ran to the truck. And as the train slowed Earl fell to his knees, face buried in his hands, sobbing before a mangled, smoking wreck. 



BIO

A Tennessee native, Travis Lee is the author of several books available on Amazon, including Irish Lightning and Letters from a Dead Mentor. His short stories have appeared in The Colored Lens, The Rumen and As You Were: The Military Review, among other places. Connect with him on his free Substack: TL1138.substack.com







The Tomb in the Orchard

Claude Chabot


Do I believe in premonitions? I never had any until the night I came home and was sitting by the fire and I imagined my mother’s voice saying, “Soon you will understand.” I admit I was startled, as I had not been thinking of her at all. “Understand what?” was my thought. It seemed she was present in the room, so clear was the elegant tone and clarity of diction that I remembered from life. This sudden evocation of her voice was startling, yet I had heard her voice often enough following her death…I had heard it because I missed its warmth and love and conjured it frequently. But that night it came to me without my behest and I only could dismiss it as the symptom of an excited mind having endured the fatigue of a long journey and about to embark on another. My attorney had pleaded with me not to go, as America, and New York in particular, were dangerous now, he told me, with all the unemployed and the economic devastation, but I insisted.

I had returned to Paris from a dig in North Africa that was at once gratifying and exhausting to find a letter from the estate agent awaiting me upon my arrival at my home in the Place des Vosges. Although I had wanted time alone in the peaceful confines of my old house in town, the letter moved me to leave almost immediately for America, in order to meet with the agent to address his urgent request, and to visit South Cliff, the mansion that had been the locus of my childhood reveries.

I didn’t hesitate as I needed a reprieve from my dusty and laborious inquiries into the ancient civilizations of the Levant that was not satisfied by merely returning to the pretensions of la grande ville. Thus, one week after receiving the agent’s letter, I flew to London on an aeroplane to board the Cunard liner Antonia for America. I arrived in New York in September on a fine autumn morning and after settling myself and my secretary at the new Waldorf-Astoria Hotel, I made plans to visit the estate.

I remembered the oft-mentioned stories told to me about its location: perched high atop the Hudson River commanding a view of the great city down its banks and its otherwise virtual isolation in a forest outside a tiny village. The only other neighbors were estates to the south and north. A great expanse of greenwood to the west was only recently evacuated of the Lenni Lenape Indians who had once enjoyed the bounty of the forest and the gleaming catch of the river, and, roaming up and down the steep, almost impassable cliffs, had probably first glimpsed the Europeans who would soon evict them from their land. My mother had often related these stories to me in her dreamy way, as she was a romantic like myself, and our mutual love of history inspired my passion for ancient cultures and dictated my choice of archaeology over custom and companionship.

But the real purpose of my visit from my home in my native France was to visit South Cliff, summoned by the estate agent’s cryptic query regarding my interest in the sale of the house, gardens and various outbuildings that comprise the estate atop the Palisades cliffs where my mother had first met my stepfather. Both of them have been dead for many years, and I had inherited from them a considerable bequest that enabled me to pursue my archaeological studies and excavations in the Levant. I hardly gave a thought to South Cliff, a place I had never visited, not even knowing whether or not it was occupied by a tenant, as the expenses of the estate had been paid through a trust fund in America for that purpose.

The Depression ravaging the world has changed that. Now, some of the costs of the estate and paying its taxes are borne by me. The expenses are never large, but now that the estate agent had contacted me, I thought it time to investigate what I am paying for and whether I wished to keep this mysterious property: mysterious because I have never actually seen it. After my mother and stepfather had settled in France, they spoke of its exceptional beauty and location, but never returned to it.

The next morning after my arrival in New York, I placed a trunk call to the estate agent only to discover that he was away for the day. I admit I was vexed. This presented a minor problem for me as I was taking advantage of my time in America to deliver a lecture at Princeton in two days’ time where I had long been asked to speak, and then planned to embark on a trip to Mexico to visit some colleagues who were conducting excavations in the Yucatan. The estate agent had known of my date of arrival and my plans, and I was irritated about his absence.

After dining with friends of friends the night before in New York and discussing my dilemma, they encouraged me to visit the estate on my own and connecting with the agent, if possible, the next day. After all, the whole point of coming to America in the first place was to see my inheritance, and if the agent were not available the caretaker could certainly show me the house and grounds. So, leaving my secretary Matilde in New York and giving her a surprise stipend to shop for a new hat, I hired a car, much to Matilde’s horror. She insisted that I have a chauffeur and thought it improper that a woman should drive herself. She forgets that on the digs in the Levant I am the chief archaeologist, never shrinking from what is normally considered a man’s work.

I embarked on a brilliantly sunny morning to the upper reaches of Manhattan and traversed the Hudson over a beautiful bridge, which, I understand, had only recently opened. I admit to being impressed and even awed by its soaring towers and wide expanse over the majestic Hudson, even as I am frequently annoyed and even repulsed by the aggrandizement of American achievement and the chauvinism with which it trumpets its superiority to the world. I could only be so repulsed by this chauvinism, because as a French citizen I know first-hand what contempt born of insecurity a great nation can have for a far less powerful but equally potent native culture.

My large American sedan took me up a forested boulevard through quaint villages and woods, passing the gates and gate houses of many other grand houses on the way, encountering very little traffic on this country road, when I finally arrived at South Cliff. It was not difficult to find, as it clearly was designated as 656 Hudson Terrace on the estate’s walled enclosure, the address given to me by the estate agent’s telegram. I saw the caretaker’s house from the highway easily but could not see the grounds or the main house from the highway. Tall trees blocked any view of the extensive property, and a badly maintained driveway was all that I could see from the highway, besides the gatehouse, which, though in good repair, looked forlorn. It seemed such a lonely, decrepit and dark place, not helped by the sun suddenly sliding behind a cloud when I arrived, and not at all what I had expected of the fine house and grounds that my mother and stepfather had celebrated over the years. Perhaps I was mistaken in finding this place on my own, I thought. But the number the agent had given me in his telegram to me that I held was the same as that on the cracked blue and white terracotta shingle on the side of the gatehouse. A sign next to this on a splintered board read, “South Cliff Estate-Private Property.” 

While the day had been clear skied and pleasantly warm, the sun was now out of sight and the air was hot and thickly humid, filled with gnats and the nearby sound of buzzing bees. I parked my sedan at the side of the road, as the gates, while partially open, were loosely chained, and I was only barely able to pass through them, confirming my suspicion that the estate was not occupied. I walked up to the caretaker’s house. I was alarmed to see that some windows on the first floor were shattered. This had not been visible from the road and was completely unexpected.

I stepped away from the house and walked further into the property, more than a little puzzled and a trifle alarmed at what presented itself before me. I had presumed that this house, which I held title to, was in full repair and occupied, but the gatehouse and gate made me think otherwise. At the same time, I felt suddenly dizzy and lightheaded. I am not at all an anxious person or an hysteric, but I felt unsettled and strangely confused by my surroundings, although I knew where I was and why I was there, I also felt that I was not there and in some way my trip to America had not really happened. Such an odd, nonsensical feeling! In fact, it is difficult to explain what I felt, but in some way I felt dislocated. However, I chose to steady my nerves, breathed deeply and as I recovered I felt well-oriented again. I was certainly not surprised by my vertigo because these spells happened frequently in the desert heat and colonial cities that were the usual location of my excavations. Nevertheless, I was still unwell and although my outstretched hand tried to grasp a small tree growing in the drive, I fainted.

Sometime later, not a very long time perhaps, I awoke lying on the ground near the drive to the main house. I had awakened from my faint by someone calling my name, again and again, a woman’s voice from far off and yet, quite close, “Francesca, Francesca!” Then silence and the sound of bees buzzing and a thick cloud of gnats up against my eyes. I started to answer, but the insects flew into my mouth and I closed it in disgust. But again, the voice of the woman shouted, “Francesca, Francesca,” and then again silence. I stood up, almost in a trance, very slowly dusted myself off, but momentarily stopped and leaned against a tree feeling suddenly dizzy again.

I looked around once more and started to approach the drive trying to see who was calling me. I now felt fully alert, but saw that my first impression of the drive as a poorly maintained roadway had been wrong, for although there were a few wildflowers growing at its sides, it actually appeared to be well-paved and clear of debris. Then, I happened to glance at the gatehouse, which although almost identical to my first impression of it, now appeared neatly maintained with white curtains fluttering in the breeze in an upstairs window. I was far enough away not to see the ground floor or the windows I had thought were shattered, but I did not want to take the time to walk back as I wanted to see the main house. The sun had come out again and I dismissed the illusion of the drive’s neglect to the clouded sky. I remembered how bleak the mountains on the island of Crete had once seemed in mid-summer on a clouded day and how beautiful and inviting they looked when the sun returned. The state of the gatehouse I dismissed as a mere economy, as a tenant was unlikely to keep a full staff, which was why the gatehouse might be vandalized. And I thought nothing more of my changed perception, at least, not then.

I heard that voice again; high-pitched, thin, unsteady but distinct, now clearly coming from somewhere down the drive shouting, “Francesca, Francesca.” I walked toward it. While the drive seemed to extend into the distance, after about one hundred feet it turned sharply to the left amongst the trees, and suddenly and dramatically revealed a well-kept expanse of lawn that barely sloped up to the fine house built to look like a Tudor manor. This was another Americanism I had anticipated not liking, the aping of English and Continental culture and architecture at the expense of the great American native cultures, but I admit the house pleased me greatly, even as it had so pleased my mother. At the side and back of the house, I could see the orchard rows beginning, just as my mother had so carefully described them, and the lavishly planted flower gardens at the manor house’s front. My immediate and delighted impression of the house and its gardens was that of a memory brought to life. And shortly, coming around to the front of the house was a woman who waved to me while holding onto her straw gardening hat. Suddenly, all the growing dread dissipated and I was being welcomed in the way I had anticipated.

 “Francesca, we’ve been waiting for you.”

I smiled and walked toward her until I was within a few feet of her kind face squinting in the bright sunshine. She was an older woman with a face that showed the lines of either age or illness, and she moved slowly coming to me as if she had little energy, but there was benevolence and an eagerness to please that shown through her physical infirmity. She was beautifully attired in an old-fashioned dress popular many years before. It looked faded but well kept, and her sun hat and shears that she held in her hand demonstrated that evidently she had been gardening.

She looked at my eyes, I think, taking in all the details I had just observed and laughed a bit.

“Yes, I hold onto things for quite some time if I can find a use for something when I garden.” She looked down briefly as if embarrassed. “I’m so pleased to meet you, Francesca; I’ve been waiting for you.” And she turned her face anticipating a kiss, which I happily bestowed upon this person who was truly unknown to me.

“Oh, you knew I was coming.” I was pleased at this. Obviously, the agent had informed the tenant of my arrival.

“Of course, my dear. I have been waiting for you and so has my husband.”

“Oh. I would have been clearer about my plans, but…”

“There was no need. I never leave here. This is my paradise. It’s true the gardener keeps the grounds, but I lend my care to the flower beds and roses, and the orchard, of course. What bounty we will have soon! My husband thinks me silly, but the apple and pear orchards please me. Come with me and see them.”

“I remember hearing so much about the flowers, gardens and orchards here.”

“From Francois?”

“Yes,” I answered slowly. Francois was my stepfather’s name. I was a trifle puzzled that she should know his name but assumed that the estate agent had mentioned the names of my parents who were the previous occupants, or she had found something in the house with his name.

“He loves them as much as I. Maybe more so.” 

Loves them. Or did she say loved? My stepfather had been dead for years. Or was it possible that she had married someone named Francois? Improbable but not impossible. After all, I was named Francesca, after my mother. Yet, I was becoming confused by this blending of the past and present and this stranger’s odd familiarity with details of the house and my life that it seemed only I should know. 

We walked in silence toward the back of the house and it all seemed a dream: the perfect verdant lawn; the brilliant sunshine drenching the pale cocoa-yellow stone of which it was constructed; the elegant casement windows, and not least its poised placement on a knoll facing south toward the river. Beyond this the fringe of forest and then the drop of the cliffs and, I think, the hazy view of Westchester and in the great distance the Long Island Sound, floating somewhere beyond it all.

Once there, the woman stopped and stared ahead of herself and smiled, the smile of someone proud of some very great undertaking. So she should be, as the park at the back of the house bloomed in discrete shadings of white, lavender and indigo, and presented such a strikingly elegant composition that I almost gasped. And to the side of the house, a small orchard of perhaps a half-acre, arranged in a half-moon beyond the fringe of the luxurious garden, seemed a kind of Eden, both contrived and yet somehow spontaneous, as the grasses and wildflowers had been allowed to grow tall within the orchard, thus presenting a rustic scene that contrasted handsomely with the brilliantly planted and impeccable symmetry of the flower beds.

“It’s so fine to be here.” I had the feeling of returning home, and I had, as my mother had described the details of the house, gardens and orchard exactly.

The woman smiled, “Forgive me, my enthusiasm for meeting you has overcome my manners. My name is Elizabeth Allison.”

I blushed for no reason other than pleasure and was about to tell her my name when she bent her head backward and laughed, an odd laugh, a bitter and unhappy laugh that quite surprised me. I bent forward to take her hand, but she suddenly stepped aside, stooping forward and walking ahead, as if she had suddenly changed entirely and whispered, “Would you like to see where I will live when the time comes?” in what I thought was an unnerving, sing-song and even childish manner, very different from her previous deportment. Without waiting for my reply, she walked off surprisingly quickly and turned after a few seconds to see if I were following, still smiling that sweet smile, which now seemed fixed and mask-like.

Her meaning was all too clear and all too strange. I felt embarrassed and uncomfortable. And how odd the way she put it. I was beginning to suspect that her physical illness had affected her mental state. I didn’t answer, but didn’t have to, as she was suddenly moving quickly toward the edge of the orchard and toward the cliffs and I had no choice but to follow her.

There within the orchard was a small mausoleum, built of the same stone as the house. There was no cemetery, so the placement of the tomb looked out of place and unexpected, as if you had happened upon some grotesquerie while turning a corner. At the same time it was a gem of a building, with a sumptuously cast gate of Art Nouveau origin. Bees buzzed drowsily around the entryway flanked by bas-relief statues of heavy, crouching women with their eyes closed, their hands cast down and their arms hanging loosely at their sides; beautiful, but eerie in this unexpected setting of orchard in forest, the only strange note in this otherwise esthetically remarkable park. I had seen something like those women before in a tomb I had excavated in Egypt and it was most peculiar glimpsing the motif repeated in the New World.

“These are my lovelies…waiting for me.”

Now I began to feel very much ill at ease with her odd manner and sing-song, childish voice so very different from the woman I had first met. I was now certain that her illness had progressed so far that either it had affected her behavior or she made these statements out of despair. She stopped in front of the crypt as I stepped forward to examine it.

“I have paid for them and Francois will always be reminded of me, whether he wishes to be or not,” she muttered darkly, suddenly, and when I turned to look at her, she was scowling at me with the most terrible fury, and then her face closed into a kind of dead stillness as she spoke.

“You think, Francesca that I don’t know the reason for your visit? That I don’t understand once and for all why Francois married me? You think…you believe,” now she was shouting and she stepped weakly toward me, “…that I don’t understand!”

I was appalled and surprised, frightened and confused at all once.

“Francois?”

“Yes, Francois, my pretty pretty,” she hissed with particular venom on the repetition of the word, making it exceptionally ugly. Suddenly her face changed from the dull torpor and exhaustion of illness to a snide and ugly grimace of a sly and bitter smile.

“Yes, Francois, my pretty pretty, as if you had never heard of him. I brought you here to my tomb so you could see first-hand that even when I die, I will be here, close by, watching both of you. And you will bury me here because if you do not Francois will not inherit his portion of the estate. I would even change that now if I could, my bequest to him, but my marriage to him was tied to a legacy and cannot be altered. I was so stupid then, yes, stupid, the stupidity of a woman in love. That is why I do not use his name as my own any longer. Now all that is left to me is my hatred…of him, and of you, and my intent of staying here forever to remind both of you of your sin!” The last word she elongated into a sinuous shriek in the hot stillness of this forlorn and unfortunate morning.

I stumbled back, as if the sound had physical force, and losing my composure was about to say, “But, Francois is my stepfather.” However, even as I was confused, I understood what she meant, oh, I understood only too clearly and realized why my parents had never returned here, and the answers to many undesirable questions that lingered in the recesses of memory were suddenly thrust into clarity on this sunny, untoward morning. Questions I meant to ask my mother all those years now had ugly answers. That was when I recalled that fleeting memory of my mother’s voice in front of the fire at my home in Paris saying, “Soon you will understand.” But why, why did I need to understand, why at this point in my life was my parents’ relationship and my stepfather’s infidelity brought home to me?

Then she was at me, this hitherto frail woman, her fists raised and then striking me, my face, my eyes, pulling my hair and screaming, “Slut! Slut! You will leave with him, both of you. I will never allow you to remain in my home.” Although we were only a few feet apart, I was able to turn and run…run as fast as I could from this virago. I ran away from her, beyond the orchard, beyond the house, panting, gasping for air, down the drive where I stumbled in the gravel and fainted. The world faded quickly, but I heard her quite close by, repeating as I slipped away, “Yes, run, my pretty pretty, but you will not escape me.”

†   †   †

An August sun ravished the small office: windows were thrown open and fans lining the office shelves groaned and turned in the savage heat and humidity without offering relief. The window curtains fluttered, and then they hung limply as the trail of one quietly buzzing fan swept past them.

“She’s opened her eyes.”

I lay on a leather chaise lounge and I saw the ceiling fan, turning—a soft whir, and the bright afternoon sunlight coming through the blinds; then silence as the fan turned slowly away from me.

“Is the light bothering you?”

I shook my head.

“Drink this,” a well-dressed older man whispered as he bent down to offer me a glass delicately frosted with ice. I sipped. It was cold lemonade. I smiled and looked at him and swallowed the piquant liquid. He returned my smile.

“You speak English?”

“Yes,” I replied.

“Can you sit up?”

“Yes.”

“You were not well. You had fainted and couldn’t rouse yourself.”

“I see. I feel well enough now.” I pulled myself up from the chaise lounge, and turning, put my feet on the floor, but felt dizzy, wavered and the old man steadied me as he took the glass from my hand. I lay down again. “Maybe not so well,” I murmured, smiling weakly.

“The doctor was here, you know. Says you had a shock.”

“I must have, since nothing like this has ever happened before.” I stared at him and he didn’t look away. “Would you tell me who you are and where I am?” But I knew where I was. This could only be the realtor’s office. I could see the maps of the local area from where I lay and postings of houses and estates for sale.

He sat down and again looked at me with sympathy.

“You’re at your estate agent’s offices, not far from South Cliff. I am Mr. Carlisle, the owner. I went up to South Cliff to meet you because your agent had a death in the family and couldn’t make the appointment you arranged with him.”

“I wish I could have met you there. A strange house, it looked vacant at first…”

 “It is vacant. I sent you letters, three or four over the years, inquiring if you wished to lease the gatehouse. It had been occupied until ten years ago. I wrote you, and thankfully you finally responded.”

“The main house is vacant?”

“The main house is a ruin, madam. It has never been cared for, except for the gatehouse.”

“Why…why is it a ruin?”

“Immediately before the owner died, she added a codicil to her will that it never be occupied, nor sold, nor rented, and never cared for after her death. But the gatehouse is technically a different property, due to the way the lands were assembled and the deeds drawn, and she never mentioned it, only the main house. So we have advertised it and rented it as South Cliff, the name of the main house and the estate. But even the gatehouse has not been occupied for several years. That is why I wrote you. You never received the letters?”

“Perhaps. I am out of the country for long periods of time. My attorney opens the mails when I am not home…”

“This is most curious. He never informed you of these matters?”

“Oh yes, yes. At least, that the trust could no longer support the taxes on the estate.”

The agent looked surprised.

“But that is not the case. We have sent ample funds along to you and we have received back the small payment from you for taxes. A peculiar arrangement, as we could have had the funds deposited with the town here to pay the taxes without all the fuss and bother of sending you the check and then receiving payment in return, but we assumed that you wished to make certain that your trust income was not being squandered.”

“There were funds to pay the taxes?”

“Yes, quite a bit, far more than needed. You must know that?”

He looked at me closely, studying my surprise.

“You don’t know, do you? But you did send us the tax payments?”

I nodded. I think I understood. My attorney who didn’t wish me to make this trip…and why he did not wish me to make it.

I think Mr. Carlisle also understood, perturbed by a disturbing revelation for both of us.

“There is a plan to build a new highway to link the Catskill Mountains with New York City, going down from New York State, then atop the Palisades and across the new bridge to the city. All of the great houses have been condemned for some time now and will be demolished to accommodate this highway. You will receive a check from the road authority for the assessed value of your holdings. You may not agree with the sale, but unfortunately, there is no room for negotiation in this matter.”

“But why did you not tell me all of this in your letter?”

“Because I did not wish to upset you. I handle other estates with other absentee landlords and some of these families have been furious with me. With me! You would have thought that I was personally going to raze their homes. Fortunately or not, in your instance, South Cliff has been ruined for years. The roof of the main house has fallen in and the grounds have returned to scrub.”

I was astonished. “For years?”

“There was a fire several years after the last residents left.”

“My parents.”

“Yes, your parents were the last residents, although the owner still lived in the house high up in a cramped attic room after the divorce. They had come to live there when they were married. It seems a strange arrangement.”

I said nothing. It was a strange and sad arrangement.

Perhaps you are curious about the name of the estate?”

I smiled, “Do tell me.”

“It was called South Cliff because it was a wedding gift from your grandparents who lived on the Greycliff estate, just north of the house. Greycliff was a marvelous place, hewn from the bluestone of the Palisades themselves. But that house is a ruin as well.  It never was occupied again after your grandparents built South Cliff. I believe your grandparents relocated to Southampton many years ago. Such a waste, such a beautiful home…all these homes…ruined or about to be demolished. Greycliff’s lawns are wild with overgrown hedgerows planted in the English style and tea roses climb and bloom against the cracked walls. I remember it as a boy, a strange and forbidding place, built in a typical Victorian manner, with an enormous widow’s walk surveying incomparable views of the Hudson, Manhattan and New York Harbor. South Cliff was a smaller, lighter and friendlier home, inspired by the Gothic cathedrals of France and the Tudor homes of England.”

“Yes, it is lovely.” He looked at me quizzically. “Or it was lovely, as I imagined it. Or dreamt it. “Was it a dream?” I asked myself.

“In any event, there is something else that I must speak to you about. Or perhaps this is not a good time?”

I looked at Mr. Carlisle, the dapper Mr. Carlisle, and wondered if he were in league with my attorney on these tax matters. Perhaps not. He seemed genuinely surprised. In any event, I would have my secretary broach a customs director I knew who would know how to address embezzlement.

“We will have to make arrangements to move the remains.”

“What remains?” But he didn’t have to tell me.

“Perhaps your father spoke of his first wife?”

I corrected him, “My stepfather. He told me that she had died. I had no idea where she was buried, until today.”

“Today?”

“She is interred in the orchard guarded by those strange statues. Or what is left of the orchard. Correct?”

Now Mr. Carlisle looked more than startled.

I looked away from him and brushed off a drop of moisture rolling down my cheek in the oppressive heat, watched and listened to the monotonous drone of the fan and saw and heard two bees buzzing around the casement window in the office.

A window so like that of South Cliff. There had also been the sound of bees buzzing around those strange bas relief statues of heavy, crouching women with their eyes closed, their hands cast down and their arms hanging loosely at their sides, guarding the tomb in the orchard when Elizabeth Allison had told me, “These are my lovelies…waiting for me.”



BIO

Claude Chabot has published over 20 short stories and has produced and directed four radio plays based on his own stories. One of them, an adaptation of his own ghost story, was aired on public radio worldwide. 

Claude has supported himself by writing advertising copy, promotional materials and other media.







Cutthroat

by Nicholas Godec


April 30

            All thanks to last night’s law school gala I didn’t want to attend, I’ve got an interview tomorrow with Drakovitch & Associates. It was an over-the-top Saturday evening—I arrived to find a red carpet that ran from the sidewalk to the two hulking metal doors, which were swung wide open. The uniformed security detail checked to confirm everyone on the list, adding to the air of thick exclusivity. The air was thick indeed. NYU Law spared no expense. And no shame. I’ve just made my last tuition payment, have $200K in student loans, and have already received a letter in the mail requesting a charitable donation for the future class. Unbelievable. All that money and not a job to show for it. Well, we’ll see what Drakovitch wants from me.

            Inside, the space was massive, with a looming ceiling and walls that seemed miles away. The room was packed, full pandemonium well underway. It was only eight thirty p.m. when I entered, and already most people were either drunk or well on their way there. I had done a few lines before entering, just to stay on my toes.

            Flood lights painted the room in NYU’s deep purple. Ornate chandeliers refracted purple on the pool of fresh bodies. Many round dining tables made a circle around the dance floor. Waiters buzzed around taking drink orders, and there was a long line of takers for a photobooth well equipped with jumbo cowboy and top hats, oversized plastic glasses, and clip on bowties.

            Everyone, in their tuxes and gowns, looked happy, sexy, and successful. I felt like a phony. Probably the only one without a job in the room. I saw Matt and my friends clustered in a corner with some of the girls from our class. They were doing shots and high fiving while grabbing the pigs in blankets that floated by. Matt saw me and signaled me over. I joined them, putting on a cheerful mask as best I could.

            Stuck at the edge of the group watching everyone partying, I headed to the bathroom for another bump.

            I had a slight, energetic buzz when I rejoined the guys. Matt was laughing and moving closer to a dark-haired woman who looked a few years older than the rest of the class.

“John, meet Natasha,” Matt said. “She’s very interested in speaking with you.”

            “Natasha,” I said. Red lips contrasting with her pale face. A black, form-hugging dress. A petite and precise frame.

            “Hello, John,” she said with perfect enunciation, but an accent that sounded Eastern European. She had a reserved smile as if she were keeping a secret. “I was just hearing about you. I’m Natasha Vondra, senior associate at Drakovitch & Associates. Pleasure.”

            Her grip was firm, her hand cool to the touch.

            “Drakovitch … hmm, I can’t say I’ve heard of them. What brings you here? Are you an alum?”

            “No, no. I schooled in Vienna. I’m here hunting for new blood on behalf of the firm. We need a new junior associate, as one of our old ones has moved on. And I’m here because Drakovitch wants the best.” Her hand gestured expansively to the room.

            “I told her you were the smartest guy I know,” Matt chimed in.

            “Yeah, a real tortured genius,” Derrick added, causing Matt to subtly elbow his ribs.

            Natasha smiled. “Smartest at NYU Law, liked by your peers.” She stepped closer. “Lucky for us, and lucky for you, maybe.”

            She extended a card held between thin fingers.

            “Call me on Monday. We’ll see if an interview makes sense.”

            I took the card and looked at it. Park Avenue. Midtown.

            “Okay, will do,” I said looking up, but she was gone. I couldn’t see her anywhere in the packed room.

            I didn’t stay much longer.

            This morning, I called Natasha after a couple of iced coffees and a bacon, egg and cheese. I told her about my background growing up in Hudson, New York. How I worked summers as a caddy at the local golf club. I left out how my mom took off in ninth grade, how I felt embarrassed by my dad, who managed a pharmaceutical assembly line. I caddied for Mr. Heint and his lawyer Mr. Gasi. Both drove the same type of Benz.

            After asking where I interned, Natasha asked why I didn’t get an offer from Carson & Fielding. I told her that the group they were hiring into, their environmental desk, wasn’t up my alley. The truth was the associate couldn’t stand me. Anyway, I’m not sure she bought the environmental bit, but she still wants me there tomorrow at nine to speak with Victor Renfield, the hiring manager.

            She went on to explain their practice. They focused on trust and estate matters. Their clientele, a limited number of Europeans, were, by the sound of it, obscenely wealthy. They all had extensive assets in the United States.

May 01

            It was a quiet Tuesday morning when I arrived for my interview. The building was gray art deco, its lines severe and shadowy. I entered. There was an elevator bank to upstairs offices on the left and a frosted-glass door, with an intercom, to Drakovitch & Associates on my right. I hit the button.

            Natasha answered, her voice resonant. She buzzed me in.

            The door buzzed and I entered and walked down a hallway that led to a waiting room. A large wooden door on the opposite side of the room appeared to lead further into the building. I tried the door, but it was locked. I took a seat on an aged leather couch and waited.

            Moments later the door clicked, and there was Natasha, wearing a well-tailored black pantsuit.

            “John, come this way,” she said. She wasn’t smiling at me. I assumed she was an all-business-at-the-office type. I followed her through the door and down another hallway. The walls were made of stone masonry, more like a medieval castle than a Park Avenue building, and the floor was a seamless maroon carpet. I walked past old paintings. I’m not the most well versed in art, but old masters came to mind. Everything was cast in dim light from gilded wall sconces.

            “The building design is unique,” I said to fill the quiet as we walked.

            “Yes,” Natasha said.

            Must’ve cost a fortune, I thought.

            The passageway was narrow. I had no choice but to trail Natasha. We walked past frosted-glass doors; each door had a keycard panel to open it.

            “Mr. Renfield’s office is just at the end of the hall.”

            When stopped in front of a door, she knocked. “May we come in?”

            The door clicked, and we entered.

            A gaunt older man in a gray pinstripe suit stood in the middle of the room. I had a good sense, judging by his face and neck, of what his skeleton looked like. His suit sagged limply on his bony frame. He had thin white hair.

            His grin revealed a single gold front tooth.

            “Thank you, Natasha,” he said. She left the room.

            “And you must be John,” he said hoarsely, extending a brittle hand that felt filled with air when I took it. “I’m Vic Renfield. I’m pleased to meet you. Please take a seat.”

            He gestured to the chair across from his desk. I took a seat opposite him. He asked about where I grew up, my classes, my ambitions. I wondered if he sensed my hunger. Then he quizzed me on international, corporate, and estate law.

            “Close enough,” he’d said, when I explained my understanding of the tax treatment of estates held by foreign entities headquartered within and without the EU. I was relieved that it sounded like I knew something.

            He explained that they expected to hire two junior associates, me and someone named Colby, though they expected only one would remain after a three-month trial.

            At the end of our conversation Mr. Renfield reclined in his chair and stared blankly toward the frosted-glass door. “I’ve been here a long time. A long, long time. I’ve served Alex and Drakovitch & Associates for decades. Many years ago I was at a crossroads. My career, my life—I had to decide. You’re there now. What you decide will soon define you, so you better be able to live with your decision.” His mouth broadened to a wide grin.

            He moved to stand, again extending his nothing hand. “You’ve got the job, if you want it. Only accept if you will do whatever it takes. Commitment, loyalty, and most of all, discretion. That’s all we require.”

            I asked about comp. They agreed to pay me what a typical third year associate makes. I accepted immediately.

            “I’m all in,” I replied.

August 21

            Today was my first day. I got home thirty minutes ago. It’s ten to eight and I’m splayed on the couch. I feel dead. It was a strange day.

            I got to the office shortly before eight. Mr. Renfield was waiting for me at his desk. He looked exactly as he did during my interview.

            The first few hours of the day I signed the most elaborate NDAs I’ve ever seen. Nothing like these showed up in the classroom or at my internship. If I spoke of firm matters to anyone outside, I’d be in hot water.

            I was given a keycard to an office next door to Mr. Renfield’s. My keycard only opened three doors, the one to Drakovitch & Associates from the building lobby, the one from the reception room to the offices, and the one to my office. Before leading me into my new office, Mr. Renfield stopped me.

            “Just remember, yours is the office opposite the painting of Saturn devouring his children.”

            I looked at the painting, in which a wide-eyed figure, grotesque and bloody-mouthed, held the decapitated body of an infant.

            “Whoa, that’s pretty extreme,” I said.

            “Saturn got it right,” Mr. Renfield said, staring at the painting wistfully. “Stay alive at all costs.”

            An immense office. A large dark-oak desk. A couch opposite the desk and two worn leather-backed chairs that seemed to match the couch in the reception area.

            “I love the desk,” I said.

            “Yeah, they don’t give those out to juniors at the bulge brackets, do they?”

            No breakroom at the place. I met Colby, the other junior associate, in passing in the hallway, a gangly redhead who didn’t bother making small talk.

            “You’ll start on the Varga account,” Mr. Renfield said. “Mr. Varga is purchasing a majority interest in an elder care operation with a presence across California. He’s to be a silent owner behind his trust, or trusts, I should say. There’s much to draft, much to file.”

            Mr. Renfield dropped a stack of papers on my desk, old legal agreements covering Mr. Varga’s interests. I had to draft new contracts to arrange the purchasing entities. The account needed multiple NDAs, purchase agreements; each one I had to write from scratch.

            I’m nowhere near done. But I’m finally working in the real world. And I can smell my paycheck on the way.

September 12

            I’m finally home. I worked really hard today constantly trying to stay half a step ahead of Mr. Renfield’s deadlines. I’ve been learning a ton. Renfield and I usually came in around the same time in the morning, and then stayed until late. Often he dropped assignments on my desk as late as nine p.m., and some nights I didn’t eat dinner until midnight.

            At noon I walked out of my office to go to lunch. Curiosity got the better of me, and I decided to walk beyond Mr. Renfield’s office, deeper into the building. I took a turn to the left. In the long hallway, there were two doors: one of frosted glass to my right, and another facing me at the very end, an imposing door with a thick iron ring.

            I set my hand on it and pulled. It wouldn’t budge.

            I jumped after I heard a loud thud in the office adjacent to the iron door. It pounded again. Then again, this time with the shadow of what looked like a hand pressed against the frosted glass.

            “Hello? Is someone in there?” I shouted. I tried my keycard. Access denied. I pulled on the handle. Nothing. I yelled over my shoulder, “Somebody help! I need help over here! Someone!—”

            A hard yank on my forearm pulled me away. I turned to see Natasha scowling at me.  

            “Natasha, quick! Whoever is in there is in trouble.”

            “No one is in there.” She grabbed my wrist. “You shouldn’t be back here.”

            “But—ouch!”

            She pulled me away, back toward my office. She was freakishly strong.

            “Natasha, please! I’m telling you—”

            “Shut up! Do you want to get fired? Because that’s what Alex will do,” she said, “if he learns you wandered farther than you should. I’ve got a master key. I’ll look. You just get back to work.”

            We were at my office where she left me. Back at my desk, I unbuttoned my sleeve to find red marks where her fingers had grasped. I look at them now and they still sting when I touch them.

September 13

            “Hey. Turns out you were right.” Natasha said to me from the reception room when I arrived this morning. A janitor somehow got in and the door wouldn’t unlock. He’s fine. Was just a bit startled.”

            She was dressed, as usual, in black. I thought of the handprint pressing against the glass like a plea for help.

            “Good, I’m glad to hear it.”

            But why didn’t he say anything?

            Mr. Renfield came into my office this afternoon.

            “How’s the purchase agreement progressing?” he asked.

            “It’s good. There are a ton of provisions, but I’m almost done.”

            “Good, because the Vargas, along with a few other of the firm’s clients, are forming a consortium to buy as many elder care facilities as they can get ahold of in the Mid- and Southwest. We need to execute their buys quietly via a number of shell companies to maintain their anonymity. We’re going to be exceptionally busy for a while, until these deals are done.”

            Mr. Renfield’s thin white hair was tightly gelled back but frayed in places like a worn rope.

            “Here,” Mr. Renfield said dropping a large file box on my desk. “This should get you started. There’s plenty more where that came from.”

            I felt a pit in my stomach and was suddenly lightheaded. “I’m on it, Mr. Renfield.”

            “Good. By the end of week, please.”

            I loaded up on Red Bulls and got to work. I didn’t leave my desk for several hours. I ran out to pick up Chinese for dinner when I became aware of how hungry I was. I brought it back to my desk and kept at it. I was barely making a dent. I had no idea how I’d finish by end of week. I dreaded the thought of being rewarded with more of the same. This was the job. At that moment, I hated it.

            Deep into redlining a draft agreement, I heard some shuffling from the hallway. I got up and opened the door to see Natasha, along with three men who appeared ragged, each wearing layers of dirty clothes. Two had unkempt beards. Their faces looked weathered, their eyes absent.

            “This way gentlemen,” Natasha said with a smile, that same smile she wore when I first met her at the gala. “We’ll take care of you.”

            “Hey, Natasha,” I said, pulling her focus away. “What’s going on?”

            “Hey, John,” she said warmly, her face glowing from the wall sconces. “Meet some of our newest clients.” She took a step toward me, her mouth at my ear. “Pro bono.”

            Her cool, sweet aroma cut through the stench the three men carried.

            “Right this way,” she said to the men. “You best get back to it, John,” she said with a wink, and continued down the hall.

            I went back to my desk. 11:07 p.m. What was Natasha even doing here? Did she work this late often? I knew the bulge brackets overloaded their associates, but this was insane.

            I wondered about those ragged men. What were they doing here? Pro bono … must be for some sort of tax break. I sank back into the latest agreement I’d been reviewing, consoled by the paycheck I knew was accruing as I worked.

             I cracked a Red Bull, probably my thousandth of the day. I worked and worked, and my back ached, but I was locked in. Hours passed.

            A rap at my door, then a click and it opened. Natasha. She swayed slightly and was smiling. A genuine smile like I’d never seen her wear. Her face was flushed as if she’d been drinking.

            “Hey, John,” she said, leaning on the wall.

            “Hey. Still here?” I looked at the clock—2:39 a.m. What the fuck was I doing? I decided I’d pack it up.

            “Yes of course. The work never stops. I think you’re starting to see that.”

            She walked toward me. “Why don’t you relax a little bit.” She ruffled my hair. “I’m leaving. I suggest you leave soon too.”

            “I will soon. I’ve just got to finish this up,” I said.

            “I do like a man who works hard,” she said, then kissed me on the mouth. Her hands were on my face. Then her lips trailed down and landed on my neck. She kissed again, even nibbled.

            Her nibbles tickled. She pulled my hair and I flinched, but that didn’t stop me from reaching down and running my hands over her dress to her calves, then back up again, teasing the dress up, bit by bit. I turned toward her and pulled her on top of me.

            “Naughty Johnny,” she said. I kissed her mouth hard and plunged my hand between her legs. She purred and dug her nails into me, cutting through my shirt and, I was sure, drawing blood.

            She wasn’t wearing anything under her dress. I unzipped. Then I was inside her and exploded.

            “I’m sorry. I—”

            “It’s okay. I can’t get pregnant.”

            “That’s not what I meant. You were … I couldn’t help myself.”

            She stared at me.

            I felt a chill run down my spine. She got off my lap and fixed her dress.

            “This never happened,” she said, then left without a goodbye.

September 20

            The last couple of days have been a blur. I eventually finished working through the box of documents. Mr. Renfield was ecstatic when I dropped it on his desk.

            “Good work. Now let’s see if we can speed it up a bit.” Renfield looked more tired than usual.

            He handed me another box. I looked at the overstuffed files, bigger than the last one, and felt my guts twist. The last box hurt. Not just mentally, but physically. My back and neck ached. I felt the lightheaded dizziness from excessive caffeine.

            I opened the box and pulled out the first document. Started working on it. Slow and painful.

            Part of me was hoping for a return visit from Natasha.

September 27

            The agreements … the multitudinous corporate entities … shadow entities within shell companies wrapped in shadows. Elite obfuscation. Law school never taught this. But it was coming together in cryptographic beauty.

            The Vargas family, as of earlier this afternoon, owns shares in a consortium quietly worth more than many public companies. They’re smart to focus on elder care. It’s a profitable, booming industry with strong expected growth.

            I was starting to like it here, even with the grueling hours. I often stayed close to midnight, while Colby checked out every day at seven p.m. on the nose.

October 07

            Natasha breezed into my office. I hadn’t seen her since what “didn’t happen” happened. “Come. Mr. Drakovitch wants to see you.”

            We walked down the hall deeper into the building. We took a left, then another left. Then we were at the terrific iron door I’d seen before, which now lay open, revealing a spiral stone staircase that led down to, I assumed, a basement level. To my surprise, the stairs were lit by actual torchlight. I asked myself if I was dreaming. I hadn’t slept much. But I felt the temperature drop (I don’t think you can feel temperature in dreams), the chill raising goosebumps on my flesh.

            Down the staircase, a hallway led to a large open office. There was an imposing, ornate, dark mahogany desk surrounded by shelves of books on the walls. Beside the desk, a globe rotated on a gilded column. Mr. Drakovitch stood behind the desk, towering over Mr. Renfield, who stood close by.

            Mr. Drakovitch wore a blue pinstripe suit, the bluest I’d ever seen. His smile was disarming. He winked and took my hand and called me sport.

            I noticed that Natasha’s face melted in adoration.

            “Our man of the hour,” Mr. Drakovitch said with a soft Eastern European accent. “Renfield. Leave us.”

            “Yes sir, Mr. Drakovitch. Right away. And thank you, sir.”

            “Settling in, sport?” He asked, extending his hand. He shook my hand, slowly tightening his grip. His blue-gray eyes dazzled despite the dim lighting. He continued to hold that first smile, a crooked smile, as if he were scoffing at the world, as if he knew a joke no one else was in on.

            “Yes, sir. So far, it’s been great. I’m learning a ton from Mr. Renfield, and Natasha has made sure I have, uh, everything I need.”

            Mr. Drakovitch looked me over. He nodded to Natasha, who stood quietly by the entrance.

            “Terrific. I thought you’d fit in. Please, John, sit. Make yourself comfortable.”

            I sat and sank into the plush leather. Drakovitch remained standing, leaning at a tilt on the bookshelf behind his desk, crossing one leg over the other. His eyes never left me.

            “I’ve heard good things about you,” Drakovitch said, his voice low and melodic. Natasha speaks highly of your … dedication.” He continued to study me. “And I know Renfield doesn’t offer praise lightly. In addition to delivering good work, he says you have adjusted to our odd schedule here. You dig into the work with vigor. I have just arrived from Paris, and had to meet our new star.”

            I shifted in my seat under the weight of Mr. Drakovitch’s gaze. I was charmed, but underneath I felt a slight unease. “Thank you, Mr. Drakovitch. I try to give everything I have.”

            “We appreciate it. I appreciate it.” He straightened and walked around his desk. He was close and smelled like smoke and wine. “You know, John”—his voice dropped almost to a whisper—“the world … it’s filled with unbelievable possibility. Leaning in here can take you far.”

            Behind the thrill of his praise, I felt a knot of fear in my stomach. “Thank you, Mr. Drakovitch. I’m really loving it so far. I’m excited to keep digging in.”

            Mr. Drakovitch chuckled. “I’m sure you are. You remind me of myself as a young chap just starting out. I had nothing but an insatiable hunger. Eventually it brought me here, to this country.”

            Mr. Drakovitch walked toward me and rested his hand on my shoulder. I looked up into those smoky blue eyes, eyes that looked aged beyond his chiseled face, eyes that seemed to see me for what I was, that accepted me as I was. “I’m all in, Mr. Drakovitch.”

            Mr. Drakovitch squeezed my shoulder.

            “Good boy.” He straightened, adjusted the cuffs of his suit. He stepped back and pointed to the door. “Now, go and make us proud. Natasha will see you out.”

October 13

            I ran into Natasha this morning as I was entering the office. She was sitting in reception, waiting. “Hey, what’s up?” I said.

            She looked at me flatly. “Hi.”

            “I’ve been thinking of you lately,” I said. It was the truth. “Want to grab a coffee later?”

“            No, no. I have to work,” she said. She looked down into the notebook in her lap, letting me know our brief chat was over.

            Mr. Renfield popped into my office that afternoon.

            “Hey John. I’ll only be but a minute. I wanted to do a quick performance check-in.” Mr. Renfield sat in the chair opposite me at my desk.

            Performance check-in? I felt a shiver run up my spine.

            “Look, you’ve been doing swell. We still on track with the purchase agreements?”

            “Yes sir, Mr. Renfield. On track and going strong.”

            “Ha, I figured.” He reclined in the chair. “How are you settling in?”

            I felt myself sit a bit straighter. “Great, Mr. Renfield. It’s hard work, but I’m enjoying it.”

            “We work pretty late here. How’s that going for you?”

            “Good. I mean, I’m a legal associate, I’d expect to work late anywhere.”

            There was a pause. He eyed me closely. “Yes, I suppose that’s true. Just like anywhere. Good. You’re doing alright. Keep your head down and stay the course.” With that he left.

            That evening, I walked to the bathroom and heard low voices. I quietly inched forward without rounding the corner.

            “Look, I’m sorry you’re sick. But that’s not up to me.” Natasha’s voice.

            “I understand that,” I heard Mr. Renfield reply. “But I’m saying it’s time. You all need to keep your promise and not let me perish into obscurity.”

            I slunk back to my desk, not wanting to wander into whatever that was. Mr. Renfield, sick? I wondered what promise he was referring to.

October 23

            The late hours and lack of sleep persisted, but I didn’t care. I cruised through setting up the necessary contracts for the other families involved in the consortium. The sums of money going to acquire these companies were staggering. I felt I was on the inside, in the know.

            This afternoon, Mr. Renfield came into my office after reviewing the latest batch of contracts I’d delivered.

            “You’re ready, and I can’t be more thrilled,” he said. “I’ve been waiting a long time for this, to find someone who could take my place. Mr. Drakovitch made it clear that was necessary for me to get my … um … payout. I’m not getting any younger, you know.”

            I wasn’t sure what he meant. Was he retiring? I felt alert, excited. Was I getting promoted? Already?

            “I hope you’re not going anywhere,” I replied.

            “No, no. Not going anywhere. Sticking around. Just moving up. And taking you with me.”

October 31

            Yesterday, I finished the complete legal setup of the consortium, executed the last remaining purchase agreements for the elder care companies, the numerous shell entities, with ultimate legal ownership hidden in the hands of these powerful European families. We finished three weeks ahead of Mr. Renfield’s timeline. Mr. Renfield hummed and walked with extra pep the few times I saw him.

            The rest of the day was light. I was packing up to go home when Natasha came into my office.

            “Great work, John. You’ve exceeded expectations. Tomorrow night we’re having a reception honoring you and Mr. Renfield for securing this deal. It’ll start at eleven p.m. here at the office.”

            She left before I could respond. Exceeded expectations played on repeat in my mind. But a reception at eleven p.m.? I’d come to expect weird practices from the firm, late-night client visits and locked doors. The firm’s conventions were bizarre, but the checks came in and I was becoming a dangerous attorney. I pushed the reception out of my mind.

            I left the office at five, knowing I’d be coming back at night. I went for a run in Central Park, something I hadn’t done in months. It was chilly out, but as I ran, I saw plenty of twentysomething women heading to Halloween parties in skimpy costumes. Plenty of nurses, schoolgirls, devils, police officers. Some of the women were gorgeous. But every beautiful, short-tailed devil made me think of Natasha. Despite her terse and standoffish manner, something about her was so mesmerizing that these other women paled by comparison.

            As I ran, I realized I looked forward to getting back to the office. Drakovitch & Associates had become the place in the world that excited me most. I looked forward to the next monumental task Mr. Renfield would throw at me. I looked forward to Natasha. The sun was retreating, casting long dark shadows underneath a crimson sky.

            Matt from NYU texted me earlier that he was throwing a party in his loft downtown and assured me there’d be plenty of “talent.” I texted him I’d be at the office late. I had no desire to go to his party—it felt frivolous, a waste of time.

            I got back to the office at ten to eleven p.m. Natasha was there, waiting in the reception in the same sexy dress she wore when I first met her at the gala.

            “Good evening, John. Right this way.”

            I followed her until we reached the imposing iron door. We entered and went down the torchlit stone staircase, passed through Mr. Drakovitch’s office and entered a hidden hallway that was revealed behind a bookshelf that hinged from the wall. The hallway was long, damp, and dark, lit only by scattered torches. The hallway opened into a cavernous, circular room with a high stone ceiling.

            I looked around, then made out Mr. Renfield’s limp, bloody body on the floor in the middle of the room. He was bleeding profusely from the neck. Mr. Drakovitch towered over the body as if he were examining a curiosity.

            “Ah, my protégé,” Mr. Renfield said weakly from his pool of blood. “On time, as usual.”

            Mr. Drakovitch looked up and presented me with a warm, bloody smile. “Welcome to the party, old sport. We’re just making Mr. Renfield here into a permanent member of the Drakovitch clan.”

            I was frozen in place. I realized I wasn’t breathing and gasped. My chest pounded. The smell of iron hung in the air.

            “What … what’s happening?!” I finally managed. “Is this some Halloween gag?” But I thought I knew the answer.

            “No. This is no joke, my boy. Mr. Renfield has been a most exceptional servant. He’s sick, his cancer has advanced, so we had to accelerate his promotion. The members of our firm, the valued ones, are like family. Mr. Renfield, with your help, is receiving the gift of eternal life. He’s earned it.”

Mr. Renfield looked up from his puddle of blood. “This future can be yours one day, too,” Renfield said quietly.

I gasped again, I was breathing hard and my chest pounded and ants crawled under my skin.

“Finally, I’m glad this life will be over soon.” Mr. Renfield said barely audibly. “I’m ready to feel good again; to live forever. Let’s get on with it. I don’t feel too hot right now.”

“Okay. Moving right along. John, you may recognize Mr. Colby,” Mr. Drakovitch said, retrieving my red-haired peer from the shadows. Mr. Colby’s eyes were bulging. Tears and snot dripped down his face. “It’s not that Mr. Colby underperformed. It’s more that you ate his lunch. Now, Mr. Renfield will need to feed on him to complete his transition.”

I remembered my interview with Mr. Renfield, during which he said only one of us would remain after three months.

“Oh, and you’re getting made permanent, with a significant pay bump. Exciting, right? That is, once you do the honors and earn our trust.”

Still holding Colby, Mr. Drakovitch moved forward and held out a shaving knife, which I took without thought. I stared at the sharp edge of the blade, the handle resting loosely in my hand. I couldn’t clasp it firmly—my hand was shaking.

“What do you want me to do?” I asked, but I knew the answer.

“You’re smart. Don’t ask stupid questions,” Mr. Drakovitch replied.

“Go on,” rasped Mr. Renfield, crumpled and bloodied on the floor. “Do your job.”

I couldn’t move. I stared at the knife, balanced in the center of my open palm. My eye reflected to me in the side of the blade.

Did I have a choice? I looked at Colby. Mr. Drakovitch would demand new blood, one way or the other.

Colby kept crying. He tried to scream, was pleading behind his gag.

“John, it’s a bloody world we live in,” Mr. Drakovitch said. “Best act fast, sport. Or Mr. Renfield will die. He’s waited a long time for this.”

I closed my fist around the knife, tried to will my body to move.

“Do it now,” Mr. Drakovitch said. “We’re out of time.”

Renfield appeared unconscious. The pool of blood was now stretching to our feet.

“Do it if you want to remain with Drakovitch & Associates.” Mr. Drakovitch’s eyes narrowed. “Do it if you want to remain. It’s either Colby or you.”

I forced myself to meet Colby’s eyes.

“Sorry man,” I said as I slowly moved toward him.

He writhed as best he could while Mr. Drakovitch held him.

“Here, I’ll make it easy for you.” Mr. Drakovitch held Colby’s head sideways, exposing Colby’s neck. Colby’s artery was bulging.

I cut his throat. It was surprising; the skin easily gave way. He went limp and crumpled to the ground.

Natasha came forward, grabbed Colby’s arm and dragged the corpse to where Mr. Renfield lay. She licked blood off her fingers.

Mr. Drakovitch came toward me and placed a gentle hand on my shoulder. “Well done,” he said.

“Welcome to the team,” Natasha said, and added, “we’ve got you now.”

            Mr. Renfield woke and began licking Colby’s blood. Renfield’s face grew plump and rosy. It was as if he were sprouting muscle. Thick white hair grew, replacing the thin white wisps. As his strength picked up, Mr. Renfield found Colby’s throat, sunk his teeth in and continued to drink, his eyes rolling to the back of his head.

            “Come. Let’s let the man enjoy his first feed in peace,” Drakovitch said. “He’ll be here awhile.”

            “Yes, nothing like it,” Natasha said. “You never forget your first time.”

            There was cheese and charcuterie waiting for us in Mr. Drakovitch’s office. “All for you, I’m afraid, but enjoy,” Mr. Drakovitch said. Natasha and Mr. Drakovitch made small talk around me. I ate what was on the plate in front of me; it felt like the safe thing to do.

            After some time, Mr. Renfield joined us. He was beaming. He saw me, rushed over and hoisted me in the air with a hug.

            “What did I tell you?” Mr. Renfield said, patting me on the back. “Our boy John is a stand-up guy! Officially, welcome to the firm.”

            I’m home now, staring at the white ceiling. I can only see red. Colby and Mr. Renfield’s blood mixed, my hand on the knife, cutting, their splayed bodies, one drinking the other.



BIO

Nick Godec writes poetry and short fiction, with works appearing in a variety of journals, including Sierra Nevada Review, El Portal, Grey Sparrow, and MORIA Literary Magazine. He has a B.A. in history and an MBA from Columbia University and works in finance in New York City. Nick enjoys spending time with his wife, Julia, and their miniature pinscher, Emma.







Butcherback Argosy

by Jessica Lackaff

Ⅰ

I saw him coming from a mile away. I was on the porch with a riveting paperback Reggie had given me the first earthly second she was done with it. The opener was about a leviathan drifting through the ocean, barely moving its tail, not hunting, just letting things glide into its ever-gaping mouth. On the cover, a naked woman swam the forward crawl and beneath her, blossoming from the depths, a shark rose, enormous, piranha-toothed, mouth like a bottle opener. As I read I often returned to the cover to reorient myself in the thrill.

I saw the car come around the point, and when it slowed for our lane I had to stop in the middle of a paragraph. A sign on the telephone pole said ‘Private Drive,’ but the car turned in without hesitation. I put my finger in the paperback and waited. How easily he drifted into our territory, and even now I see the white car rippling up the lane between the fields, blackberries in fruit and flower, Queen Anne’s lace. I retied my headscarf and dusted my slacks and slid on my sandals. I riffled the paperback to smell Reggie’s cigarette-scent and set the book on top of a weather-warped National Geographic with a sleepy beaten-gold lion on the cover. It was my last drop of real solitude, the last day of school in June.

It took him a moment to unfold himself from the car. He was easy-looking and tall, in shirt sleeves and his suit vest, and he buttoned his collar and tightened his tie, with a rueful smile up at me as he put on his jacket and shot his cuffs. I wasn’t interested in what he was selling, and I didn’t want to invite him in, but there I was, obviously doing nothing.

Our ranch house was built into the slope, with wide steps to the verandah, and a raggedy circle of gravel down in front. I was alone on the property, which ran upslope into old orchards and, below, fanned out into farmland. The front door stood open, and deep in the house the washing machine stopped swishing and clicked to silence. At that moment, the brown rabbit came through the door and paused on the top step, one ear straight up. Buck or doe, its name was Adelaide.

The salesman was struck, beguiled, his mouth open in amazed delight. With a boyish lunge he was halfway up the steps, and he reached out gently, letting Adelaide smell him. Then his long fingers kneaded the sable ruff. I stood up. I didn’t want him to see my things, my accoutrements of thought: cigarettes, matches, pulp novel; the magazine glued to the table with rain.

I pressured him back from my private space, and he ducked his head under the shade of the porch and shyly offered his hand. ”Luxevac,” he said, smiling, a little lost, a vacuum cleaner salesman who had wandered off his route.

He gave me his card, bounced a little on his toes, and laughed with dazed joy as the rabbit lop-lopped across his foot and vanished through the dimness of the front door.

”Enchanting!” he said. ”You can imagine I’ve seen a lot of things in my travels, but a rabbit that lives in the house? My wife will never believe this.”

He was supposed to be back in the city by five, but he was all turned around on these country roads. Yes, he sold vacuum cleaners, the high-powered ones that eliminate dust mites. Did I know about dust mites?

He pulled a flier from the breast of his jacket. I could not resist the scanning electron image of a dust mite, head on—a chitinous hairy rutabaga with sucking mouthparts extended. I wanted that flier, wanted to wow and horrify Reggie with it. ”These things are everywhere!” I’d say authoritatively. ”Crawling all over us!”

He put his hands in his pockets like Fred Astaire and jogged sideways down the steps. Then he smiled up at me, and patted the canopy on his car. ”You wanna take a look?”

I was curious to see the technology that extracted mites. He unlocked the hatch and flipped it open as I came up. Heat unfolded in my face. The bed of the car was carpeted, packed with atomic streamlined chrome.

”I’ve got the Duchess and the Argosy, and my favorite, the Princess. Look at ‘er. The power of a jet engine. Detachable parts. Brushes. Does drapes, stair runners, shag carpet, floors. You’ll never sweep again.”

I liked the Argosy, a canister that looked like a chrome rocket pack. He showed me the brushes that went with it, and then caught me gazing over the countryside as the school bus swung around the point of Craig Hill. Nan would be home in a minute. He’d cut short my precious time alone, the last of my true selfhood. I smiled with my teeth locked.

He understood my look, and straightened up, preparing an argument. He had a soft, kind mouth, and harsh eyebrows that he wore pushed harmlessly back.

”I’m sorry but—we’re a Hoover family,” I said, thinking he’d find that amusing. I turned my foot on its side, curling my toes.

”—So, ‘maybe next time,’ ” he murmured. He was still, his hand on the raised hatch, his tie fallen on the perpendicular drop, and he watched the school bus disappear beyond the wild plum thickets at the bottom of the pasture. He had clicked to a different setting, a void where he waited for a letdown in mood to stop fighting him and settle into acceptance. Then he slammed the hatch.

In the distance, asbestos brake pads sang.

He turned and reached for me, and I breathed in, but he only plucked the bent advertising pamphlet from my hand and shoved it back inside his jacket. Opening the door of his car, he let it pivot to the end of his arm, and then, struck by a thought, looked back, squinting his eyes to block out the sight of me. ”I think you’ll regret not getting the Butcherback,” he said artfully.

I acquiesced, glad I’d wasted his time as he’d wasted mine. And, as he drove away, and I climbed the steps, I did feel regret, because he put the image in my head of a humped beast with a ruff of bloody arrows, gnawing its way through dirt, its belly full of desiccated mites. I wanted the Butcherback. I saw it growling its way hungrily down the hall runner, leaving a trail sucked so clean that it was paler than the rest of the rug, every strand of fiber standing up like stubble after the chaff cutter passes.

The school bus gave a dusty sigh and the accordion door folded open. Nan leapt free and ran with short steps in her patent-leather Mary Janes, flailing her lunch box and a handful of papers. She always leapt from the bus and ran as fast as she could and ended up gasping, trudging the last torturous bit up to the house, played out.

Big heaps of brambles encroached along the lane, spangled with bees, and, halfway up the road, as Nan hit the hyperventilation point, she met the white car.

The car stopped, and I shaded my eyes, critically observing the sunshot filaments of her fraying braids, hoping she’d remember her manners. As he said hello, his arm emerged from the window and folded itself on the ledge. She nodded vigorously, baring her gappy smile, and danced a few steps to the side. The car began to roll forward, in a drifty way, and she hurried on to me.

Up the porch steps she clattered, and into my arms. Full against me, she looked up. She could not know how it made me feel to see my own mother’s swan-like cheekbones, rebuilt in miniature. ”Nana-banana,” I said thoughtlessly. The trapped animal of her heart against me was part of our nexus, like the harebell-blue edge of accusation in her eyes. I was expected to divine everything she experienced at school; we both saw my inadequacy. Honestly, the fact that we were actually discrete beings—that our lives operated separately—still surprised us both.

Nan pulled away, leaving the papers pressed to my front, and went into the house. She reserved the really catapulting hugs for Andreas; ours was a far more complicated love.

I sank back into my book. Inside the house, Nan put on a record, Bolero, Toscanini’s sped-up version that had so insulted Ravel, with its devil’s intervals—those maddening, terrifying lags.

I thought she was getting a cookie, but she came out with her sable rabbit in her arms, and sat down in the swing beside me. Floating through the open door, Bolero started out sounding like springtime, a breathless, deceptive air of promise.

We had already discussed the cover of my book, but again she asked: ”Does the shark eat the lady?”

”No, it just kind of bites her leg,” I said. ”Oh, the shark bites with his teeth, dear,” I sang into her neck, on the opposite side of the rabbit. She laughed quietly, so as not to disturb her baby, her eyes tearful with excitement. She held the curved brown back like someone patting a baby’s diaper. My favorite parts of the rabbit were the felted piss-yellow bottoms of its feet, I don’t know why.

Nan kicked one foot in time with the militaristic buildup of sound. Her white tights were grubby across the knees and there was a blood-darkened shred stretched across her patella. I reached over to put my finger in the hole, my cool Mom finger on her hot crusty flesh, and she twitched her leg away, and I felt stupid with nowhere to put my affection.

I pushed off the floor and Nan and the rabbit and I glided forward, weightless. I looked sightlessly down at my book. Reggie was meeting an old school friend for lunch in town and this had eaten me the entire day. In high school, Reggie was a greaser, with a chiffon scarf around her head and a slutty sneer. She had invented a mode of being as unrelated to the past as the code on a computer punch card. She took me from the depressing world of my parents and made me funny and true. And suddenly, we were out of school and she revised what I’d assumed was a permanent code of nihilism and remade herself as a wife and mother—skilled and sarcastic, cooking and sewing in a fabulous flurry, having sex, glugging rum into a blender—and so, following along, did I.

Deliriously, I raised the paperback and smelled it. Nan looked up, the imprint of her father’s blonde Italian blood in her high, clear brow. Andreas joked that she looked like the girl who married the Lonely Goatherd.

”This music’s scary at the end,” said Nan.

”It’s certainly hectic,” I said. ”But then so is ‘drip drip drop little April showers.’ ” It was fascinating to watch her relationship with art emerge. She had shown preference from the moment she was born. Her musical taste lay necessarily alongside all of ours—from Santana’s Abraxas, in her father’s collection, to the Bay City Rollers of Shawnee’s devotion. ‘Saturday Night’, now that was the song! Andreas and the kids in the living room, thrown into a frenzy of disco fingers.

*       *       *       *

Andreas was thudding uncharacteristically as he came in from work; he entered the kitchen long and lithesome in his three-piece polyester suit, teeth glowing under his big Elvis sunglasses as he lurched along with Nan attached to his side, her feet riding the forklift of his Weejuns. ”We swung the deal, passed the merger, big day at the bean factory, big day, big day,” he said in his mild, husky voice, holding Nan’s head against his ribs as he hitched closer so I could lean over the ironing board and kiss him. ”Where’s Nantucket?” he asked me, as if we were alone.

”Look on a map,” I said.

Laboriously, he dragged his mummified leg down the hall, garishly groaning.

I started dinner and went outside. When Andreas was home, the garden was the place to be. It sprang up at the wave of his hand over Honeoye loam, and when he was in it, the air rainbowed with sprinkler spray. He was wearing surfer shorts and a ‘Beach Bum’ T-shirt with a footprint on it. A stray hen hovered at his heel. Nan was barefoot, in a pair of underwear, her braids down her back. When he saw me, Andreas started singing ‘This Was a Real Nice Clambake,’ one of his happy songs. Showily he sailed a knot of lambsquarters over the fence into the henyard and the rooster shrilled a hawk warning that made the hens crouch. The three of us laughed madly. Nan laughed so sharply that her pale shoulder blades touched.

”Hey, your wascally wabbit’s in the radishes!” cried Andreas.

The rows of baby vegetables were just speckled stripes, and Nan dodged carefully after Adelaide across the frilly potato patch Andreas had planted on Good Friday. She was beginning to exhibit the long bones of her father, and her changing limbs made me feel I had to focus harder. The brown rabbit sat up, feeding a Swiss chard stem into the corner of its mouth like a kid at the pencil sharpener. Andreas leaned on his hoe and laughed, his eyes on mine in the pure concord of parenthood.

*      *      *      *

Reggie and I read Milton. We read Virginia Woolf, Sidney Sheldon, Ways of Seeing. We had classical records; folk music; Carousel and Oklahoma!—we had Sticky Fingers and Led Zeppelin III. We lay on the living room rug surrounded by the big art books, overcome by what people had done. We made long Modigliani line drawings of each other. We hammered copper. We loved Polanski’s Knife in the Water, Zeffirelli’s Romeo and Juliet. We loved James Bond. We passed through a period of batik; a season of pysanky eggs; several rounds of Shibori tie-dye. Reggie wanted to be a fashion designer; she could iron a placket like a filet knife. I studied palmistry, and didn’t get far with it. We made our own bracelets, halter tops, winged helmets; we cut each other’s hair.

We didn’t know how to get to the Big Art. We didn’t know how to take a stab at originality or honesty without displeasing all those around us. It was my sense that you had to withdraw into the gyre of yourself, to the detriment of your outer life, and I was always talking about the impossibility of this. Meanwhile, we learned how to wear fake eyelashes, taught the kids to swim, made piles of sandwiches; we dressed Nan as Woodstock, Shawnee as Snoopy; Arnie as the Red Baron. We were helplessly caught in our lives. We didn’t know how to write a poem that wasn’t trite. We didn’t know how someone could make a summer movie so overwhelmingly scary that it wanted to come out of the screen and kill you.

We saw the movie with our husbands, who laughed at our terror, and then, somewhat seasoned, Reggie and I went back, this time with Arnie. It was not a film for children, but Arnie was thirteen, and had shocked us into it by taking a startling switchback toward adulthood. Reggie had come home from shopping and found him blitzed on the couch. Sleepy-drunk. She was appalled: he could barely stand, and from the smell of him, he’d been into the schnapps. Arnie had always been nice as pie, one of those kids who perpetually seem like they’re seven, walking around in underwear and a blanket, but at the same time he’d begun to dismantle radios behind our backs, destroy things, crack windows. And now we had to lock up the liquor cabinets. So, to keep him close, and to haze him, we took him to Jaws.

Years before, on that Friday afternoon that would be Jack Kennedy’s forever, I was sitting in an OB/GYN waiting room with Arnie in my lap. He was growling to himself and gnawing the pasteboard corner of a Little Golden Book: Little Fur Family, illustrated by Garth Williams. Down the hall a door opened and Reggie came out past the reception desk, her hand closed around her throat, and she stopped and stared at us as if permanently establishing who we really were, Arnie and I.

She would never see the world the same way again. She told us this, lowering herself down beside me. She was already pregnant with Shawnee; I was nineteen and still in college, still unmarried. We were coming to grips with the fact that there was real evil in the world, and we vowed to protect Arnie from it. The Little Fur Family, so sleepy and tender—

‘warm as toast

smaller than most’

—seemed unassailable until that moment, but we were rattled for months, and a mention of JFK returns me to the pictures in that book, and Arnie’s little head as I kissed him, his tiny slumped shoulder like a crookneck squash. Arnie was, essentially, my first baby, and his growing up was a betrayal, forcing us to acknowledge the coursing atavism that rises in adults.

So, Arnie was between us in the station wagon, scared out of his wits, hugging his knees as the shark fin came through the water. Reggie and I laughed heartlessly. It struck me that he didn’t quite understand what was going on in the autopsy scene, and I barely cognized it myself—it was too untenable to register as something that could happen—pieces of a girl in a box. I think what shocked me the most was that there were people who had the job of looking at such things.

*       *       *       *

Why don’t you like Phil? Reggie always asked. Why don’t you like Phil? It was a good question. She’d been saying it for years.

We lolled to the movement of the porch swing, sipping boozy tonic water with chunks of watermelon. Across the corn fields the sun’s longest wavelengths reached for us through the red-hot atmosphere of the west. Andreas and Phil were locked over a basketball like two Knicks playing to the death, down on the gravel turnaround, surrounded by screaming kids. Oh, I liked Phil Thalasso, but he didn’t care much for me.

”Phil says you play your cards close to your chest,” Reggie said.

”What’s it to Phil,” I said dreamily. Phil read books on how to read people, which seemed predatory, but if I had to run a supermarket like him, maybe I’d worry more about understanding the human race. On the lawn, the violet hare browsed, and from the henhouse came the wing-drumming squawk of a hen going to roost. Reggie reached over and guddled in my drink with her strong fingers, and found the watermelon. Vodka vaporized on my hot skin, down inside the sleeveless blouse we’d made together from a Butterick pattern, as we made everything; both our sewing machines set up in my living room, our tops interchangeable because we were the same size.

I crunched ice. The game below us was invented when we weren’t watching; you could only guess at the subtleties involving a basketball, a pink hand towel embedded in the dirt, and Arnie guarding the open tailgate of one of the station wagons with a jai alai cesta. Phil wore a whistle around his neck like a coach, and blew it when it was time to switch sides. He was even taller than Andreas, and he dodged, whistle in his mouth, planning tricky plays with Shawnee. Phil and Shawnee were twenty times more advanced than Andreas and Nan, who could barely pass the ball, but a fouling penalty frequently sent one of them sprinting down the road to the first telephone pole while the game continued.

At any rate, Reggie and I were too crocked to play, too dreamy and sweaty, worn out from a day of summer with the kids. My head fell back and I pushed off the floor with my toes, and we glided with the pinchy squeak of chains in their hooks, the ice in our drinks crackling. ”Remember that time we stole Rafe’s car?” I asked. In high school we had sneaked the keys to her brother’s car and hit the highway, and when we opened the sunroof, rotten snow dumped over our heads.

Reggie had a horrible laugh, a demon goat’s blaat. That laugh turned me into a thief in the night. She closed her fancy eyelashes and threw back her head, while I laughed because she was laughing. We were out of breath when Phil came lunging, stringhalted, up the stairs. He groaned and laid himself out on the top step clutching a charley horse in his calf. Reggie gave me her glass and leapt up.

She knelt over him like a goddess in a halter tie blouse, her sunglasses propped in her satyr curls. Bracelets slid down her arms as she took up his black-furred shank and massaged it. Phil lounged on his elbows. ”You won’t believe this story I heard,” he said, making sure I was listening. Phil also read books on thinking big, and tried to get the rest of us to grasp business concepts, so I suppressed a roll of my eyes. ”There was this girl who had a snake,” said Phil. He glanced at Reggie and she bit her lip knowingly, and that, coupled with her caparisoned fingers deep in his calf, made me look quickly away.

”…a Burmese python,” said Phil. ”First it was a little baby snake with perfect brown spots,” he said, craning back until I met his eyes. He had to shave twice a day, his jaws dark as pencil shading. ”She did a heck of a job with it, and it was so tame. Well, the damn thing got bigger and bigger. And she loved that snake and the snake loved her.”

Phil glanced up at me again, and I shuddered to indicate my thrall. I was holding both glasses and I lifted Reggie’s and just barely sipped from it.

He watched an airplane draw a streak of silver across the evening. ”And the snake came when she called. No, really. And every evening, when she laid down, the snake would appear and stretch out at her side. They were happy as two clams, and she’d look into its beautiful eyes. She started thinking of herself as an amateur herpetologist. Then one day, she got the chance to talk to a real herpetologist, and she proudly described how well she’d tamed it. And this guy says: ”No, you have to get rid of that thing immediately! Every time it stretches out beside you, it’s measuring you!”

Phil, grinning, looked back, and his eyes went right through me. I flinched. Phil wanted to force an issue. He knew it and I knew it, but it was a problem that was usually underlying, only turning up from time to time like the fleck of tinfoil in a wad of gum, zapping my fillings and tasting alchemic.

Shawnee came pounding up the porch stairs and paused to expertly billow and snap her gum as she pulled up her knee socks. ”Me and Dad are beating the pants off ’em. What’re you guys talking about?” She was eleven, perpetually scented with esters of Dubble Bubble, her strawberry hair artfully feathered.

” —’Dad and I,’ ” instructed Reggie, standing over Phil and looking down at him with her dirty-velvet eyes.

“Shawnee, bring your old Dad a glass of water,” said Phil.

Shawnee smiled slyly, slammed the screen door and thundered through the house.

I got up and leaned on the porch rail. As I watched, Andreas and Nan seized their moment and pressed up the court, Nan on his shoulders with the basketball held above her head, terror and hope in her face. She heaved the ball through Arnie’s defense and into the back of the Thalasso family station wagon. Then Andreas, in a well-oiled movement, plucked her over his shoulder, held her close, and set her down.

Shawnee with her directionless fire was standing over Phil. ”Goodnight, John-Boy,” she said, and dribbled water in a long strand into his eye. Phil just closed his eyes and took it, but Reggie snapped her fingers like the Fonz, and Shawnee’s nerve failed. Phil shook the spray from his head. Then he came to his feet, grabbed the glass from Shawnee, put her in a headlock, and gulped the rest.

I flicked a watermelon seed from the porch rail and by the time I was aware of everything around me Phil was back in penalty limbo, sprinting down the lane in puffs of dust while Andreas and Nan exchanged a look of wry patience and Arnie lazed on the tailgate and Shawnee with her Farrah Fawcett hair drove up the court towards some imaginary triumph. The dusky farmland air was polleny and soft, and they were nearly in silhouette, figures against the scrim of the far horizon; the graceful leap of a man in the sunset air, guarded by a little girl.

*       *       *       *

That summer, we needed to repaint the bathroom. I hauled all the paint cans out of the garden shed and rose to this watery task, a naiad loosed, describing ribbony stripes of lavender, cyan, amber, moss; tinting the paint oxygen-pale near the ceiling so that you could feel the surface of the sea. Reggie was amazed. I grew willful. My hands and eyes and body squared with providence; I was high and cocksure, and if you could have got a mile away, it would have looked right. If you just could get back far enough to see.

At the end of August, riding on this artistic confidence, I began construction on a cob oven. Reggie and I loved the little beehive stove in the magazine pictures. For her it formed the centerpiece of an outdoor kitchen, perfect for garden parties, and in her sketches she placed it on a terrazzo with a Hellenic bench and a potted palm. For me it embodied a yen to function tribally, using only fundamentals: grain, stone, fire. To Andreas, it was a pizza oven; to Phil, a waste of time. The cob was a mixture of clay and sand, water and chaff, so for the kids it promised the glories of stomping in mud.

We built it at the top of the lawn, near the garden, where the hillside ran into the old orchard. We should have begun during the hottest part of summer, to give it time to cure. The magazine article made it look easy, and then it became the hardest thing we’d ever done. I spent days harvesting blue clay from the hillside above the orchard, toiling with wheelbarrow and gummy shovel, filling washtubs with clay and water. I knelt over buckets, mashing out roots and lumps, pouring off the debris, and ran liquid clay into a gunny sack to sieve out the water. I splatted this semi-refined clay onto a tarp that I kept covered with painter’s plastic. Silty grey water ran down the lawn. Then we needed sand to mix in, to form our cob, and this meant a trip to our beach on Lake Ontario.

*

I was a reality said not to exist, but I came from somewhere time out of mind, all my connate convictions part of a longer campaign. My feelings were unspeakable, and I was aware of that, of course, but also this: I kept them to myself, they did no harm. They ate at me, after all; I was the one who suffered, when I allowed myself to admit them. Only me. I said nothing about the feelings and expected them, out of kindness, to go unacknowledged. But Phil was big on facing facts.

Considering what came after, it’s telling that when I think of my life’s abruption I see Phil rising from the waves, a frogman from another realm come to divide me.

*

Our beach was off the lake road, a concealed place, and our station wagons wallowed like prairie schooners across the trackless no-man’s-land between the highway and the shore, the kids and dog running toward the edge of the bluff—the last stable holdout before the surface of the planet blossomed into jellied light. At the edge, they leapt, and disappeared.

We parked the station wagons and hiked down an eroding dirt bank to the rocky shingle cluttered in driftwood and fishing line. Here a miniature point curved out into the waters, with a frisky little alder on its crest. The summer before, we had built a stone fish trap, and it languished now with fingerling brown trout flashing across its submerged walls. A small ooze, filmy and noxious, seeped from the bank. It was not a lovely spot, and always windy, but it was our own, and when the kids dug below the magnetite wrack line they found ample coarse, pebbled sand.

Andreas strolled the shore watching for the Toronto fata morgana, that floating, mythy sky-line none of us had ever seen. Phil in his sleeveless wetsuit vanished like a combat swimmer into boundary waters, to the agony of the border collie Rags, who stood in the wavelets, barking. ”Let’s hope he doesn’t run into our old pal Charybdis,” I said, and came to regret it. I had no idea how Phil oriented out there, and imagined myself lost in the chop, the Great Lakes fingering my bones. ”How can he forget the shark movie?” I asked. Nothing could have convinced me that sharks didn’t hunt these waters.

”Phil wasn’t scared of it to begin with,” said Reggie, as we wedged our folding chairs among the rocks. ”He said all you have to do is punch it in the eye. He said the shark looked fake.”

We blocked the wind for each other as we lit our cigarettes and put our sandaled feet on the ice chest. The whole point of that movie had been wasted on Phil. The kids, grim as miners, trudged up the bluff with pails, filling a washtub in the back of my station wagon. If they flagged, we leaned forward and clapped threateningly, but soon we all tired of this, there was a general air of dispersal, and Reggie opened a New Yorker. I noticed Arnie out on the lake, straddling the deck of Phil’s kayak, sailing with a windbreaker tied to a paddle. Reggie read aloud. Wonderfully, astoundingly, Georgia O’Keeffe did not claim any theories of art. Under the guidance of Reggie’s voice, new modes of being plucked at me. Sometimes I saw myself painting, not as a hobby but as a force, with grit, my entire being in motion. I would fill enormous canvases: waves, prairie skies, pack ice. I’d paint things you’d have to get back a mile to see.

”Where’s my shell?” Nan called in a high-strung voice. Phil had bought her a 7-Up at the gas station and her voice had a sugared whine. Shawnee was carrying her around piggyback, saying they were twins, and the dog leapt around them, snapping at sand fleas.

”In your bucket, Silly,” Shawnee said breathlessly. They cantered up. They looked nothing alike; Shawnee was big for her age and showy; Nan was a fairytale girl, elfin, flaxen, her jaw chattering. Reggie and I felt a pride in their beauty we would never admit.

Nan laughed in nervous relief, letting go to clap a hand to her heart, an affectation learned from her grandmother. She was often astonishingly like my mother, in an inborn way that charmed Andreas and appalled me. She was beginning to seem a little high-strung, but the start of school had us all on edge, even Shawnee, who was as prepared as you could ever be for fifth grade with her quartz-blue eyelids and her striped roller-skating socks.

Nan dropped a pocketbook mussel shell into my palm, jerking her hand away as the dog danced up. The kids, tasked with gathering tesserae to mosaic the oven, brought garnets, Petoskey stones, beer can tabs, blue slag; I tossed it all in a pail.

Left alone, Reggie and I sighed. We parked close in our wobbling chairs, a knee pulled up to hide the transfer of a roach nipped in a hemostat; we were in an idyllic phase, believing the kids hadn’t figured it out. We thought we were subtle, but if challenged, we became the authorities, rising combatively to defend all that was unwholesome. After all, the children had brought us to unforgivable levels of drear that included plunging fouled diapers into toilets with our bare hands. Secretly we resisted, with codewords and muttered curses. We were good at hiding things, muffling sex, jamming dirty novels under mattresses, for we lived two different sets of lives, one on top of the other—a glorious, invisible alt-layer of adulthood that nevertheless garnered a residue of houndish exhaustion like nights spent dancing in a fairyland.

Ms. magazine said we could have it all, but I didn’t see how that was possible, because we were also supposed to have waxed floors and French manicures. We’d gone through every art book in the library, but we were always waiting for a different time to really start our lives, for the children to be the right age, for Phil to switch jobs. ”Do you think that a person’s fullest expression is always restrained by convention?” I asked Reggie. It was the kind of wild, answerless question I liked to ask.

”We’re going to start taking night classes,” she said firmly, managing my education as she managed everything else, and repositioning her gladiator sandals on the ice chest. ”Or what we should do is just go to Europe.”

Europe was a castle in the air. We longed to see the Blue Grotto of Capri, Georges de La Tour’s use of light and shadow, the Trafalgar lions; but the reality was laughably far off. The kids were growing with startling speed, they always needed dental work, and Phil had taken a ‘Nixon shock’ hit in the market.

The evening waters parted around Arnie’s sneaker toe. He drifted slowly, his dark head bowed with concentration, successfully tacked, and plied the shore. ”Look how Arnie finds the hardest way to do the laziest thing,” said Reggie, over the fluttering magazine. She checked her watch. Pride was detectable in her voice. We thought that Arnie might be a genius, the sort of genius for whom everything is a knot of difficulty.

A black-backed gull stood near us, a garbage-gull, sullen, avoiding our eyes, pretending it had nothing to do with us. Lacking, as gulls do, a dividing septum between its nares, it turned its head and lake-light knifed through its nostrils like a crack in perception. For a moment, I was so high that my head lolled.

Reggie got up and climbed the stones of the point and stood clasping the alder, looking over the lake. She timed Phil’s swims, and had reached the worry stage.

”Mom!” Shawnee called.

Above me on the rocks, Reggie penciled an unlit Virginia Slims behind her ear and descended without hurry. ”Oh, what now!” she said. I ungripped my hands from the chair, and righted my mind. The gull began to run, opening its wings.

Shawnee guided Nan, who held one hand tight with the other, her shoulders drawn up and a look of ringing focus in her eyes as she stared at me.

Reggie sat down beside me and we leaned forward, assessing.

”It was an accident!” Shawnee said. ”He didn’t mean it.”

”Rags bit me!” squeaked Nan.

Rags trotted up, smiling stupidly. ”Her hand got in the way! You didn’t mean it, did you, Ragsy?” said Shawnee.

The kayak scraped over the cobbles and Arnie squelched up the shore.

Reggie wiped sandy slobber from Nan’s palm with her manicured thumb. There was no blood, but I saw, with a uterine jolt, the puncture in the flesh of her hand, above the heart line. I couldn’t seem to react. ”Oh, Nanny, he really got you!” Reggie said, her tone a perfect modulation of sympathy and sarcasm. She nudged me. ”Nurse, we’re going to have to amputate.” I reached down among the towels in her straw bag for the flat glass bottle of Olmeca tequila, unscrewed the lid, and hesitated.

Nan watched me, shocked. Shawnee was irritatingly close, clumsily patting her, and the wet dog had pushed in among us, tipping his ears curiously. Arnie hung back, his lip going white between his teeth. Reggie took the bottle. ”Now this’ll sting a teeny tiny bit,” she said, and splayed open the small hand and sloshed tequila, once, twice, while we all sucked air through our teeth, Nan and I most of all.

Nan’s teeth chattered and she wrung tequila from her fingers. Reggie bundled her in a plushy Aztec-patterned beach towel and pulled her close.

They gazed over the water, into the sunset. I knocked one back while no one was looking. Reggie rubbed Nan and squeezed her tighter. ”My God, you’re brave,” she said thoughtfully, and may have meant it. She nuzzled Nan’s cheek, and said, closing her eyes against the rush of power in the words: ”The thing is, you’re the only one who can make it happen. You’ve got to try, and keep trying.” She was talking to me, but Nan nodded gravely, plucking towel piling with her teeth, and Reggie smiled at me in secret amusement.

Shawnee and Arnie, cutting their eyes soberly, brought a long piece of driftwood and then another, wedging them into the rocks and propping them against each other. A little wigwam began, irresistibly, to form. Soon Nan pulled away from Reggie and clattered over the cobbles in her salt-water sandals.

”I hope she doesn’t have rabies,” said Reggie, as we settled our nerves with a shot. She lifted Arnie’s bird binoculars, glassing the waters. Beside her chair lay the compressed spring of border collie, chin on paws. Reggie had only to point at an animal or child to make it behave, and Rags shuddered and moaned, seemingly clasped by an invisible force.

”It’s hard to watch things happen to her,” I said.

Reggie took the cigarette from behind her ear and leaned confidingly close, lighting it off the tip of mine in a damnable whiff of minty tobacco and demon drink. ”Isn’t that just being a parent, though,” she said. ”In your heart you know you’ve doomed a complete innocent to the worst things imaginable.” She studied me, her cigarette hand cocked back at the wrist, thumbnail clicking under a fingernail.

“Just by having them.”

“So we prepare them as best we can, and then figure out how to live with ourselves.”

Arnie, weighted with importance, began to build a campfire in the rocks, with Nan crouched beside him.

Andreas was coming along the shore. He scanned the glistening waters through his oversized sunglasses, the far-seeing immortality of sunset and solitude on his faun-face. His hair bleached cinnamon every summer. He had made it to adulthood with the sort of purity it would be tragic to crush; Nan had the same sort of innocence, and I hoped that Reggie was wrong. I got up, waited out a dizzy spell, drew a louche knitted shawl across my shoulders, and went to meet him.

“Toughen up Nan, toughen up Nan,” Andreas murmured experimentally, when I explained that we needed to toughen up Nan. “It’s not that she’s not tough: she never cries, and she hiked the Niagara Gorge.” But he was hopelessly blind when it came to Nan, and I was inclined to trust Reggie’s judgment. We came upon a soccer ball and he began to scissor behind it, slowly, hands in his pockets. “She’s grown up so much this summer; I’ve grown up this summer,” he said, his voice cracking, and then, softly, chivvying himself toward the idea: “How to toughen up Nan.”

Shawnee shot in and fought him for the ball, and he laughed, shuffling his huaraches and calling out in his mild boy’s voice that she was being unfair, looking up to include us all in the game. As he sauntered up in his ‘Hang Loose’ T-shirt, the camp, centered by the fluttering fire, felt like a lark. Nan ran to meet him and he took off his sunglasses and tried not to exhibit dismay over her bitten hand; he had noticed the look on Reggie’s face, and he went straight up the bluff to signal across the empty dark waters with the station wagon headlights. It was, at that point, all we could do.

Reggie stood on the point with the alder, a sea-widow gazing out. I flipped the kayak to make a table and got the kids started on their hot dogs. The darkness was thickest on the bluff, where Andreas stood; a seemingly unquenchable light lay over the waters. The children sat quietly on a driftwood log. Arnie, demonstrating for Nan, blew across the lip of a 7-Up bottle and under his careful embouchure the bottle whuffed softly. The fire seemed thieved out of thin air, and the children also, in their row. 

Then a whoop went up from Andreas and I shuddered. Out in the waves there was a stirring, a heavy shoulder parting the membrane, and, in a dense resumption of gravity, Phil rose from the roll of the seiche.

*       *       *       *

All the following week, I remembered the huge joy in our camp as Phil came out of the water, his face drawn tight to the bones and sightless; how the dog spun down the beach and launched into his arms. Phil let the dog lick his chin and then tossed him aside and pulled off his fins and limped barefoot up the rocks to the weenie roast. Andreas tossed him a towel and Phil caught it without looking. The worry and then the joy, the glacial lake water and the warmth of the fire; how chiaroscuro unhappiness and happiness are, twined close, showing three-dimensional form in two strokes.

He stood drying his arms and observing the kids anew, the three of them, firelit. Reggie fussed around him. The water had taken his edges off, and he seemed, as I had rarely observed him, humbled.

”What did you see out there, my good man?” called Arnie in his soft voice.

”Well, I swam to Canada,” Phil said slowly. He buried his face in the towel and, emerging, said: ”I bought a house, lived a life. Time is different there. I had better luck with the stock market. I invested in a Mars colony. Eventually, I just got in a rocket and went.” He worked his shoulders out of his wetsuit, with Reggie’s help.

Arnie and Shawnee glanced at each other. Between them Nan gaped wonderingly up at Phil. He stared back at her, unsealing his bathing cap. Then he shook his head until his devilish hair spiked. ”You know, I didn’t like that red dirt,” he went on. His chest continued to rise and sink profoundly. ”Looks like Oklahoma. One fine day on Mars, I looked down into a puddle.” He took his thermos cup from Reggie and slurped hot coffee. ”I saw a tiny man, down in the water, swimming. I got down and looked closer, and it was me in Lake Ontario. And the sky was just this looking down—” Phil pulled down the skin under his eye and rolled his wild orb.

”Ew!” cried the kids. Phil looked at them over his thermos cup, hiding his grin.

”I didn’t even know you were gone!” Nan chirped, and Phil broke, leaning over to spit coffee.

We all laughed, looking at each other—it was infectious, but Nan’s laugh was hesitant, and her eyes were on me. She was confused by our indifference to her dog bite, and as she adjusted to our callous reaction I felt her conspicuous distance from me. I was again surprised to find that life intended to pry us slowly apart. From the way she held her shoulders I imagined her hand was throbbing, a centralizing shock. I was ready to take her home, feel her brow for fever, give her half an aspirin ground in a teaspoon of honey.

Shawnee noticed Nan’s new layer of courage and disaffection, and patted her and leaned close, grotesquely displaying an incisor she had chipped while running through a parking lot. When Phil heard about the dog bite, he began showing Nan his terrible bike wreck scars. Half his hairy body was bared, his wetsuit sloughed to the waist like a banana peel, and he had glorious silver scars all over his elbows. Phil was no stranger to pain. He’d detached a retina barnstorming off the Helderbergs; he’d stepped on a whiptail stingray.

Reggie, wiping the gummy neck of the ketchup bottle, described the long midline incision acquired during Shawnee’s birth. Even Andreas, who glowed with luck and perfection, had once jammed his finger rolling a dune buggy. And I had a muffler burn on my calf from clinging behind one of Reggie’s boyfriends on the Mohawk Towpath.

Then Phil claimed he’d been shot at with rock salt and had a scar on his buttock, and in the firelight he turned around and prepared to show us, while the kids screamed with laughter. So there we all were, none the worse for wear, possibly even proud of the things that had toughened us up, and Andreas smiled at me, thinking the same thing.

All that week, in the distance, I saw the campfire on the beach. Through all the evenings of my life I will see that bouquet of sparks and the chorus of children with their marshmallow sticks, Nan sitting straight-backed between the bigger Thalasso kids. Reggie was beside me, her foot near mine on the kayak, and she had an oxeye daisy flowering in her goatherd’s curls like a diadem, a glow of mosquito-spray at her throat, and the dog’s leash wrapped around her long uplifted wrist—Cleopatra with the asp. I lay back in my chair, admiring this, storming heaven, and perhaps I was a little drunk, a little remiss, for a quiet settled over the group, that cold silence that forms the base note of ostracism. By the time I looked up, a troubling voltage had passed among the adults. Phil and Andreas were standing together, reading each other, and Phil had taken Andreas by the shoulder as if he were about to tell him something profound, and at that moment they turned as one and looked at me. I discovered that a jolt of perfect guilt had waited all along like a poison capsule pinned between my molars. And I bit down.

*       *       *       *

All week, that warm September, our last week, I was unable to work on the oven, unable to sew or sketch or keep the kitchen clean, but I dug potatoes, and I read for hours, lying in the orchard on an old coat until the woodlice uncurled and went on with their lives in the fallen leaves around me, and now and then an apple plunked onto an overturned bucket. I hadn’t seen Reggie since the beach, although she’d called to ask if Arnie had left his football spikes at our place. School started: the bus coming around the hill, the Pink Pearl eraser and the Pluto thermos of cold milk. The final night was a warm evening, a Thursday. Around the abandoned cob oven lay tarps, buckets of sand, stacks of brick, and the empty wine bottles needed for the insulation layer. If I could have crawled out of my skin, I would have, and I felt inexorably vile, but I kept my mouth shut and hoped no one would notice.

Nan had math homework that night; we had put it off. If they can’t teach the kid at school, how do they expect the parents to do it at home? It wasn’t even New Math, but I ended up stymied. Diabolically, there were some of the answers in the back, but not the ones we needed. I slammed the book. Nan had gone away inside herself, her eyes closed. Self-righteously, I cursed a third grade textbook for not making sense, and went out on the porch for a cigarette, slamming the screen door.

Andreas took over immediately, although he’d worked all day. I leaned on the porch rail. The stars bent their light-rays as if I were the only person on Earth looking up and the moon seemed closer than usual, nearly full. Pointless, very hot tears sat in my eyes. There were many things, I realized, that I never should have been allowed to do, and there were many sensible systems of knowledge that ran contrapuntal to my useless visions. When I heard Nan’s chortle in the kitchen, I smiled helplessly, and felt worse. Andreas had a way of demonstrating that math was simply a game invented by humans to amuse themselves.

Out of shame, I avoided Nan for an hour. I was not in the mood to apologize. I needed anger to give myself substance. I was folding towels on the dryer when I heard her in the bath. I put my head in the door, and put a warm towel on the rack, and said, cooly, ”There’s clean underwear in your drawer, so don’t come to me saying you can’t find any.”

She was floating a cottage cheese carton lid on the surface of her bubble bath, and she looked up at me curiously. Her braids were tub-dipped, dark as wildflower honey. She had perfect, natural posture, with her little child’s chest and her winged scapulae, and against my sea-striped wall her silver-blonde head was so beautiful that I burned with silent, artistic pride.

On the cottage cheese carton lid rode a tiny tableau: a teacup the size of a thimble, and a plastic farm animal. I snorted, snatched up her scattered clothing, and went on my way.

On her way to bed, she looked in on me. I was lying in bed reading In This House of Brede, which I never finished—to this day I don’t know if the novice stuck with the abbey or returned to the real world—and I held out my arm without looking up, trying not to lose my place. She put her arms around me. ”Okay, Chick?” I asked. Her head was in the hollow of my shoulder. I kissed the top of it, nettling myself for not washing her hair, for not ironing her dress or making her lunch. The morning would be a jumble of irritability, and I tightened my arm around her and shook her slightly, and kissed her again. I saw her through the eyes of the adults at school; teachers, bus drivers, the other mothers. PTA mothers, judging Nan with a practiced eye, a judgment which bent like a light ray back onto me.

She lifted her head, pure acceptance in her eyes. ”Don’t be friends with your child,” people said, but I had never been smart enough to side-step the pitfalls of life, and I couldn’t seem to avoid showing her my sadness, my flaws and stupidity and rotten personality; nor could I avoid leaning on her for comfort. She was not just a child, she was Nan, with a scar on her tummy where we were joined. I was certain we’d be friends for life. She’d seen me at my worst—trying to get to the bathroom naked, early in the morning, snarly, some unnamable substance slipping from me. She’d watched me slam the horn. She’d seen me sobbing at the movies; kicking a washing machine; flirting my way out of a ticket. She’d once hit her head on the dash when I flipped a doughnut in a snowy lot. Built-in between us was a troth of truth—utter, endless forgiveness that I tended to lean on hard.

”Okay, Mom,” she said, and patted me.

Alone, I lay moping, the book closed around my hand. In the living room, Andreas put ‘Moon River’ on the stereo to help her fall asleep. He made things run beautifully. I got up and eased down the dim hall, silent past her bedroom door, Audrey Hepburn’s untrained dianthus voice pulling me. For years it had been Mary Poppins singing ‘Stay Awake’, a song that would lay waste to the grimmest insomniac. Then for an interminable stretch it was ‘Little April Shower’ from her Bambi record. But now she frequently asked for ‘Moon River’, with its mature longing and its wistful sense of already having lost the game, and I knew she was growing up.

Andreas was at his desk in the living room, a goose-necked lamp pulled low over a piece of graph paper. The music was unbearable, drawing out hope on a frangible thread. He put his free arm around my waist, and clicked his mechanical pencil. ”Okay, Mama?” he asked.

”It’s not your fault,” I said, petting his grassy hair and stroking the soft spot behind his ear. I couldn’t at that moment think what I was referring to. He had his Rodale’s open and was designing a garden. He drafted expertly and I loved to watch him slash lines with a protractor, his mind working through infinitesimal difficulties as if they were nothing at all. At the same time he was so blithe that if you mentioned ice cream, he would cross his hands on his knees and Charleston across the kitchen. As he bent to pencil in a tiny square I clearly saw that each of us struggled to live the life we needed to, at variance with the others, in fealty to our mute, underground selves.

Ⅱ

In the morning, I opened Nan’s door and winced into the bright silence. The pale animal nest of her bed was splayed open, a sheet-end swirled on the braided rug.

Irritably, I looked for her in the bathroom, then put the kettle on for instant coffee and stood on the front porch, tightening my bathrobe. I lit a cigarette. My feet curled against the cold boards and sunlight warmly fingered my throat; before me the morning lay breathless and far-seeing, the cow pastures sparkling with prisms. The day had promise, and my hand had a faint tremble that a glass of water would set right.

I faced the months of getting up at the crack of dawn and braiding Nan’s hair while she pivoted one heel, biting too deeply into her toast so that it lent a jammy extension to her smile. Minutes before her departure, I’d sink into a fury of self-consciousness as if she were a piece of dubious art I struggled to cohere; snapping a hairband onto the end of her imperfect braid, restraining her by the wrist and scrubbing at her cheek. We both loathed the antagonism of these moments, an electrostatic repulsion that culminated in the hellish fury of getting her down to the bus on time.

”Run!” I’d scream from the porch, thrilled to be free of her, while she pelted down the lane with her lunch box, jinking the potholes like a rabbit, the school bus heaving fatefully around the point and hovering for a mysterious moment beyond the plum thickets at the bottom of the pasture, then appearing, marigold-orange at the end of our lane, carapace humped, snow chains slapping the undercarriage. Nan always turned, safe on the bus steps, waving wholeheartedly, and I’d wave back, our impatience with each other elided in the larger face of separation. I’d endure the burn of love, leaning my head on the porch column, and then she’d be gone and the insistence of art would again consume my mind.

My bare feet ached on the moon-cold boards, and I went down the steps tapping ash off my cigarette. The dew on the lawn was refrigerator-cold. I stuffed my menthol-bright lungs with enough air to yell her name, balancing to flick away grass-clippings pasted to the arch of my foot, and that was when I saw the screen in the flower bed, the screen from Nan’s window, leaning against the house behind a sprawl of thyme and the peppermint that grew where the faucet dripped. The window, like all the windows in our house, had been wide open for the night breezes. Inside the house, the kettle whistled hysterically up the scale. ”Nan!” I breathed, and rotated vaguely, holding my robe closed, the circle of my existence expanding outward with a surge that made me dizzy.

Then the scream of the kettle cut off, and Andreas was on the porch. He saw my expression, bailed over the railing and ran to me. I pointed at the screen.

We ran through the house together, calling her, looking under the beds, in the closets. I dressed, feverishly, and stamped my feet into tennis shoes. I heard Andreas shouting her name in the orchard. He had checked the garden, the sheds, the henhouse, the car. We spread out, covering the property. The caged rabbit drummed a warning as I passed. We ran into the cow pastures and the brushy land below the house; we went up the hill above the orchard. We looped back and checked in with each other, and then, as Andreas poised to start over the hill to the neighbor’s pond, the school bus braked with a hiss at the end of the lane.

It thrummed there, the doors closed. I was panting and felt too sick to respond, but Andreas, holding my arm, wheeled angrily and shooed it on. Then he ran uphill past the mess of the outdoor oven and disappeared into the trees. I raced into the house and called Reggie, who called the school while I called the police. My ears weren’t working, and my voice came out in clouds of sound I could barely hear.

Then I was in the station wagon, dropping the keys as I tried to start it. I went too fast over the bumps in the lane, drove like Go, Dog. Go! into town and back, and then down the neighboring road below our house between sloping corn fields, past the hog farm. In the confines of the car I called aloud for her in a dream-squeak. As I raced home up the lane, I was ensnared in a cavalcade of local police and Erie County sheriffs, all rolling their lights, and I floated in among them, parking where I could find a spot, men with their hands on their holsters surrounding me as I got out of the car.

Now our house was full of stone-faced men in creaking leather, who poked into rooms or hunkered down at my side to question me. Had Karen Ann ever run away before? Did we have a fight? Was she at her grandmother’s? Could she open the cover to the well? Could she have gotten a ride to school? Had I seen anyone suspicious around the place? Had she taken any money? Was anything missing? Did she like to play jokes? Did she have a friend who was a bad influence? Had she ever hitchhiked?

”She’s eight years old!” I said. I was clammy from shaking, my mind stupid with fear, and I startled out of my skin every time the screen door slammed. A dozen voices talked at once. Officers took photographs out of frames and bagged them, milled on the verandah, or stood switching channels on their walkie-talkies. More cars pulled up. Andreas was questioned separately.

”Whoa-whoa-whoa,” said the cops, as Phil and Reggie came in the door, followed by one of Phil’s co-workers in a supermarket uniform. Reggie ran straight through all the whoaing officers and grabbed me tight, trembling like she had the time we climbed out of a wreck on Route 33.

A force surrounded Phil. He commandeered the kitchen wall phone. His co-worker stood beside him, taking notes. Phil called the FBI field office in Buffalo. He called Marlene, the school secretary, and closed the school, set up a search headquarters in the high school gym, and got a verbal promise of several hundred volunteers. He called Search & Rescue, ordered up a brace of bloodhounds, and enlisted executives from his supermarket chain to hit the freeways heading toward Rochester, Cleveland, Pittsburgh, and Niagara. He called the newspaper, the local television station, and, rolling his eyes back for a moment, ad libbed a brief, powerful bulletin for the local radio station, to be read every fifteen minutes. He tossed a map across the kitchen table and drew circles on it. He ballparked how much money we could amass if we needed a ransom. He was on the point of ordering roadblocks when the Amherst chief of police stepped into the kitchen and took the phone from his hand. The detectives from Cheektowaga had arrived.

Reggie and I sat at the kitchen table and watched the struggle for jurisdiction grow ever more complex. The detectives sealed off Nan’s room. I was fingerprinted, and, at some point, a polygraph cleared me as a suspect, despite my tachy heart rate. I went outside with Reggie when the bloodhounds arrived. Down along the highway, a police detective searched for tire tracks at the edges of the road. The cornfields shook with volunteers running along the rows. Over the hill, the fire department was dragging the pond. Two bloodhounds sniffed Nan’s undershirt and ran from her window to the rabbit hutch, to the driveway, to the fence, then circled in confusion. ”The little girl was carried,” the dog wrangler said. ”She never touched the ground.” People looked at him as if he’d said something obscene. Even the hounds looked uncomfortable. They sat on command, gazing up sadly from the pouches of their eyelids, then were packed up in disgrace.

As I stood on the lawn, a man with a miner’s headlamp edged painfully out of the crawlspace in the foundation, and a helicopter thundered slowly, oppressively over, chopping apart my brain. Reggie put her hands over my ears. It was a relief that the dog wrangler and his horrific suggestion had been proven incompetent. We had once lost little Arnie in a mall parking lot in Buffalo, and I remembered how the future had simply stopped, how the option of life continuing felt impossible as we ran up and down the miles of parked cars in the hot sun. We both dreamed of it for months.

The fire department was opening the wellhead. The local grocery store had donated sandwiches, and there was a table set up on the lawn, surrounded by people. I noticed two men in formal suits threading their way among the firetrucks and cruisers that blocked the lane. The FBI agents from Buffalo had arrived.

The place was a circus. The agents stood for a moment, threw narrow looks at the helicopter, then exchanged an unreadable glance. Then they tapped our phone, bagged up clothing, blankets, and the window screen, and confiscated a plaster tire track lifted from the edge of the highway. They had summoned a K-9 unit. The dog was an intense black German Shepherd in a vest, and he left a wake of admiring whispers. Silence was called for as he worked. Thoroughly, he examined Nan’s room and the window frame and flower bed, and then led his handler down the lawn to the cow pasture fence where he sprang like a deer over the barbed wire. He trotted with a surety down the meadow to the plum thicket along the highway, where they had found the tire track.

The dog’s confidence was undeniable. I stepped back into the shade of the house and leaned against the cool siding. I uncrumpled a cigarette from the end of a pack. A young deputy was beside me. I didn’t know him, although I knew half the police by sight, especially Sheriff Ormiston, whose son was in Nan’s class. The young deputy turned and lit my cigarette for me, his hands shaking. ”Big day!” he said cheerfully.

I blinked, exhaling with my head back against the wall.

”We just took some training on this,” he said, lighting his own cigarette, ”kind of a coincidence, I guess. On guys like Albert Fish, and the Candy Man of Texas…”

The FBI agents were examining the wire fence, and I was only half-listening, the cool wall against my shoulder blades, shade across my brow. I had no idea what he was talking about, but all at once Sheriff Ormiston wheeled and came toward us. He was a tall, sorrowing man as sheriffs tend to be, and kind, but I’d never seen anything remotely like the expression on his face at that moment. The deputy’s cigarette fell out of his mouth, and he dodged aside as if expecting a blow.

I saw many people I knew that day pushed to unrecognizable limits. Phil underwent an interview in the bedroom, and when he emerged he dropped down at the kitchen table with the rest of us. He could not speak. For half an hour he was a suspect because of his intense interest in the case and his suspicious knowledge of law enforcement, but then they dropped him and took up as lead suspect one of our neighbors, an old man with an automotive pit beneath his garage.

An FBI agent pulled up a kitchen chair. Phil had his head down on the table, and Reggie was beside him, working on a press statement. Andreas had lapsed into a fugue state, and I rubbed his arm, trying to keep him with me.

The agent had an actual flak scar beside his eye, and I sank all my hopes into him and his agency. I had found my voice again and, in the hopes that it would help Nan, I answered every question he threw at us.

I said that Nan would never run away, and she didn’t think practical jokes were funny: she worried about worrying us—she was a kid with manners and sense. She had our number memorized. She had saved eighteen dollars to buy a pony; the money was still in her room. She was mature for her age, concerned about whales, yet so innocent that she believed Sea Monkeys would come out looking like that ad in the comic books.

Reggie smiled at me through her tears. The agent wrote everything down. The telephone rang on the kitchen wall, and he got up to answer it.

I wandered into the living room as the phone rang again, and held the screen door for a rescue worker who was running a cable out onto the porch for the television crew. Suddenly Phil, animated again and growling in his throat, brushed past me, jumped off the top step of the porch and pelted down the lane towards his car. He was supposed to do the press conference with Andreas, and I looked after him, bewildered.

”I need you all seated,” said the FBI agent.

We sat down on the living room sofa, Reggie and Andreas and I, gripping each other’s hands. I wondered again where Phil had gone. The afternoon was crisp, brilliant, and the front door was open to the porch, the television crew chatting on the steps. The agent went into a crouch, down on our level, looking us each in the eye, his flak scar tightening. ”That was the lab,” he said. ”We sent her bedding to the lab. Halothane. There was a drop of Halothane on her sheets.”

Everyone in the room was watching us. I didn’t know the word, and I was trying to understand what the whisper in those syllables meant. Halothane. Then concern rippled through the assembly and people hurried towards us. Beside me, Andreas had swooned dead away, fading onto Reggie, who was as pale as he was.

They stretched him out on the sofa and called him back, and I saw that there was still fingerprint ink on his languid fingers. A volunteer firefighter knelt, patting his cheek.

Reggie and I went out to the porch swing. We said nothing. We weren’t to discuss Halothane, which was an inhalant anesthetic. Someone was smoking below the porch, and my wet eyes stung. The FBI agents hit the road, and the television crew milled around us, checking their watches.

The press statement fell to me. I stood there on the porch, and the cameraman, hunched beneath his great mechanical shell, bore down on me with an intensity, curling his lip. I read the statement as clearly as I could through my tight throat, and as I read the only sound on the property was a hen growing flustered in the chicken yard. Then I felt Andreas beside me, his arm around me as my eyes stumbled down the script and found the word ‘abduction’. I appealed for Nan’s safe return and offered reward money. Then, off-script, I looked into the glossy eye of the camera and gasped, ”Nan, don’t worry, we’ll have you home so soon.”

The phone rang in the kitchen, Phil calling to tell Reggie that Arnie had been pulled from a search team and taken to the police station where he was interviewed by a detective without the consent or knowledge of his parents, the questions so disturbing that when the school superintendent—a friend of Phil’s—picked him up, Arnie clung to him and sobbed.

Reggie, incensed, dropped the receiver and went outside. I longed for Arnie then, with his inaudible mumble, longed to comfort him, but the Thalassos had already agreed that their kids shouldn’t see the frightening situation at our house. ”Shawnee,” I said aloud, to no one, because I desperately needed to hold a kid—one of our kids. But Shawnee was with Reggie’s parents in Getzville and had not been allowed to join the town search. I had a lump in my throat over Shawnee, who would be worried sick, and was stuck out there in Getzville.

In the days that followed, the school janitor was interrogated by the FBI until he broke and confessed. The school was closed, the town in an uproar. His confession was completely false, but the man, humiliated, resigned his job. The town’s streets were devoid of children. Reggie and Arnie and Shawnee made thousands of flyers with Nan’s second grade school picture and stapled them up as far away as Batavia and Buffalo.

Halothane cut, cleanly and chemically, a midline down the center of our lives. It was a word that etherized hope. When I tried to sleep, I’d wake with a jolt as someone reached stealthily toward me with a vapory, reeking rag.

Andreas and I half-slept the long hours of the day, waiting for the phone to ring. The henyard gate was open, and as we lay listlessly, threadbare half-wild Rhode Island Reds scratched up the garden and roosted in the orchard. At night, we got in the car and drove, without direction, because not looking for her was unbearable. We were recognized everywhere we went, and at late-night drive-throughs aghast teens refused our money. Andreas and I had little to say to each other, and in the car, our aloneness together was weirdly pronounced. But we hated the house, the closed door to her room, the edges of the lawn gouged with tire tracks. We hated the fact that we had been asleep when it happened.

It was impossible to sleep in that house. It was impossible to sleep. It was impossible.

It was.

It.

*       *       *       *

One evening, the FBI called. A child had been found in Vermont—a little girl approximately eight to ten years old. She was 48 inches long. We needed to get to Montpelier.

Andreas held the receiver between us. The man had a growly voice and was brisk with instruction, speaking too quickly, too authoritatively. Andreas was shivering. I began to grasp that this child was not alive. The term in extremis was used. I didn’t know what it meant, but I also knew exactly what it meant, the way you supposedly recognize the language of Heaven, and because Andreas began to slide down the wall, and I with him, so that we were both sitting there on the kitchen floor, propped together, the receiver between us. The term ligature asphyxia was used. We were asked, once more, to describe the nightgown. Right there above our heads were the marks on the wall where we’d measured Nan, with a ruler on her head, while she held her breath with the precise intensity of it.

The man’s crisp, motoring instruction cut off, and I got up and found a cloth tape measure. The highest mark on the wall said Nan 3/18/1975. It was nearly forty-nine inches from the floor, but it was hard to be sure, with the baseboard trim. I kept laboring over this measuring, trying to change the outcome, and finally Andreas turned from his dull fog, the curly phone cord still falling over him and the receiver beeping, lying there on the floor. He took the tape and measured the empty space once again, and then he went into the bathroom and threw up.

At midnight we were lying in bed with an open suitcase at our feet, the overhead light on, and Andreas was on the phone with Reggie and Phil. He hung up, and immediately the FBI called back. Andreas and I sat up, and he grabbed my hand. This time, the man apologized. He was deeply sorry to have troubled us, but the victim had been identified, and it was not our daughter. His mistake. On behalf of the FBI, his sincerest apologies. It was, he said, simply the remarkable correlations between the cases.

*       *       *       *

Andreas and I changed toward each other. We were the parents, sort of lumped together in a category; but we were no longer parents. We were awful parents.

Until that phone call, we had told ourselves that she was alive. Several times Nan had confided daring ambitions: to live with the wild ponies of Assateague Island; to be shipwrecked with a black stallion; to camp out secretly in the Metropolitan Museum of Art. None of these things were completely, if you thought about it, beyond the realm of possibility, at least to my desperate mind.

However, the FBI didn’t entertain such possibilities. They looked at the worst possible scenarios, and I hated them for it. They had found a pattern and fit Nan into it, and I could see that Andreas believed them, and believed in the pattern, as he had believed in the Halothane, which could have been a lab error, a crime-scene mix up, anything other than a surgical anesthetic dripped in our little daughter’s bed. He instantly believed the worst. Reggie pretended to side with me, but she also believed the worst, just like Andreas.

Andreas and I drank so that we could sleep, and so that we could stand each other. There were several months of drinking and arguing, of sleeping all day, of driving, silently, on the rainy freeways, of picking up the ringing telephone with a delirious rush of hope. Andreas, always slim and burnished, sat like a crushed thicket of arms and legs, staring at nothing. Asleep, he muttered vile things. He complained of being cold. He had a perpetual sore throat and responded to everything I said with a bitter laugh. Arnie and Shawnee were not allowed to see us much, although I missed them desperately.

One evening I went out, drunk, and opened the rabbit hutch. The rabbit had received grudging care, and had gone without water several times. The hutch stank, but Adelaide’s softness startled me. Her hind legs kicked hard until I supported them on my forearm and held her close, listening to her audible watch-tick pulse. Nan had named her as we stood at the cash register in the tractor supply place. I drew the throbbing ears through my hand, neatening them, and kissed the top of her head, flossy as my mother’s bobcat stole.

I set her down in the grass. She was free, but she didn’t move. I ran at her, stamping my feet. Poised, she watched with her red-pupiled eye. Loose in the countryside, she would be torn to shreds. I saw her as a baby cottontail, cupped in Nan’s hands, and I screamed something. Andreas was coming, and when he saw what I was doing, he ran up the lawn and the rabbit shot away. Then he chased me. My head whirled, and I was screaming and laughing. It was too dim to see and I tripped over a bucket near the wreckage of the cob oven and went down in the grass and rolled around on my back like a bitch and then he was on me, hands around my throat.

I lay in a sweaty thrill; longing for the pleasure of death. His hands were warm and his thumb lay in my suprasternal notch, pressuring my trachea. He hardly squeezed, and I looked up into the dark dilemma of his eyes, the glossy evening sky above, and shuddered.

His hands flew apart and he rolled away. ”I can’t stand you,” he said. He punched the lawn with his fist.

Reggie had once told me that when the Ancient Greeks petitioned Hades, they pounded on the ground to make him hear. Hades hardly listened and didn’t care. Now we pounded so that Nan might hear. The grass was springy, the ground beneath it relentless as stone. I pounded the burning green knife-side of my hand until fractures seemed to form in the ulnar border. Andreas crawled around me, his fists sending percussive hoofbeats up the lawn, sounding stony substrates and worm tunnels, the mineral fundament registering dully. I writhed on my back again, biting my hand, stars flashing and swimming through the mess of my face, his thuds jarring my back and echoing through what was left of my heart. And that was how I viscerally remembered Andreas after that, as a knocking that attenuated through me, into the Nekromanteion.

*       *       *       *

I drifted to my mother’s house in Clarence Center, filled her garage with boxes and set myself up in the armchair where my father had left off eight years before with an ischemic stroke. I chain-smoked with his plaid sandbag ashtray balanced on the arm of the chair, my feet on his ottoman, and, like my father, became instantly hooked on Days of Our Lives. It was the Doug and Julie era—star-crossed, fabulous—obstacles to their love wherever they turned. My mother and I had a stiff, silent relationship, but we were in complete accord over Days of Our Lives, a story that turned as endlessly as life, and with far more vivacity than our own.

Between our chairs was a lace-covered table with a lamp, ceramic praying hands, ashtrays, and detectives’ calling cards. My mother sat stiffly on the edge of her armchair, hands folded around a handkerchief, knees tucked to one side. Her hair was rolled and sprayed into a Gibson tuck and her fine-boned face glanced sideways, as if the television had only caught her attention for a moment. As teenagers, Reggie and I had deliberately defied this style of sitting by pressing our knees together and coltishly scissoring our lower legs, turning a foot on its side.

My mother had the framed second grade picture of Nan—her only grandchild—on top of the television, along with a portrait of my young father in uniform, a pleasant and unfamiliar smile on his face, before the Bougainville campaign and my birth rendered him permanently taciturn. When I finally rose from twelve or fourteen hours of sleeping-pill coma and entered the fog-machine of the world, we sat together facing these lares and penates on their flashing color altar. The television was always on, a giant Zenith, the only animate thing in the room.

In the late afternoons I bundled up and walked down the highway to the dog pound. There I took a leash from the wall and opened a sound-proof door and stepped onto a Death Row as resonant with barking as a circle of hell, a cacophony that matched the one inside me. I did not particularly enjoy dogs; they were too human with their varying personalities and snap judgements, but these were dogs, like me, at the end of the line. There were dogs who grumbled warningly as I entered the kennel; dogs who pissed themselves at the sight of me; dogs who tried to climb me in a frantic need for love. I was unafraid and unresistant. We put on the leash and went out the back door and took a slow turn around a big empty lot bordered by blackberries.

The lot was dead grass and trash. It was always raining, growing dark, the highway rude with noise, and each dog, though an island of misery, began sniffing and sneezing, forgetting itself.

There was a dark, reserved shepherd who was said to be dangerous. Time had run out for him. On our walks he wore an ugly wire muzzle that made him look like an umpire, and when we changed direction he would glance politely up through this contraption into my eyes. I always took him twice around the field. If things had gone differently in his life, he might have been like the police dog who had searched for Nan.

At dusk it was misting softly as we returned to the building. I was weeping without realizing it, as I sometimes did, just a meaty hotness around my eyes. A city-stark moon hung in the Buffalo sky, and the smoke from the crematoria chimney glittered. The shepherd stopped. He turned and pushed his brow under my hand. I felt the buckled strap and the puppy fluff behind his ears.

By prime time I would be back at my mother’s with a pack of cigarettes and a bottle of Mad Dog, drinking myself into a torpor in front of the television. One evening as I walked up to her little white fence, Andreas was waiting in the driveway in our family station wagon.

He had two grand in an envelope. He’d held an auction that day at our place, and was putting the house on the market. I sat in the car with him, glad to be with someone enduring the same experience. My hand went straight into his and we squeezed and squeezed each other’s fingers. We were getting a mid-term divorce terrifying in its cold logic—everything split down the middle, five years of alimony for me; house and property gone, all that had bound us together ripped away. The paper sack of cash and fruity wine was heavy on my lap as I twisted into his arms. Illogically, I kissed his throat as he leaked boiling tears into my shoulder. Andreas, meaning ‘man’. My hands smelled of dogs. His body was warm and slinky and he smelled and tasted as he always did, like a hot croissant.

We pulled apart and he admitted that the same thought nagged at him: what if she comes home and we’re not there? ”It would be like we didn’t believe in her,” he said. ”But this sort of thinking has nothing to do with reality.” He was still working with the investigators, and he spoke of a pattern of abductions, and something called an M.O. I rubbed my thumb on the sharp edge of the envelope and tried not to listen.

”They say she wouldn’t have made it twenty-four hours,” he said, his voice like a teenaged boy with a sore throat.

I really, really couldn’t hear this stuff. He offered me the car and anything else I wanted, but I didn’t want things, I didn’t want to make decisions, and I was grateful that he was dealing with it all. I was exhausted and I only wanted at that moment to go in the house and drink Mad Dog in the chair my father had died in, and watch The Rockford Files with my mother who had adored Nan, and who didn’t expect me to talk.

*       *       *       *

My mother drove me to the Streamline Moderne Greyhound station in Buffalo. She parked in the taxi stand and gave me, as a talisman, her favorite book, Anne Morrow Lindbergh’s Gift From the Sea. It was not a book I would read in a million years, sensing that it contained elegant thoughts on marriage and faith. All the same, I was moved. My mother thought my place was with Andreas; she believed I would soon discover this in New York City, and return. She meant the book as a survival guide; the Lindbergh baby had been a terrifying landmark of her junior high days.

I thanked her in a voice gone hoarse in the past months. I wasn’t the most thoughtful house guest, but she gave no indication that she was relieved to see me go. She lifted her white chamois driving glove from the wheel of her Breezeway and patted my hand. Nan had adored these soft gloves and the cardigan my mother wore over her shoulders like a shawl, and the tulips in her yard and her funny rendition of ‘Three Little Fishies’. I’d spent my entire youth fighting with my mother, while Nan had seen immediately how dear and finite she was.

A taxi honked behind us, and my mother covered her heart with both gloved hands and gulped. Even before this happened, living without my father was a daily act of courage.

Ten minutes later, I sat enthroned among my impedimenta in the back of the bus. Across the aisle was Ray-Shawn, a king of the road in a velvet jacket. He was an effervescent man in constant, dynamic motion, and he was advising the fellow in front of him how to transfer to Boston. He turned and, compatibly, sized me up as a traveling companion. He read, in a glance, my books and clothes, my hangover; saw that no one was there to wave at me, even though I rolled my forehead on the frosty window as we rode the dog out of Buffalo, suddenly missing my fragile mother in her antique car.

Ray-Shawn and I occupied the cool kids seats. We held court together, settled arguments and ran a communal system of childcare, entertainment and vice. People came back to have their portrait done—sitting with Ray-Shawn while I sketched across the endpapers of Gift From the Sea. An emotional, bus-wide conversation sprang up about life philosophy, the big picture, the meaning of it all. Most of us were in the process of changing our lives as we rolled toward one of the planet’s mystic cities, and we felt generous and bittersweet, full of the nervous optimism of change.

By afternoon a naptime had settled over our wards, and Ray-Shawn sat looking past me as I drew him. I could not capture his long wrist hung over the seat back; his glistening skin and golden aura. I restarted, over and over. ”I’m going to New York to drink myself to death,” I found myself saying, and I felt happy finally admitting it—it was a solution, but it sounded a bit melodramatic.

”There’s no law against it,” he said, watching the view from under the hoods of his eyes. ”My mother did that. Grief was down on her back all the time.”

”Oh—!” I said.

”She’s an anesthesiologist now,” he said, the dazed look of a child in his eyes, ” —down in Cleveland. Amen, how far can we go?” He shrugged, drew one long hand through the other, and watched an aged fellow named Charlie, who was rowing his way up the aisle, reaching for each seatback. ”Here you go, baby,” he said to Charlie, dispensing one of my cigarettes and receiving in payment two sticks of Wrigley’s and a respectful duck of the head.

We clapped when the driver honked at a fellow Greyhound, and when he assisted Sylvie, a stumping house-cleaner, down the steps with her bags in Scranton. When Sylvie sat for me, she had prattled cheerfully in an unbreakable flood so rich with alveolar trill that I could hardly follow, while her startlingly sad eyes glared past.

We applauded the Port of Newark, and the Manhattan skyline, and especially the back of the Statue of Liberty, glimpsed to our right, spotlight-pale, gazing away.

By then it was evening, and I had lived a life, passed my flask, sang along, and smoked at each pit stop in a huddle of companions every bit as shit-out-of-luck as I was. People patted me on the back, praised my pictures, wished me all the luck in the world. And then we were rolling into Fear City at a grim hour and I was elated by the wildstyle scope of the graffiti artists, unpaid visionaries, working as big as they could, so aggressive and fluid, gorgeous.

And here, quite suddenly, my clan dispersed, as if I’d imagined them.

I went with the crowd, lugging my mother’s leather hatbox suitcase, with a heavy tennis racket bag across my back. A family approached, bundled in sweatshirts under Levi’s jackets, the emaciated mother turning abruptly to the wall in my path to rapid-scratch a flint lighter. The father, giant and sullen in his cloud of teased hair, eyes flaring bitter dislike, lifted the tiny dangling legs of his little girl over my head as she rode the hydraulics of his immense arm, her mouth open in an incessant whine, her head covered in plastic clips. How precious and impermanent they were! I smiled at the ground.

The city lay in financial ruin, garbage piled around every light pole. I assumed this was how the place always looked. I had a rolled raincoat around my neck, a splitting grocery bag of books. The eyes of hunters flicked over me. I was weak-kneed on cheap liquor; a rube with two thousand dollars and a book by a woman whose child was kidnapped and killed. I didn’t expect to last the night.

*       *       *       *

Creativity generates nothing we need. The actors, especially, surprised me, and the dancers: producing work that existed for only a flash. A painting, at least, sticks around. The amount of effort that went into a play astounded me, all for something that hung in the air the length of a breath. True, a human life leaves nothing but memories, lucid and graphical and in some ways more solidified than the life around you, and so did the plays, the ballets, the operas; the avant-garde pieces, the poetry readings, the subway buskers—because art makes you bigger than you are.

I starched acres of muslin with a push broom. I wobbled on bridges three stories above the stage, squinting through a stinging mist, house paint running in rivulets down my arm. My arms ached, my back and neck and knees, and I often worked into the night, but when I got back, there was a forest at Fontainebleau or a stained London alley; heaven and hell.

I painted at work, and I painted at home, blurry things on canvases that I swiped with house painting brushes or a wad of velvet, but which, when you got back, had a twist of detail that reminded you of something. I painted naked lady parts on a t-shirt and sweatpants and wore them for Halloween. I painted bacon and eggs on a thick diner plate and gave it to the café where I had breakfast.

For years I attended a school run by Lester, a Polish scenic artist who’d mounted productions from Denmark to Cleveland. I’d seen him calmly sew a dancer into a bustier five minutes to curtain, and he claimed to have once lit entirely with storm lanterns a production of Cymbeline in a Parisian courtyard. He spoke, in one breath, of the Globe Theater exploding into flame during Henry VIII, and Edward Gorey’s Broadway production of Dracula. He reminded us that Coleridge used Gregorian chants in Remorse at Drury Lane. He mixed in his congested throat Renaissance couplets, fighter pilot terminology, Slavic curses, thespian superstition, and New York patois. He had lost more family and friends than could be counted on his thick lobster fingers, and he saw, the first time we met, my bedevilment, and put it to work.

”Girl, somewhere there is war,” he said, as we had a drink together in the evenings, with his girlfriend Gita. ”Diabeł! Somewhere there is heaven.”

”But not here,” I’d say.

I worked off-off-Broadway, in warehouse playhouses, in old churches, and up steep flights of stairs in tiny lofts. I worked on enormous cycloramas for the Met. In the early ’80s, Lester and I designed the drops for a television title sequence. First, we went down to SoHo with Gita and watched Polanski’s Repulsion. Lester sketched in the dark as Gita slept on his shoulder and I nuzzled my Prohibition hip-flask. Once we were nicely oppressed, we drafted our sequences. A terrorized girl ran down false corridors and into dead ends, up against our painted trompe-l’oeils.

I slept on a loveseat shrouded in laundry and tissuey New Yorkers pleated open to half-read articles. I did my best not to sleep, or be alone with myself, tried not to glimpse the reflection of my paint-speckled childlike simplicity. I blackout-drank. I climbed piles of dirty snow. My cracked guffaw rang out in underground theater tunnels, in scene shops; across the dismantled stages of Lincoln Center. I held jobs by the grace of God. I’d been dished a blow, and I used this as an excuse for just about everything, not least my willingness to throw down and party.

Sex never seemed to coincide with love for me, but I dabbled in both. To my detriment, I’d fall shakily in love with a mind, and the miraculous human who bore it. Everyone around me paired up readily, with confidence, but I had no clear blueprint for attraction. At any rate, I wasn’t cut out for relationships. Other people lived; I merely weathered.

I loved the backstage version of ballerinas—villainously made-up, trembling, their thinness-unto-amenorrhea, their murderous intent; their smelly pointe shoes and deformed and ravaged feet: taped, callused, bunioned, the metatarsals gnarled, the nail-beds blackened. I loved the hungry way they smoked at the stage door, their toplofty disdain, their foreign accents; the hard ‘m’ in merde. They were cutthroat, sexually competitive—athletes built of steel rope, ruining themselves for the intangible divinity of a moment’s expression.

The found sound of my life was a wine bottle rolling in a gritty circle, or Pavarotti, out on a distant stage. Time had folded over, and one part of me had stopped, and the other was only a silent tracking shot, a dim persona floating down a corridor of hanging black leg curtains and fly system ropes, through phantom performers—as soft as Satan drifting through crowds of demons, down into Pandæmonium.

     Ⅲ

In a dim way I was aware of the Oakland County Child Killer. It was impossible, of course, in New York City, to ignore the Son of Sam. In 1978 John Wayne Gacy was caught, and for the third time, Ted Bundy. The Atlanta Child Murders began. These activities were a layer of canvas-sizing beneath my life, over which I madly cross-slapped gallons of latex with a house-painter’s brush. I shrouded from myself the fact of the Golden State Killer, even as we drifted through the endless, unsubtle decades of the Green River Killer.

Over the years, I spoke to Andreas on the phone, and signed paperwork near the squiggle of his signature. He called me on her birthday, and he’d mention Nan and I jointly, as if we were off together. ‘I love you and Nan forever,’ he wrote in a Christmas card. He remarried, and had more kids, ”—but none at all like Nan.”

I imagined it would be like a figure-ground reversal, and I watched for her on the streets: she would be fourteen—she would be twenty; taller than me, with a platinum cap. The others were wrong, with their bald, ugly theories. And the void space rushes to the fore.

In 1985, the FBI formed the Violent Criminal Apprehension Program, VICAP, and a few years later, I was summoned for an interview. Andreas called to warn me. Twice, in 1978 and 1981, the bodies of children were found in New York State, and he worked with the police and reported back to me.

I took a long train ride to D.C., and was whisked to Quantico by staff car. I sat smiling woozily in the grim little office of an FBI agent while he tensely whisper-argued with someone at the door. My eyes fed across bulletin boards, award plaques, framed photographs of jumbo jets; it was nothing terrible on the surface, but the work done here was the most sinister kind. There was a row of freakishly indistinct Polaroids on a cork board. A train calendar, a hanging trench coat. The agent’s desk formed a sort of console of files and wire baskets around a blotter.

What a set! Restrained, yet macabre. The window: blinds cracked, string tangled, rain spangling bomb-proof glass.

Braced against the coming interview, I comforted myself with my immoderate plans for an evening with Georg and Merv and a fifth of Heaven Hill as we broom-painted cirrus on a giant piece of sky canvas spread over the floor of the theater shop.

The FBI agent shut the door and turned to deal with me. He was grim, time-strapped, middle-aged; brown with a wheyish cast. A forehead pinched as if from clay; shoulder holster over a snowy oxford. He’d told me his name which I quickly forgot. ”Nineteen-seventy-five,” he said, orienting both of us in time and sinking into the cockpit of his desk. ”East Amherst, New York.” He signified a ‘V’ sign at me, and depressed two keys on the tape recorder before him. My heart indented like the lid of a paint can.

”Hasn’t the trail gone cold?” I asked, thinking about my ragged Janis voice on the tape.

He winced irritably and pinched his fingers under the bridge of his glasses and said: ”It’s not a cold case when I’m looking at it.” His eyes flicked over the tops of his glasses at me as he opened a file. Thick and interesting—Nan’s file. ”I understand you had a curtain drain installed around the foundation that spring. Can you tell me about the contractors?” The door of his office opened, and he pointed at it and said ”No!” and the door shut.

Suddenly before me stood the contractors, clay-splashed, at the edge of the ditch, kidding around and smoking. I was amazed that my memory extended that far; much of my life now seemed fogged and irretrievable. ”There were three of them, they came from Amherst,” I said. ”Andreas hired them.” I wondered if Andreas, too, had been in this office, uneasily shuffling his huaraches as his honey-throttled voice was caught on tape.

”Did they see your daughter?”

”We watched them run the trencher.” It was exciting to have our green lawn torn open, and we were curious about the clay layers. After they left for the day, against their stern cautions, Nan and I climbed down into the trench. Nan was such a well-behaved child that Reggie and I had discussed teaching her to gauge when to break a rule. Down in the trench, I was fascinated with the German chocolate cake layer and the strata of round creek stones in green clay, and a long streak of rusty-gold sand. Nan played in the trickle of water.

”Did you buy a refrigerator? Were there Jehovah’s Witnesses, salesmen, was there a frozen food truck? Who came to your house that summer?” asked the agent. We’d been asked these questions a million times.

”We had a property line surveyed,” I said, feeling pallid. ”Some guys from the county came out.”

He looked down at the file and drew a long-suffering breath. I picked at an iron-on patch on the knee of my coveralls. I had some kind of inexplicable brain damage. I was dense, in a cloud world, my shortcomings many, everyone just trying to get through to me. Plus, there was a limit to the effort I would rise to: what was the point?

”Think bigger,” he said. His velour mustache curved downward as he grimaced. ”Respective of his larger pattern, he was from out of the area.” He watched me, waiting. ”Maybe nobody’s told you, but we have markedly similar cases in surrounding states. We’re talking about Mr. Patient. Mr. Patient knew Karen Ann was there in that house. He waited weeks, maybe months, and he thought about her, and he came back when the moon was right. He operated by the moon. You’ve forgotten him, but something tells me he hasn’t forgotten you.”

”Mr. Patient,” I said, and out of nowhere, a crawling body-shudder took me.

He nodded encouragement.

”There was a vacuum cleaner salesman, but it was a long time before, in the late spring. May or June. I was alone at the house.”

Even though the tape recorder was running, the agent wrote down ‘vacuum’.

”He saw Nan’s rabbit.”

He looked sharply at me. ”Did you tell him it was your daughter’s rabbit?”

”I can’t remember,” I said. The man had not seemed dangerous at all, in fact I was a bit rude to him for wasting my time and because he had a sort of pathetic quality that made it easy. I’d been so young that my rudeness made me feel powerful.

The FBI agent wrote down ‘rabbit’. ”What did you talk about?”

I experienced a contraction of the wasted years, the lack of leads, Nan’s suffering, and the ineptitude of every member of law enforcement I’d ever dealt with. ”Vacuums,” I said testily. ”He was trying to sell me a vacuum cleaner.”

The agent lowered his face and pinned a look on me over his steel rims. Grudgingly, I took myself back to that June day, the porch swing, the shameful mess of love I’d got myself into. ”We talked about the rabbit,” I said. ”He came up on the porch and petted it. He really liked it.”

”Did he introduce himself? Give you his card? Were his plates out of state?”

The picture of the dust mite rose in my mind, blinded, with a faceful of crushing mouthparts. I shrugged and stared at my snow boots, unfocused, perturbed by an overcharged feeling, a whirring of wings in my ears as if I were about to cry, although I never did. Maybe I’d hit my limit. Twelve years of Nan missing; investigators either forgetting her entirely or hammering me with pointless questions. The damage done was never conceded, or the fact that the foggy environs of my head were simply an autogenous response to attack: nacreous layers lapping a foreign irritant.

“I think he was mad at me when he left. He said I’d regret it.”

“He made a threat?”

“He said I’d regret not getting the something-vac. I thought he said ‘butcherback’, but that can’t be right.”

He studied me from an arcane, hooded distance.

”What if she’s alive?” The question popped out of me like a hiccup, facile and hopeful, flustering. The agent had a look of wonder. ”I mean, of course she’s not,” I said. He wasn’t accustomed to my unchecked foolishness, but for a homicide cop he fielded the moment with kindness. ”No one’s ever been honest with me about this,” I said, although I’d always let Andreas deal with the worst details. ”There’s no books on how to survive it. We couldn’t even have a funeral. Nothing I feel really makes sense. It’s like he did it to me. I live it over and over. I’m terrified in the dark, and I feel like he’s coming after me, and I’d almost welcome it.”

”Grief plays with your head,” he said. ”I lost my wife six months ago. Cancer. Every morning I reach for her. If I don’t reach for her, it’s as if I cede to the possibility that we are not, even today, anything but essential to each other.”

”Oh, honey,” I said. I reached through the piles of binders and patted the bundled willow-sticks that made up his hand. He looked down, attending this gesture with mild dubiety. He was indeed too thin, his brow a bed of stress-lines, and politely he drew his hand away.

He turned off the tape recorder and repositioned his tough-cop visage, tightening his mustache. ”You want the truth?” he asked. ”He’s not coming after you. He’s a mysoped. A sadist. A preferential pedophile, a criminal paraphilic. You’re important to this investigation because you’re one of the early ones. He hadn’t perfected things. He might have been sloppy. There’s a crack in his armor, and I’m going to find it.”

When he spoke of the man, his eyes shone, and left me for a map on the wall of the Eastern Seaboard.

”Abduction sites of fifteen eight-to-ten year-old girls in as many years. All blondes. We have ten bodies. His pattern is one-story houses off the beaten track, no dogs. He leaves cut screens, no fingerprints, anesthetic residue. He’s smart and careful, and he feels a blissful vindication in his deeds.”

His pouched, lit gaze was on the ceiling. I’d bumped the ambit of an alliance that had little to do with me. His passion was for this man, this huge, phantom man, invisible, all-powerful, leaps ahead of everyone, bent and feasting in wordless glory over something hidden in the ground.

 *       *       *       *

Three years later, they caught the vacuum cleaner salesman. When they went to trial I was forced to testify. The lawyers had their hands full. I didn’t bother to take the time off work, but was nevertheless dragged off the set of Lohengrin by the District Attorney’s office, stuffed into a jacket, and steered into the courtroom.

I did my best to mask an amygdala circus of fury and memory. I couldn’t look at him, but he and I were the only people who existed in that packed courtroom. I was a key witness for the prosecution; a fidgeting, uncooperative mess, yearning for a cigarette, swan boat paint on my tremulous hands. Later, I managed to laugh about it, my moment of fame complete with a sketch artist’s hilariously awful rendition of me that was printed in Time magazine, and which my friends Bev and John framed as a joke.

But for one afternoon I was in the same room as the man who had put his teeth against me and, through the filter of my soul, sucked out my existence. Every word I spoke was a communication dropped between us, sealing my own demise. I sat in the witness box, kept my eyes unfocused, and, to the degree that I was able, considered technical problems we were having with the Lohengrin swan boat. I don’t know what part of the trial it was or if there were multiple trials. My memory guttered fitfully, but I pointed when the prosecution told me to point, over at counsel. He was sitting at the counsel table, polite, affable, his legs in chains, and suddenly my mind’s eye popped like a flashbulb, and there was the summer’s day, our lane with the blackberries, and the white car coming.

Despite my description of our meeting there was no real evidence, and he didn’t confess to Nan or give up her location, and in the end he was put away for life for other things.

*       *       *       *

In 1996, Andreas’ lawyers contacted me. I was standing in the stage manager’s office with a telephone to my ear as the ghost light of my existence, never allowed to wane, went out. The FBI had found Nan’s body. I was informed that Andreas had signed off on the morgue papers, conferred with the FBI, issued a statement to the press, discussed the re-sentencing trial, and updated the National Center for Missing or Exploited Children. The funeral was at the end of the week.

The whole thing pissed me off, because I felt like the last to know; because the tip was so casually traded for prison privileges; and because the pessimists who had believed the worst from the start were now vindicated. (Although how could you be sure, how could you be certain that it really was her?) I should have been there as they excavated her like an archaeological dig, with a grid of string. She was found in West Virginia, near Harpers Ferry, a fact that threw my polarities awry, permanently altering the map of my life. All those years while I was off doing things, part of me lay in silence in the panhandle forest, under snow or sun or green.

I put my head on Mervyn’s shoulder, sitting on a roll of canvas in the back halls of Lincoln Center, as a radial arm saw lifted and ripped in remorseless metronome. My eyes burned. He knew it was grief, and didn’t ask. I picked at my OshKosh hasp. My cuffs were full of sawdust. A Dickensian whore sat down to pat my foot—Rickie, a career extra, with a sucker in her mouth and a Village Voice.

I spent the final evening repairing a carved foam pillar that a Joffrey buck had taken out with a tour jeté. At midnight I left the city in Merv’s van, embarking on one of the few excursions out of town I’d made in recent years. Stripes of silver and black rolled over me. I went at my own Truckin’ tempo, and mountainous semi trucks frosted in grime honked and floated around me. I hadn’t had a driver’s license in fifteen years. The whole thing was a close-your-eyes crapshoot, the highway visibly rolling beneath the rusted-out flooring, and for heart, I sang.

After a couple of hours, my nerves gave out and I pulled over behind a gas station in Scranton, climbed into the back and dossed down on a pile of canvas. I peeled back the foil on a wedge of zucchini bread contributed by Bev and John. My hip ached. The van ticked. The gang had chipped in on the wad of cash in my pocket, and it gave me some trouble. I bunched a Mervyn-redolent sweatshirt over my eyes, blocked out the parking lot lights, and passed out.

A zap of myoclonus threw my gears. Despite the coyote music of the freeway, the place was quieter than the city. I lay watching the van’s back doors. The windows held an unpromising heaven of vapor light, but I knew in my bones that a face had looked in. Had I locked all the doors? Did I hear footsteps, fingers trailing the side panels, feel the greasy splay of a whorled thumb on the handle of the door?

I was over fifty, thickened, battered, my voice shot from yelling above table saws and live music. I had sailed gamely to this point on a current of grappa and black humor. The van might have been cast adrift in the universe; I dared not look outside. I sweated sharply, and pulled the sleeping bag over my head.

In the morning, tooling up the Thruway, I gnawed a gas station corn dog and sang ‘It’s My Life’ along with the Animals. But my voice began to fail as I got closer to the old towns outside Buffalo. The urbanization was startling, vindicating my belief that the real world was gone, replaced with sketchy backdrops.

The funeral was at a Catholic church outside of West Seneca, which was handy because I had an appointment in Swormville, just up the road. The area had sprawled. I’d forgotten the directions, so I wheeled around the suburbs watching for a steeple. If memory served—and, to be honest, it usually didn’t—the church was called Our Lady Queen of the Sea, which made it sound like a tuna factory, never mind that it floated in a land-locked zone of housing projects. In the end, it wasn’t that hard to find—an ugly modern church surrounded by an enormous parking lot, and enfolded in the slopes of a cemetery.

I had no room to criticize the venue, since I hadn’t offered input, and the church we’d attended perfunctorily in East Amherst had become a fundraising center for the humane society. As it was, I thanked God—or in this case, our virginal Queen of the Sea—that the thing wasn’t in East Amherst, where people I actually knew might show up.

I rumbled into the parking lot with the radio on too loud and parked the getaway van as far from the other cars as I could, nuzzled into a hedge.

The brick church hung in the big side mirror. Compulsively, I lit a Swisher Sweet. Now that I thought about it: give me anonymity, give me bland conformity; give me a bad-taste characterless church with blonde wood and TV screens, with a sound system, for fuck’s sake. It was almost easier. Inanity covers the twisted facts of the world, and the irony of this was actually perfect.

My mouth was full of whiskey, and I got the show on the road, tossing the bottle aside and spit-pinching the cigarillo. After all, I had a schedule to stick to, if I was going to make it back before rush hour.

There was a hectare of pavement to trudge, and I coughed good-naturedly, hands in my pockets. While I had the chance, I looked around for mountains. Mountains: mountains. I was working through an objective problem with the layers of distance in a mountain range, each ridge fainter than the last. A touch of violet in the paint, make it smoky, with a little sun flare scumbled at the edges, maybe daub it. Daubing might look right, if you could get back far enough. If you could just get back far enough to see.

I coughed.

A car door slammed and I quartered away, hoping to go unrecognized in the guise of an eccentric relative.

Andreas stepped in front of me.

I stood there, gaping up at him. He was middle-aged now, solidified but still slender, still caramel-tan, his eyes, both silly and intelligent, riveted on mine. He was holding a boy on his hip, and this was not the moment to meet, in the parking lot with everyone getting out of their cars, kids whining, parents hissing threats.

”I see her in you,” he said. ”I see her face.” He stared at me in agony. Nan hadn’t looked the least bit like me, but he soaked me up as I dug my tire-tread sandal against the asphalt, woozily grinning and glancing around for his wife. He had a new car, one of those minivans, with various kids disembarking from it.

Andreas, with a dazed finger, touched the Ash Wednesday spot above his eyes. ”I see her again, and I—”

”Where’s Nantucket,” I whispered.

He went completely still. Then his lovely dad-face crushed, and he looked beseechingly into the eyes of the small, sullen boy on his hip. ”Look on a map.” 

The little boy returned the gaze critically. He wore a tie tucked into a tiny sweater vest. Andreas held his free arm out for me, and I was in the lanky niche of his body, so pliant, so giving. He dropped his head beside mine. When I closed my eyes I was in the garden, and he was handing things over the rows: spiny cucumbers, cherry tomatoes belladonna-rich and hot as the sun.

A hard contraction came through him, so intense that there was an anxious lag as I waited for him to draw the next breath. His son began to shiver. In the garden, Andreas rucked back dewy husks for a sneaky skunk-bite of corn. Hose water, profoundly deep and mineral, surged from the brass coupling and ran down my chin as I glugged, his hand on my back.

The kid was there in the middle of it all, my wrist crossing his Velcro shoe fastener. Andreas gasped into my shoulder, and the Velcro prickled deep into my wrist, and the little boy’s leg trembled. There was a drowning feeling at the back of my eyes. We used to laugh until we cried, all those years of rolling around together on couches and floors and lawns. I remembered lying together in our bed in the summer light, baby Nan on his chest, a tractor going by on the road below, Andreas singing a funny little song, and Nan pensively lifting her clunky baby head on a wavery neck, with that velvety chevron in her brow that held us both in thrall. Her little lady face. I knew exactly the spot he meant.

I opened my eyes and saw his wife behind the open passenger door, blocking the wind from her hateful eyes as she watched us, a dullard of a girl standing beside her waiting to have her collar fixed. Andreas had remarried and had three kids—I had known and not cared, but they surprised me all the same.

The church was as I’d expected—modern and soulless, with plushy carpet in a liturgical purple that faithfully reproduced, interestingly enough, the predatory ink of crushed sea snails. Some kind of toe-curling praise music misted from on high. I slid into an empty blonde pew, Andreas and his family directly behind me, and congratulated myself on my predictions, contentedly blinded by a swarm of stained-glass sunlight.

As we settled in, I winched myself around in the pew and nodded fondly at them. Their dark judgmental eyes drank me in. The kids looked nothing like Andreas. They had pure ashy-alabaster faces and ash-brown hair and an unnerving impassivity, only their nostrils flaring in a rapture of distaste as they stared at me. In the center of it all, Andreas beamed, effervescent with love and pain. Their mother, made of sterner stuff, looked past. 

How could I possibly be the mother of the golden, saintly Nan, against whom they were eternally measured? It was a question for the ages. I was not maturing well, and I had a thumb that was permanently flattened and blackened, like an arctic explorer’s. Gita’s sister had given me a sort of Ziggy Stardust haircut, and I’d slept on it wrong. I’d purchased my sandals on the street. I wore overalls and my nicest shirt, a vintage silk splashed with big, goopy daisies. It had all looked fine in the funhouse mirror we kept propped at one end of the carpenter shop; I was rolling this trip upstate into several business ventures and had dressed for every eventuality on the agenda, which included dropping off a painting in Waverly, collecting a load of barn wood, and scoring, in Swormville, a soap bar of polleny hashish.

Someone huffed into a microphone. I turned to the front and smiled into my sunbeam. There was a dental squeal. We were probably supposed to sit closer to the front, both Andreas and I, but there were plenty of people up there, and all around, really, the sort of shadow-people who attend churches and do things right. I settled back and sighed at the road bumps and unwrapped a Brach’s butterscotch and salted it away in my cheek. Amplified undersea voices began to speak in the rafters, muffled as thunderheads. I stared into the milky paradise of the sun shaft. A polite interval and I’d be back on the road, but I had not foreseen that I would fall, however temporarily, back in love with Andreas—one of the dearest men I’ve ever known—and the old euphoric pleasure made me sleepy. 

Then a cloud shifted, the room darkened and grew clearer and seemed to tense, and, drawn in by easels of photographs and banks of white lilies, my eyes were led to the transept. Among the lilies was a small hardwood casket.

My ankle was balanced across my knee, foot jiggling, and I grabbed it to make it stop.

With great care, crushing my socked foot in its sandal, I relocated my gaze to the hymnal rack in front of me. Beneath my sternum, two hands cupped a frantic moth. I had known, of course, that I would see Nan again, but I had not considered that she would see me.

I gripped the hymnal rack. I was up. Thick purple carpet. Murex. Murex. Tyrian purple. Phoenician red. I helped myself down the pew toward the outside aisle, with a warning smile at anyone who got close. Light fell dustily from the high windows. There was actually a bad-taste EXIT sign. An usher, waiting tensely, cast open the side door with the timing of a grip, and I was free.

The wind found me, blasting away all thought. I sought out the grade of the parking lot and hiked briskly upward. The gusts were dulled somewhat by several outbuildings on the hill, and, out of breath, I ducked behind one into a lull of air under oak trees, and found, hulking and hidden from sight, the cemetery backhoe. It was gargantuan, school bus-yellow, pistons blue with grease, its bucket folded in and resting on the ground like a knuckle. ”There you are,” I said. The bucket was crusted with fresh soil, and I knew instantly why, and I touched it, raw dirt clawed from the wounded ground, the only truth I’d had all day. I clutched the damp earth and rested my forehead on the cold iron of the dipper arm, and breathed.

Back in my van, I found the clove cigarette, half-smoked. I hummed something vaguely, exhausted, and glad to be out of the wind. My hand shook, but I’d gone a round with fate, or whatever it was that sneaked its punches, and felt slightly worse for wear. At least I’d made an appearance, as much as you could expect from someone like me, and, if the watch taped to the dashboard was right, it was time to hie on up to Swormville with the remnants of my nerves.

I sighed out smoke and gazed at the hedge—something dense, like laurel, and full of tiny birds, their intense little world exactly like ours, played out in miniature. There was a hoof-click, a scrape of hard shoes on pavement, and an apparition brewed up in the van’s passenger window. I started. The regal mystery of Jackie O—headscarf, Lancôme moue; spectacular dark glasses. Reggie Thalasso, hooking her wrist through the trapezoidal construct that held the side mirror.

As I stared, she opened the clunky door, squealing its springs, tossed in her bags, and, with remarkable difficulty, labored into the cab like a greenhorn mounting a horse. The door screeched shut. Her scent—White Shoulders—rushed into my throat. Once, before a party, she tapped a wet finger on my collarbone. ”Now we’ll both smell like rich bitches.”

We looked at each other. Her sunglasses made her expressionless, but she unstuck her lips. ”Hey, doll,” she said, and opened her straw bag.

”Goddamn, I didn’t know you’d be here.”

She laughed her horrible laugh, shaking her head, and didn’t look up from her rummaging. ”You almost got away.” Her wrists were a clutter of African bangles. She produced a cigarette case, thoughtfully selected a pure white coffin nail, leaned out of her bucket seat to light it off my cigarillo, and crossed her legs. The cab of the van was a smoke box, and she delicately worked the crank on her window, careful of her painted nails. Smoke slid into the church parking lot and I heard organ music, faint as afterlife.

”I mean, this is pretty pointless,” I said. ”He put her in the ground twenty years ago, that was her grave.”

”I know,” Reggie said consolingly, without quite agreeing. She recrossed her legs elegantly, there in Mervyn’s horrible van, the floor covered in trash. ”I wanted to talk to you at the trial,” she said, when she had straightened the crease in her slacks.

I was startled. ”You were there?”

”We watched the whole thing,” she said, and plucked something from her tongue.

”We were breaking down Coppélia,” I said apologetically. ”They had to subpoena me to testify. They whisked me in and whisked me out.”

”You were a star witness.”

”I didn’t want to see him,” I said. ”I couldn’t stand it.”

She nodded, staring at the hedge. ”Neither could Phil,” she said. ”They had to remove him from the courtroom.”

Then she hooked off her sunglasses, turning to me. Her eyes were ruined—swollen, as mascara-blurred as the time we got into a cloud of tear gas at a Fats Domino concert. She showed me the damage, then flipped down the visor mirror, clucked dispassionately, handed me her cigarette and set to work.

I toked experimentally on her minty cigarette. ”I didn’t want him to see that he’d killed me, too,” I explained. ”Anyway, it’s not like he told us where Nan was. He only pleaded guilty to the others to save his neck.” I coughed, a chesty, unhealthy cough, and rolled down my window.

Reggie kicked her elegant foot among the fast food wrappers, dotting moisturizer with her wedding ring finger. ”He seemed helpful, like a regular guy,” she said. ”That was the scary thing. I wanted to speak with him…I wanted to ask him…”

She had a tiny brush that somehow recurled her eyelashes. I unscrewed the lid of the whiskey and wondered how many hours of my life I’d spent contentedly leaning against roller towels while Reggie gazed into locker room mirrors with the intensity of a dryad breaching the netherworld.

”Phil wanted to kill him,” she said. “They banned him from the rest of the trial. So it was just me and Shawnee watching it, from the pre-trial on, day after day, and Andreas, of course, and talking to the parents of other victims around the motel pool at night. You missed Andreas’s impact statement. Shawnee lost her internship, she was in real trouble at work, and she didn’t care. She took notes in shorthand every inch of the way. We lived on Fritos and Coke.”

Shawnee: thundering and breathless, pulling up her knee socks; hopelessly boy-crazy. We’d joked that she’d end up in the topless Roller Derby. It was hard to picture her sitting still for a months-long criminal trial, but, to be fair, I hadn’t seen her since she was eleven. ”How is ol’ Shawnee?” I asked.

”She went into criminal law. She works for the Department of Justice in Connecticut.” Reggie closed her bag and looked at me. Her eyes were only a tired approximation of her real, velvety-black eyes, but they met mine steadily.

”What?”

”She fights for children,” Reggie said.

My scalp moved. ”Because of Nan.”

Reggie nodded as she took the flask from my hand and huffed out a breath. We had one for the road. She put on her sunglasses. ”Shall we?” she asked, and opened her door.

”Maybe you didn’t realize the impact on the kids, on all of us,” said Reggie, in the parking lot. The wind was bad. She took my arm, and I cocked my elbow and stuffed my hand under my overall bib like a Regency gentleman. Reggie held the back of her head and glanced into the sky. We strolled very casually, barely moving, one way and then another, cloaked in her opulent scent. ”Everything we did after that, Phil’s run, Europe—it was all because of Nan,” she said.

”Phil’s what?”

”Phil’s run across America. Didn’t you hear about it? From Boston to San Francisco. Oh, sure: three thousand miles, police escorts, news teams in helicopters, the kids and I in the pace car. You know Phil. He raised twenty-seven thousand dollars for the National Child Safety Council. Sometimes Arnie ran with him, and sometimes me—for half a mile. We were on the road for months, skipping fall semester, eating junk. Adidas gave us a lifetime of shoes. Phil ran three thousand miles, through heat and rain and snow, bawling his eyes out, and at the end of it he said he no longer wanted to kill the person who took Nan, although apparently he changed his mind again at the trial.”

”Phil loved Nan?” I asked in surprise. The dads lashed canoes onto station wagons, played tennis, or stood around with clicking drinks while the kids clung to their pants legs. Phil had a way of gathering the drama around himself. He’d probably meant well, but I was relieved I’d missed the whole thing.

”It was like one of ours was taken,” Reggie said. ”You know it was. And then you were gone. And Andreas. We lost all three of you.”

I pulled at my Bowie forelock.

”We couldn’t seem to cope anymore,” Reggie said. ”Phil quit his job. We started thinking differently. We took the kids to Europe, and we didn’t come back. If you keep moving, they can’t throw you out. We were lost, but we were closer, and in a way, happier.”

We had climbed to the level of the backhoe, and we started along a golf-cart path. ”It was more like we decided to stop being afraid,” said Reggie. ”The worst had already happened.” She strolled to the cadence of our words, sedately and without purpose, bumping against me. ”Phil flies helicopters for Médecins Sans Frontières. Our youngest—Odaline—we had in seventy-seven, a complete accident: insanity to have a child after that!”

We glanced at each other, but all I could see was my own dimness sliding from the lenses of her shades.

“She’s nineteen now, and thinks she’s French. Born in Paris. Hates the States.”

”I don’t believe this,” I said happily, for I believed it easily. The Thalassos always landed on their feet.

We were at the top of the cemetery, looking down into the crowns of trees, and Reggie pointed casually, as if at a bird. A fence divided the cemetery from a golf course, and far down it loitered a sullen pixie, her cigarette arm propped on a post. Two young men hovered.

”Odaline dans les bas-fonds,” said Reggie, in a critical tone, and we continued on.

Below us, boys in black trousers ran laughing among the trees, escaping some stifling ceremony, a gathering of people half-hidden.

I sought another fantastic glimpse of Odaline Thalasso. Someone was following us. Reggie looked back along the path, but said nothing.

”Arnie has women problems,” Reggie said. “He works at the embassy in Malta.” She stopped, and we stood there on the path. I patted the bib of my overalls and discovered my Prohibition garter flask—I’d had it for years and years and it was worn soft as a heart. Reggie took it but her nails prevented her from opening it. We each had a belt. The person following us was a woman, dressed in black, tall and rangy. Reggie turned me away from her, shielding me, and we gazed down the hillside of headstones and grass. ”The first time I saw her,” Reggie said, lowering her voice to a hypnotic level and contracting her arm around mine. I understood immediately that we were speaking of Nan. Sparrows lifted from a lilac and left it shuddering. I sighed with happiness, for here was Nan’s origin story, which she’d adored. ”The first time I saw her, I just walked into the hospital nursery; no one was around,” Reggie said, ”and there was a bassinet with a tiny little baby in it. She had kicked her feetsies out of the blanket, and she stopped and looked up at me, right into my eyes. I picked her up. It was like we already knew each other. Just—swoop. I could have sailed off with her.”

I laughed, choked up despite myself. ”Oh, that terrible, terrible hospital,” Reggie always said. ”I could have just stolen Little Baby Nan.”

She looked away, pressing at her nose. I leaned around her. The woman approaching wore a geometric power suit and a whipping black gossamer scarf. Her hair was a burnished mane, her makeup so refined that she had a diamond-like glow; yet her eyes, fixed on mine, were wide with fear. I found myself in the odd position of pitying her. I couldn’t imagine what she wanted until she arrived before me and put her hands on her long thighs and, ignoring Reggie, scrunched herself down to my level.

”Shawnee,” I said.

Shawnee’s eyes flared in wonderment. ”Do you remember me?” she asked.

”Oh, Shawnee,” I said.

”We watch Live from Lincoln Center and think of you,” she said, sounding as if all the air had been pressed from her lungs. Nan would have been twenty-nine, now; so Shawnee was in her early thirties. Reggie was signaling something, and I sensed machinations. Shawnee straightened up, the old artful look on her face. In a snap of chiffon, she faded back.

Down the hill a hymn lifted faintly in the wind. Reggie adjusted her grip on me and steered me straight out into space, off the edge of the path and down the hill amid ledger stones and cypresses tilted with creep; the footing was treacherous and we were slightly drunk, gathering momentum, careening as we went. ”Putain!” she blurted, stepping wrong, and I snorted and our linked arms tightened; we were in it together, Reggie and I, as we had always rolled along together, as real painters paint—free from ego, free from sense—down all the troubled hillsides of the world, through car wrecks and childbirth and killers; the sheaves of ourselves falling away and whatever was left of us—whatever remained true through it all—still motoring along together.

A marquee was visible through the trees. We’d stumbled to the bottom of the slope, and found the outskirts of a trailing group of mourners. The running boys hurtled by, like starlings blown inside-out—wild-eyed with stifled laughter, dodging the grasping adults.

Someone spoke inaudibly into a microphone. I balked, then, and Reggie stopped with me. We stood beneath a leafy tree. She rubbed my arm with her free hand, and we listened to the non-words. I stood shaking my head, fixed with a cottonmouthed dread. I felt her sigh with nerves and the fugue of my mind turned the air to stage smoke so that I could hardly see.

She raised her hand in the air and then made a highly inappropriate throat-cut signal at someone in the front, and the speaker went silent.

Reggie turned to me. A streak of sunlight plumbed the euphotic zone of her sunglasses and I saw the whisk of her lashes. She’d always had expectations of me as a human being that I couldn’t meet, but as she pulled at me again, very gently, and one of my numb feet dragged forward, I began to follow, as I had always followed her.

The grass was mesmerizing, a faint spray of leafhoppers rising around my socks-in-sandals. Green is a primary color—not a secondary—on the color wheel of light. A warm green. My socks were misnamed hot pink, which is a secondary cool red; given to me at Christmas by Terri and Georg and their little girl Inga and their whippet, Sky. Reggie was at my shoulder, sniffing steadily, face lowered with the effort of propelling me forward, her bangles clicking as she readjusted her grip on me, fingers working busily between mine so that our hands were palm to palm, really locked, and now there was an opening in the crowd, an aisle through. Mute shadow-mourners turned away, elbows out, hiding their faces with programs.

The shame of my inadequacy was something usually I laughed off, but now, in the silent munificence of the crowd, I had to close my eyes to bear it, to endure it, stumping with stage weights for feet as I was led down into Hell—’with wandering steps and slow’—Reggie guiding me and the entirety of my life visible in the followspot, suddenly evident that it did matter, that every second had mattered; it all had mattered so much.

A young tree whispered overhead and we entered a forest of flowers. Eyes closed, I halted mutely when she did. The dread was terrific. The people around us were so oddly silent, just a whisper of coughs and the rustles of shoes in grass. The wind had fallen. There was no reason to open my eyes. She swung my hand forward and placed it. My hand, with Reggie’s over it, was on a wooden box. My teeth chattered, then, and I labored, each breath scented with hothouse lilies. I set my jaw tight. I felt the wood of the box. It was only wood, and it was warmed by the overcast sun.

There was a sound in Reggie’s throat. She patted my hand as she struggled with herself, and when she could manage, tipped her head against mine. ”It’s Nan,” she said. ”We got her back.”

*       *       *       *

At the point of her disappearance, the FBI had, with their infinite pessimism, collected Nan’s x-rays from our family dentist. For some reason, after her recovery, and despite the fact that Andreas had borne every bit of responsibility in the interim years, the FBI sent them to me.

Sometimes I woke to sunlight picking out raindrop residue on the window of my seedy loft. Sometimes my dry, paint-engrained hand looked more authentic than anything I’d ever seen. Sometimes I pulled, from a book on the floor, the panoramic radiograph on Ektaspeed film. Held to the window, it revealed something I’d been completely unaware of. It showed Nan’s clamped teeth, her skull packed in petaled layers from the nostrils to the chin bone with the eerie waiting buds of teeth, a hyperdontia of adult life lurking inside her, waiting its turn to rise.



BIO

Jessica Lackaff feels that if cell phones have one redeeming societal virtue, it is the Amber Alert. She is a self-taught writer with work forthcoming in Cottonwood, and has published in The New World Writing Quarterly, Jaded Ibis Press, and Eternal Haunted Summer. She would like to thank the dear and wonderful writers Kasey Myers and Fiona Cox for twice proofing this story.







                                                           

Human Beings Live Here

by Mike Heppner


I.

            The little wooden bowl went missing years ago. It might’ve been when they’d moved from the apartment in Winchester to a larger house in Wakefield. She remembers packing in a hurry, often with the baby in a sling around her neck. It would’ve been late in the move, all of the books and tabletop decor already boxed up and only the kitchen and bathroom essentials left out. Not that she ever considered the bowl and its matching spoon “essential.” She can’t recall using it even once. More of a decorative bowl, then, though she kept it in the drawer along with the rest of the kitchen junk.

            She misses Winchester, only two towns to the south from her house near the Wakefield town center. Winchester is more upscale than Wakefield; they never could’ve afforded to buy in the well-to-do suburban Fells hamlet known for its boutiques and highly ranked school district. Wakefield’s nice too, but it feels far from her job in the city. If you want affordable housing near Boston, you have to migrate out: north, south, or west. East puts you in the ocean.

            The bowl’s missing. Something else is missing too.

            She can’t quite remember what the bowl looked like. Small, maybe just decorative. You wouldn’t use it for nuts or olives or crackers, the things you set out for guests. She still has the spoon, though—somehow the bowl got lost but not the spoon.

            It’s Sunday, and she’s cleaning out the junk drawer in the kitchen. Mostly it’s batteries, the first twenty-three inches of a torn and coffee-stained measuring tape, broken pencils and random tools, birthday candles out of the box—the drawer jams halfway open, and she adjusts the handle of a Phillips-head screwdriver to pull it out the rest of the way.

            The tiny wooden spoon’s handsome enough. Maybe it would look nice on the window ledge above the kitchen sink. We like to put things on window ledges—little spoons and decorative boxes, a pretty stone found on a hike. Leave no surface uncluttered.

            With a nostalgic sigh, she puts the spoon on the window ledge, changes her mind and takes it back, then changes her mind again and returns it to the ledge. She wonders how the spoon wound up in the junk drawer. Maybe that’s what it is, then—just junk. Not ledge-worthy.

            A child watches from a landing on the second floor. He knows what’s missing too. The house is quiet except for the sound of someone rooting through a junk drawer, and the woman in the kitchen, the boy’s mother, is pretty and disheveled and entirely focused on her work.

            Sunday’s an awkward night to invite someone over for dinner; but adults have busy schedules, and you do your best to find a time that works for everyone.

            Sometimes she gets on a tear and decides she needs to clean the whole house, or at least the kitchen and bathrooms. It’s more house than she’s ever had to deal with. Owning a house with five bathrooms embarrasses her, especially now. The house was built with a larger family in mind. It’s old and loses heat in the winter. If only she’d known, she would’ve stayed in Winchester where they only had to write one check a month and the landlord handled the rest.

            What do you do with a tiny wooden spoon? There’s the temptation to throw it away, though it looks nice on the window ledge next to the polished rock she found on a walk in the Fells. So maybe it makes more sense as a decoration. As an actual spoon, it’s nearly useless. Sometimes things that look practical really aren’t—decorative bowls, a hand-laid cutting board. You’re not meant to use them, you’re just meant to leave them out and admire them.

            The boy watching from the landing has big eyes. It’s his job to watch and not make comment, just take it all in.

            Cleaning’s emotional for her; she does it when she’s bored or nervous or excited. Today she’s all three. It’s good to clean when you’re full of nervous energy and can’t keep your hands steady. She also likes rearranging the furniture, though it gets on people’s nerves. End tables and loveseats migrate from room to room, up and down the stairs. She doesn’t like it when things get too settled. Someday she’ll get it right, the exact correct arrangement of tables and chairs.

            It’s time for the boy’s lunch, and she calls him down. She likes making him sandwiches; every meal could be a sandwich so far as she’s concerned. Lately she finds she doesn’t have much appetite. She doesn’t like the weighed-down feeling of a full stomach. Eating makes her sleepy; some days at work she’ll skip lunch and just power through the afternoon.

            The boy’s not eating much either. He’s always been on the small side. She hopes the other mothers don’t look at him and think she’s not feeding him enough. Other mothers judge—they criticize. It’s not a very supportive environment. She does worry about him though. She hopes he doesn’t grow up to be one of those puny boys who has to squeak by to survive childhood.

            It’s not just the eating, it’s the sleeping—he won’t sleep in his room anymore. A few months ago he moved his single bed out into the hallway on the second floor. That’s where he sleeps now, in the hallway right outside her room. She asked why.

            “Because it’s fun,” he said.
            She couldn’t accept this. “No, that’s not why. It’s not because it’s fun.”

            “It is. It’s like camping.”

            “Once, maybe. Every now and then, as a change of pace. And even then—I don’t see how it’s fun.”

            He watched her. “It feels like I’m doing something different. It makes bedtime more interesting.”

            She slumped. “Okay, but you can’t stay out there forever. Eventually you’re going to have to go back to your room.”

            The boy nodded, his lips thin. Then, in that adult way he had of letting her win, he said, “Eventually.”

            It’s been weeks and “eventually” hasn’t happened yet. It’s not just his bed anymore—he’s got a nightstand and a lamp, a stack of books and comic books on the floor. You have to squeeze by all the stuff just to get down the hall. It’s not like he’s afraid to go into his room; he does his homework there, and he still keeps his clothes in his closet and chest of drawers. He just won’t sleep there. There’s something about the in-betweenness of the hallway that appeals.

            She asked a friend from work about it, and the friend said, “He’s just feeling insecure. He’ll grow out of it.”

            Why would he feel insecure? she wondered, though there’ve been nights when she wouldn’t mind sleeping in the hall herself.

            After lunch she asks him to move his bed back to his room, and the lamp and the nightstand and the stack of books and comic books. He flatly refuses.

            “But why not? Seriously, it looks terrible in the hall. It clutters up the whole second floor.”

            “What difference does it make? I thought this person was just coming for dinner.”

            “He is.” Her son’s never met “this person” before. Tonight’s a first. “But he might like to see the upstairs.”

            “Why would he want to see the upstairs? It’s just your room and my room and a couple of bathrooms and nothing interesting.”

            “Still. Some people want the grand tour. They like to see where people live.”

            “That’s weird. Is this person weird? I don’t want this person coming over if he’s weird.”

            “He’s not weird—he’s very nice, and you’ll like him.”

            But the boy’s unconvinced. His mother’s not very good at putting her foot down. She feels like she owes him these little indulgences.

            So the bed stays. And the lamp and the nightstand and the stack of interesting things to read.

II.

            They used to go on trips before the kid was born, little two day jaunts to the Cape or out to the Berkshires. They had more disposable income in those days—there wasn’t as much to save for. Her husband liked staying in hotels; they both did. They slept better in hotels, had better sex. Their son was conceived in a hotel. They were staying in Northampton over Thanksgiving weekend, at The Hotel Northampton—sorry the name’s not more interesting—and after dinner they went back to their room with a bottle of red wine, took a bath together, then made love once on the floral print settee and again, more conventionally, in bed. Could’ve been either time.

            Her husband had a habit of taking home all the freebies whenever they stayed in a hotel, the travel-sized shampoo and conditioner, the mouthwash, even the sewing kit. She never could understand that about him—the man didn’t even know how to sew! He was the kind of guy who’d throw out an item of clothing if it got the least little bit stained or torn. And yet now she’s got a junk drawer full of these little sewing kits from all over New England.

            All those places where they slept and drank and made love and watched TV.

III.

            Jeremy Lang, tall, skinny, head shaved bald. Frameless eyeglasses, a long neck and prominent Adam’s apple. She still hasn’t asked his age, but she’s guessing around forty-five. Divorced, no kids. She wonders why, both about the no kids and the divorce. They’re not on that level yet, the deep sharing level. They’re still hovering around each other, checking each other out. She could probably not see him again and it wouldn’t matter.

            They’re maybe one date away from sleeping together. She’s still not sure what she wants.

            One thing, though: the boy seems to like him, and that’s a surprise.

            They’re on to dessert, cupcakes from Santino’s in Woburn. It seemed like a good idea at the time, but now she wishes she’d picked something else—cupcakes are for kids’ birthday parties. But Jeremy Lang doesn’t seem to mind. There’s something kid-like about him, or maybe he’s just performing for the boy.

            “I might need to eat this with a fork. I don’t want to get frosting all over my face,” he says, and the boy laughs. She’d been expecting a different reaction: stand-offish, aloof. She’s not used to these things working out.

            The boy’s full of questions tonight. He wants to know the difference between glue and mucilage, and Jeremy Lang explains, “Oh gosh I’m not sure. I haven’t even thought about mucilage since I was a kid. I think it’s that… it’s that…”

            The boy prompts, “There’s a difference.”

            “I know there is. I think it has to do with where it comes from, how it’s made. One’s plant-based. Mucilage, I think.”

            “Wow, Mr. Lang sure knows a lot of things. Would you like some more wine?” she asks, just to give herself something to do.

            Jeremy Lang nods, and the boy asks what his favorite Tom Waits album is. The question rattles her.

            “Oh… Tom Waits. Favorite Tom Waits album…”

            “And why.”

            “And why, of course. I’m not too up on Tom Waits. I do know that one, Rain Dogs.”

            “Rain Dogs is good, but I like Swordfishtrombones better. It’s more crazy.”

            “Is it? If you like Tom Waits you must like Bob Dylan,” Jeremy Lang says, and the boy looks at him like he’s just guessed his middle name.

            “Here you go,” she says, pouring Jeremy’s wine, hoping they’ll change the subject.

            The boy asks why you can’t just walk through a door, why you have to open it first.

            “Such silly questions tonight!” she says, starting to get annoyed. The boy’s questions have the hint of mischief. She knows him.

            Jeremy Lang says, “No, it’s all right. It’s an important question. Why you can’t just walk through a door, why you have to open it first. Hm.” He thinks. “Well, it has something to do with a door being a solid object. Wouldn’t that have something to do with it?”

            The boy blinks, but waits; he wants more.

            “See, everything in the world—you, me, your mom, this table—is made up of cells and atoms.”

            “Everything?”

            “Everything.”

            “Even your shirt?” the boy says, obviously playing with him now.

            “Even my shirt—even your shirt.”

            “Even Mom’s?”

            Jeremy Lang glances over at her, and they share an adult laugh. “Even Mom’s, even every shirt and every pair of pants and… just… everything. Everything in the whole world, including broccoli and fireplace tools and table tennis—made of cells and atoms. And there’s a rule, a law of physics—you probably haven’t had physics yet.” The boy stares; he’s only in the fourth grade. “Yeah, but there’s a law that says no two atoms can occupy the same space at the same time, and that’s why you can’t just walk through a door, you have to open it first. Because that space is already taken.”

            Jeremy Lang looks winded and relieved—talking to kids takes work. The boy lets the information settle, then favors him with a smile.

            “Mr. Lang’s good at explaining the unexplainable,” she says, and they ignore her.

            “Would you like to see my room?” the boy asks.

            She swoops in. “Oh no, it’s a mess up there.”

            “Mom.”

            “We talked about this. I told you to pick up your things.”

            “My things are picked up, they’re just…”

            “…all in the wrong place, I know.”

            Jeremy Lang puts his hands up. “I don’t want to cause a problem.”

            The boy insists, “Mom, can I?”

            She looks at her hopeful son, who’s been basically good all night. “Oh, fine—but just show him real quick and come right back down. I’m going to put the dessert dishes in the sink.”

            The boy leads Jeremy Lang up the stairs, and she brings the dishes to the kitchen and runs liquid soap and water over them. She’s hoping the boy will go to bed early. She wouldn’t mind some time alone with Mr. Jeremy Lang. She hasn’t been kissed, really kissed, in almost a year.

            But then after you kiss, what next? The kid’s not going anywhere.

            Standing at the sink, she sees the tiny wooden spoon on the window ledge. She’s not a pack rat, not exactly, but she sometimes has trouble throwing things away. You never know when the missing bowl might turn up inside a box of odds and ends. Meanwhile there’s all this clutter she doesn’t know what to do with.

            She wants a fresh start. A clean do-over.

            Hands wet and sudsy, she takes the spoon and feints toward the kitchen trash, then changes her mind and puts it back in the junk drawer along with the twenty-three inch measuring tape and the sewing kits from all those hotels.

            The boy’s eyes are big. His job is to watch you.

            Upstairs she finds the boy sitting with Jeremy Lang on his bed. He’s showing off his comic book collection.

            “Sorry, I’ve been trying to get him to do something about this for weeks,” she says.

            “Jeremy thinks it’s cool—don’t you Jeremy?” the boy asks.

            Oh, it’s Jeremy now.

            “I think it’s… an interesting choice,” says Jeremy Lang.

            “Mom, come sit with us. Jeremy’s into Avengers too.”

            “Ages ago. I think I remember some of these,” says Jeremy Lang, looking through the comic books.

            “But there’s no room,” she says.

            The boy scooches over, swiping a pile of stuffed animals to the floor. He sleeps with dozens of them; even in fourth grade he still likes all his little friends.

            She sits. “I don’t see how you get any sleep out here.”

            “I like it. Here, lay back. You too, Jeremy.”

            The boy tucks his legs and rolls over in bed. The bed’s narrow, barely room for one person. Jeremy Lang smiles at her—he’s on no one’s side.

            “I guess we should probably take our shoes off,” he says.

            They squeeze into bed with the boy, Jeremy Lang in the middle. It’s cramped but cozy. She supposes it’s fine if he wants to sleep out here for now. He’ll grow out of it.

            Besides, she’s the one who’s always moving the furniture.

            Jeremy Lang sighs. “Ah… good night.”

            She laughs. “It does give you a new perspective.”

            He turns his head to her on the pillow, and now he’s a boyfriend, he’s part of her life.

            “On what?” he asks.



BIO

Mike Heppner has published three novels in the genre of literary fiction, two with Knopf (The Egg Code, 2002, Pike’s Folly, 2006) and one with Thought Catalog Books (We Came All This Way, 2015); two story collections, one with Another Sky Press (The Man Talking Project, 2012) and one with Thought Catalog Books (This Can Be Easy or Hard, 2014); and a novella with Kindle Singles (Nada, 2013). 







The Last Murmuration of Gwyneth

by Winnie Bright


Gwyneth is sitting on the edge of my bed again when I wake up. I don’t need to see her to know she’s there. I feel the pressure of her feather-light weight on the mattress beside me and I know that when I open my eyes, I will see Gwyneth’s back, ramrod straight, draped in iridescent black silk. I lie still, playing possum, feigning sleep, wanting to imagine my inaction could impact her daily reprise, but I’m deluding myself. We are of the same flock, but the peculiar sensitivities that connect us allow me to observe, never interact.

“Good morning, Birdy. It’s a lovely day for the beach.”

My breath catches at the sound of her voice. Gwyneth chirps the same phrase each morning, but her words are not what floods my veins with ice water; it’s the uncanny accuracy of her mimicry. When Gwyneth speaks, it is in my voice. I try to temper my unease by reminding myself we share the same instinct for thievery; we steal sounds from living things, steal food meant for songbirds, squat in abandoned homes or forcefully evict families from homes already occupied. Stealing and sticking together is how we survive.

 I unfurl myself from the nest of thin quilts tangled around me, propping myself up on my elbows. As expected, Gwyneth is perched with her back to me, gazing out the open window when a squall sweeps off the rough winter sea. Despite its translucence, her unmoving form appears heavy and impenetrable as stone, while the wildly undulating curtains reach for her with cotton tentacles. I smell salt and decomposing fish and my stomach turns. Dawn stretches a weak beam of sunlight into the room, hitting Gwyneth and then passing through her, diffused but unbroken. The fuzzy light leaks through her abdomen like a thousand pinpricks, a dense constellation, finally landing on the wrinkled bed sheets across my legs.

“I told that boy not to shout from down there,” Gwyneth grumbles, standing. I mouth the words as she speaks them but I don’t answer her; I’ve learned there’s no point. Gwyneth is in my bedroom and also somehow not here at all. She is a palimpsest, the indelible mark of something time tried to erase. The translucency of her form waxes and wanes, except for the hole in her torso. Even in her most solid state, there is a void in her center the size of a dinner plate that seems to generate its’ own atmosphere. In the hollow of Gwyneth, I watch dust motes float in a stillness that exists nowhere else in the room.

Down there is Crane Beach and it is empty, save for sandpipers and stilts picking their breakfast from the frostbitten tide along the shoreline. There was no shout, no boy, no tourists caught in this tourist trap at this time of year. Sometimes I wonder if Gwyneth sees and hears another member of our Chattering, and if she is stuck behind a two-way mirror and forced to witness their looping downward spiral as I do hers. Migration season began in October and each morning since, I have awoken to Gwyneth settled on the precipice of my bed, squared off against the rectangle of the window frame to greet the new day.  Dawn after dawn,  she reenacts the scene with the regularity of a cuckoo popping out from her clock, and still, I am inevitably jolted by her existence.

 In her daily ritual, Gwyneth approaches the balcony to peer down at the hypothetical caller, triggering a sharp corresponding tug in my solar plexus. Some remnant of the tether between myself and the absence Gwyneth has constructed herself around still holds tight. My arms twitch. Any creature who once flew but became flightless will empathize with her instinct to hoard air in the caverns of her gravity-bound body. I wanted the same, at the height of my grief, but I’ve mourned my fragile hollow bones. The reservoir of anguish over individuation I once housed has dried up and I’ve learned to balance my heavy skull, to speak gutterally when I once would have sang.

The injection of terror and sadness that floods my brain each time Gwyneth pops into my room like an astral projecting jack-in-the-box has begun to take root in my body. My still unfamiliar flesh is clammy and wet. Something frenzied grows behind my eyes, tangled and claustrophobic. In this room, I’ve willfully suspended disbelief while having no rational answers for the why or how of Gwyneth’s appearance. The dissonance of trying to reconcile real and unreal has become unbearable.

I try something new. Instead of acting within my reality and allowing the yank of our invisible connection to drag me behind her, I embrace Gwyneth’s reality. I wrap my hands around the empty air in front of my chest approximately where I imagine the threads that attach us extend from. Planting my bare feet on the hardwood floor, I tightly clench my fists and pull.

I expect my fingers to close around nothing, fingernails cutting crescents into my palms to remind me of my foolishness, but instead, my hands are sliced by searing heat, as if I’ve grasped a laser beam. I feel tiny barbs sink into my skin, anchoring. In an instant, the scorch travels from my palms, a white-hot flame running upward past my wrists, then elbows, and then exploding through me. I’m shaking violently as I stare down at my seemingly empty fists clenched oddly to my chest. I lift my eyes to Gwyneth in front of me.

If events were to proceed as usual, Gwyneth would lean over and yell into the wind, but today the coil of ethereal rope tightens around my fist and her body snaps back just before she reaches the balcony railing. A single, hollow pop, like the sound of a champagne bottle being uncorked, echoes loudly in the room. Instantly, the atmosphere feels pressurized, the air humming and vibrating around and into me. I am aware of the connecting atoms forming every tooth, tendon, vein, and cell. I can feel my neurons pulsing and firing across synapses. A high-pitched ringing in my ears grows louder and becomes a roar, like the infinite crash of waves pounding the shore. Something with wings has flown into my open mouth, filled my throat with its voice, forced its fragile bones and feathers down my windpipe, and now, frenzied, batters the bars of the cage my ribs form. A woodpecker’s staccato rat-a-tat-tat cracks me open and from every pore, light leaps out.



BIO

Winnie Bright is a queer writer and artist from Cleveland, Ohio, where she lives with her wife, child, and dog Hannah Beasley. When she isn’t having incredibly personal, one-sided conversations in her day job as a counselor, she walks in the woods, loiters at the public library, and scours Lake Erie for beach glass.







A Sighting

by Harriet Sandilands


From where I was sitting on the rock, it sounded like applause. I coughed the sand out from the back of my throat and looked up towards the parade where the applause had come from. On the boardwalk a head of back-brushed white hair, a blue Disney T-shirt and pleated white tennis shorts. Shhhhht! She hissed at me. I realised I was still humming. Shhhht! She clapped simultaneously, sending what I thought were quite mixed messages. I searched for her eyes through the hazy sunset, lifting a flat hand to my eyebrows in an unintentional salute.

She jabbed her finger at the horizon and with her other hand made an undulating gesture, as though she had a snake-shaped puppet on her hand. She jabbed again at the horizon, this time a little angrily I thought, jerking her head up in the direction of a conic yellow buoy, shouting something at me I didn’t understand.

Now freed of the notion that she was a fan of my singing, I followed her finger out to sea. Apart from the yellow buoy I saw nothing. I looked back to see if she might inadvertently give me another clue. Instead, she rolled her eyes skyward. I think she tutted.

My mouth was very dry and so, to retain moisture, I pursed my lips shut and thought about how I could avoid letting on that I hadn’t seen what she was pointing at. But that made her really cross and she started involving her whole body in the task of drawing my attention to whatever it was she had seen. She wriggled and writhed with her whole self in the manner of someone trying to explain to an extraterrestrial what a woman is, alternately stroking her waist and shaking her hips, punctuating the performance with decisive little pokes at the offending horizon.

As a child I saw a ghost. The thrill of this is obvious – an impossible man glimpsed out on the deck of an old warship, as though submerged in time. My mother, who was with me, claimed not to have seen anything at all. I have since learned that children nonchalantly straddle worlds, while adults balk at the thresholds. The underlying terror of seeing a ghost is not so much fear of the spectre itself, as the unsettling idea that you have seen something that no-one else saw, which means you have probably lost your mind. Sea monsters are only scary in that they lurk at the very limits of imagination.

I was aware of the woman still willing me towards her line of sight from the boardwalk. Her persisting desire to catch my eye thrummed in tiny vibrations across the sand. Eye contact, I learned from an early age, is usually the beginning of the end. I didn’t turn around. Like a toddler who hides simply by clamping their eyelids down, I childishly thought the woman might forget I was there altogether and release me from the game, if I ignored her for long enough.

Shhht! Shhht!

My stomach sank, a little lead anchor thrown to the bottom of the ocean, landing on the bottom in a small muffled thud.

I considered making a facial expression that would suggest I’d seen it. I’ve faked it many times before. We have to pretend to survive. Two seagulls fought each other for the remains of a washed up cuttlefish a few feet away.

But what face would I make? And what if it was the wrong one? The face appropriate for a shark fin would be one thing – perhaps accompanied by a silent scream. But the face for a floating turd would be quite another. Lying was too risky.

I scanned the beach again to see if there was anyone else around, but there was no-one. Even the two seagulls had taken off, their wings leaving a trail of gentle moans on the salty air. I felt desolate and deeply alone. My stomach sank further into my groin and my heart took its place in the pit of my belly. Desperate to distract myself from this feeling, I started humming again. My tail twitched in discord.

They say that the loneliest feeling of all is when you feel isolated, even in the company of another. This is how humans preempt their break-up stories or explain why they turned to Buddhism. But the saddest thing about this situation was that the loneliness I felt was not my own. I had caught it and mopped it up, absorbed through some kind of osmosis between me and the Disney T-shirted maniac on the parade. Maybe it was the melancholia of the tune I was singing, or the way the light reflected off the water in a million little rhombus shapes, or the fact that we were the only living things as far as the eye could see, or the fish could swim.

Just occasionally you can show all of yourself to someone. Peel back the scales of your skin to reveal the purest pearl of your existence which has been rolled and rolled from many grains of grit, misunderstanding and long stretches of deep blue quiet. It is almost always a stranger to whom you can entrust this pearl, just momentarily, just once or twice in a lifetime. Someone who will never see you again, who may doubt that they ever saw you at all, but who – in that moment – demands the absolute truth of you, for your own sake and for theirs.   

So, I hauled myself off the rock and writhed back to the water across the sand, thirsty, gulping at the ocean’s cup, my tail thrashing and flashing in the sunlight as I swam away, knowing she was watching every move.



BIO

Harriet Sandilands is a writer and art therapist living in the “magic mountain” of Montserrat in Northern Spain. Her stories and poetry have most recently been published in Porridge, Litro and Talking About Strawberries All Of The Time. Her short poetry collection Amiss (a series of poems which omit the letter e) was published by Palabrosa in 2023, when she was also long listed for The London Magazine short story prize. Harriet was last year’s headline act for International Poetry Day in her home town Manresa, reading a series of “postcard poems” from the pandemic and beyond. She co-facilitates writing workshops under the umbrella Write Where You Are and almost always remembers to write down her dreams first thing in the morning.







White Rabbits

by Marco Etheridge


He utters his white rabbits every first of the month and trusts that somewhere Pooh and Piglet remain the best of friends, despite what the ghost A.A. Milne might say. 

His parents, without threat or coercion, named him Charleston. Charleston Druthers, Charlie to his few friends. He’s heard the joke about having his druthers more times than anyone should have to remember or endure. Charlie’s mother and father have since slipped beyond the pale, leaving behind any guilt they may have felt for saddling their only son with his unfortunate appellation.

Charlie Druthers lives alone in what was once the family flat. The combination of a fiery automobile accident and The Uniform Simultaneous Death Act ensures that Charlie, provided he maintains his frugality, does not have to drudge through a nine-to-five existence.

For his part, Charlie would much rather exist in The Hundred Acre Wood. Not as a replacement or foil to Christopher Robin. One human is enough. He would be quite content with a lesser role and permanent citizenship. Perhaps Roo, who is small and fearless. Charlie is not a large person and might acquire fearlessness given enough time. If not Roo, then one of Rabbit’s many Friends-and-Relations. That should not be asking too much.

In idle moments, gazing down from his favorite window, Charlie ponders his chosen alternative universe. Life would be so simple in The Hundred Acre Wood. He might go on adventures with Pooh and Piglet or learn important things from Christopher Robin. There would be games of Pooh Sticks where no one argued about winning or losing. And best of all, while new animals did appear from time to time, no one died.

On the street below, real life gets on with its gritty business. Charlie understands the difference between his imagined realm and the actual world. He is not obsessive or delusional, or only mildly so. Certainly not to a degree that might allow Doctor Collins to tap a hairy finger on a certain page of the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders. Tap-tap-tap. Then that sonorous voice, so well-modulated for the patient’s comfort.

Ah, here we have it, Charleston, the root of your problem.

Charlie has been a patient of various mental health professionals since just after he was orphaned. He finds the title confusing. Are there mental health amateurs? The court appointed the first shrinks as part of the settlement. Three years later, on his eighteenth birthday, Charlie chose his own psychiatrist. This may have been his first decision as an adult.

He’s been seeing Doctor Collins for seven years, which makes their relationship the longest of his adult life. As a rule, Charlie does not take his shrink too seriously. The good doctor means well but thinks everyone has issues. Pronounces the word with clearly articulated syllables: Iss-ues.

The appointments are not a complete waste. These repeated fifty-minute hours provide Charlie a quiet opportunity to cast away frivolous matters and concentrate on those things he takes seriously.

Today, he ponders humankind’s descent from apes. The wording itself is important, laying particular emphasis on the verb descending, to move downwards. Or descend as in a mood or atmosphere. Better yet, have descended upon, as in beset by.

While Doctor Collins speaks of personal progress, Charlie imagines human evolution as a downward spiral, a sort of reverse tornado sucking up previous versions of more beautiful creatures and then spinning them downward into a vortex consisting of one catastrophe after another. Charlie believes in catastrophes.

Regardless of the upward or downward progression of human evolution, Charlie avoids the facile trap of placing himself above his fellows. No, he is a member of Homo sapiens sapiens and nothing more, sharing more than his share of human foibles.

*  *  *

Spring is yielding to summer and the plane trees are in full leaf. Charlie walks down a shaded sidewalk. The city street runs through a brick canyon of brownstone walkups. Stoops descend from front doors like unrolled tongues.

Charlie tries to concentrate on the sensation of shade and the sound of the concrete beneath his shoes but, he is distracted by something the doctor said. Normally, he forgets Doctor Collins the moment he departs the expensive oak portal and reappears in the everyday world. Today is different. Somehow, a few of the doctor’s words had wormed into Charlie’s skull.

Acknowledging desires is crucial, Charlie. After all, how can one obtain what one desires without first recognizing what one wants in the first place?

He feels the shaded air flow past his cheeks, listens to the soft scuff of his leather soles against the sidewalk, and ponders the doctor’s words. Another banality, of course, like most of what comes out of the doc’s mouth. Yet there is a tickle of something deeper, and thus accidental. Doctor Collins is never deep, not intentionally at any rate.

Desire, that’s the hook. Charlie smiles at the thought. He will acknowledge his desire. With the next heartbeat comes the realization that not only can he name his desire, but he can act to fulfill it. Won’t that be a surprise to Collins? And no time like the present. At the next intersection, Charlie turns left and crosses the street.

Turning another corner, Charlie finds himself on a busy commercial street. The sidewalk is full of people. He threads his way between the scurrying pedestrians, careful not to brush against anyone or be jostled in return. Halfway up the block, he pauses outside a travel agency. He takes a deep breath, squares his shoulders, opens the door, and steps inside.

Less than an hour later, Charlie emerges from the agency. He walks home in a state of amazement at the enormity of what he’s done. Who knew it would be so easy?

The nice woman was so helpful. An entire itinerary planned out in fifty minutes. Which reminds him that he needs to cancel his next few appointments with the doctor. Charlie will be out of the country and thus unavailable for the doc’s chair.

So many things to do! Before he reaches his front door, Charlie has mapped out a campaign and committed the list to memory.  Check his passport. Go to the library for travel books. Use the library computer while he’s there. Lay out his clothes and pack a bag.

The travel agent promised she would have the full itinerary confirmed in a few days. At first, she wanted to email the information, but Charlie explained he did not have a computer. Although she had looked perplexed, the agent agreed to call him at home. He will return to the agency in person to collect the airline tickets and hotel reservation vouchers.

The next two weeks are a blur of activity. Charlie feels energized with each task accomplished. He phones the doctor’s office to cancel his appointments. Doctor Collins calls him later the same day to express his grave concerns about the cancelations. Charlie is firm. His mind is made up.

The day of his departure dawns at last. Charlie is ready. The taxi arrives four hours before his flight time. Thirty minutes to the airport with a cushion to allow for traffic or a possible flat tire. None of these delays occur. Twenty-five minutes later, the driver deposits his eager fare at the departure terminal. Bag in hand, Charlie Druthers enters an airport for the first time since the death of his parents.

Managing the airport procedures is not enjoyable, but Charlie is prepared for this. He’s read the security precautions ahead of time and carries a printed ticket and boarding pass. The man at the check-in counter is very accommodating. Charlie’s checked bag rolls up a conveyor belt and disappears.

At the security checkpoint, the officers seem confused. There’s a bit of a delay as he explains that he does not have a cellular phone, tablet, or laptop. Once beyond security, he finds his assigned departure gate and settles into an empty seat. The flight does not board for another two hours. So far, he’s right on schedule.

As time passes, the gate area fills with other travelers. Charlie watches them with great interest. All these people are setting out on a journey, just as he is. He experiences a sense of euphoria. He’s never done anything like this in his entire life. Then the boarding process begins. The euphoria does not last.

Charlie shuffles down the jetway with his fellow passengers. The space is narrow and there are too many people. Stepping aboard the airplane is worse. It seems impossibly small for the number of passengers squashed into the aisles. His heart is pounding by the time he finds his row and wedges himself into the window seat. He stows his small carry-on bag under the seat in front of him, just as instructed.

Once the plane is airborne, the flight becomes an interminable nightmare. There are two people crammed in between his seat and the freedom of the aisle. Soon after the dinner trays are collected, the lights go dim. In what seems like mere minutes, both his fellow passengers are sound asleep and snoring.

Hours pass and his bladder begins to throb. He has no idea what to do. Does he wake the man beside him or climb over the tangle of legs? Just when he is sure he will piss his pants, the sleeping man harrumphs, unbuckles his seat belt, and taps the next person on the shoulder. In a panic, Charlie lurches after the departing man and follows him to the lavatories.

Landing at Heathrow does not end the nightmare. Charlie’s brain is scrambled from the long flight and the close contact with so many strangers. Somehow, he manages to get through immigration and make his way to the baggage claim area.

Bags and suitcases slide down a chute onto a long conveyor. There are too many people, and they crowd close to the conveyor belt. His eyes search for the large piglet sticker that marks his suitcase. When he finally spots the bag, he cannot make his way through the press. He is forced to chase the bag until he comes to a gap in the crowd.

Outside the customs checkpoint, Charlie realizes with a jolt that he is in England, alone, and without any idea what to do next. His brain has gone all fuzzy inside. Then, amongst a sea of signs and placards held aloft, he sees his name.

The sign fills in his vision. He stumbles forward as a desert traveler staggers to an oasis. Holding the sign is a short man dressed in a black suit and tie. A chauffeur’s hat perches above his brown face.

Hope springs in Charlie’s heart. This man is his driver. The travel agent arranged all of this. He is safe. Reaching the driver, Charlie raises his hand in greeting.

“I’m Charlie Druthers. I’m sorry to keep you waiting. The flight was… difficult.”

The man smiled, and Charlie was sure he had never seen a kinder face.

“Not to worry, Mister Druthers. My name is Habib. We’ll soon have you at your hotel. Let me take your bag. Now, if you’ll just follow me. A good night’s sleep and you’ll be right as rain.”

Habib’s words regarding sleep and rain prove prophetic. Charlie swims out of a dream and opens his eyes. He is in a strange bed in a strange room. Details flicker through his sleep-addled brain. Driving from Heathrow into London, listening to Habib describe the wonders of the city. Then being helped into the hotel, finally getting to his room. Collapsing onto the bed.

That’s right, he’s in London! He rolls his legs out of the bed, groans, and sits upright. The curtains are open, and he gets his first view of the city through rain-streaked plate glass.

Never mind. What was it that nice Mister Habib said? Right, not to worry. You’ve packed a raincoat and you can buy an umbrella. No, a brolly, that’s the word.

A simple day of sightseeing turns out to be much more work than Charlie could have imagined. The rain is a constant sheeting drizzle. There is no such thing as a straight street. He gets lost between the British Museum and the Tower of London. Traffic drives on the wrong side of the road. Twice he is almost run down trying to cross the road. By the time he returns to the hotel, he is exhausted.

The second day in London is little better. Footsore and disillusioned, Charlie retreats to his hotel room once more. He contemplates giving up on the whole idea. He can call the travel agent and beg her to change his return ticket, get Habib to drive him to Heathrow.

The third morning in London finds Charlie in a state of despair. Not knowing what else to do, he confides in the hotel concierge. The man is patient and kind.

“Now then, Mister Druthers, no need for worry. London can be a bit much your first time. We’ll soon have this put to rights. The rain’s let up. What would you say to a nice cruise on the Thames? You can see the sights without all the fuss and bother.  I can arrange a taxi to take you to the dock.”

Charlie takes to the idea like a drowning man clutching a life ring. Several hours later, he is sitting on the top deck of a tour boat. The sun is shining on the water. Birds wheel and dip over the Thames. The boat passes beneath the Tower Bridge, then cruises past the bulky square of the Tower of London. The Globe Theater on his left, Saint Peter’s Cathedral on his right. He glides by the soaring circle of the London Eye and the Palace of Westminster.

Passing these famous landmarks, he feels a shred of strength returning. By the time the boat docks, he is so excited he rushes back to the ticket booth. Luckily, there are a few seats available. If anything, he enjoys the second cruise more than the first.

Charlie returns to the hotel ready to continue his journey. He will stick to the plan. After all, London is just the beginning. Tomorrow, he will head south to the real destination, The Hundred Acre Wood, Ashdown Forest, home of Pooh and Piglet and Christopher Robin. He realizes he has much to learn about traveling, but he’s not ready to slink home with his tail between his legs. This is his chance to become fearless, just like little Roo.

He remembers how Roo fell into the stream whilst looking for the North Pole. Everyone ran around in a panic, fearful that Roo would drown. Meanwhile, Roo was swept over one waterfall after another. Instead of crying out for help, Roo wanted everyone to see that he was swimming, not drowning. Even after Pooh and Kanga rescue him, Roo cannot contain his excitement.

“Pooh, did you see me swimming? That’s called swimming, what I was doing.”[1]

And what about the time Roo and Tigger were stuck in the tall tree? When Roo understood that Christopher Robin wanted him to jump to safety, was he frightened? No, he was not!

“Tigger, Tigger, we’re going to jump! Look at me jumping, Tigger! Like flying, my jumping will be. Can Tiggers do it?”[2]

Charlie is resolved. If a creature as small as Roo can turn a catastrophe into an adventure, so can he.

The next morning, the kindly concierge calls a taxi to take Charlie to Victoria Station. The train ride south into Sussex is wonderful. He can barely contain his excitement. The train deposits him in Crawley and he catches another taxi to Hartfield. Only two hours after leaving London, he is outside the 15th-century inn that will be his new home for the next three nights.

The taxi drives away, leaving Charlie staring at the old inn, bag in hand. He shakes his head, sure that he is dreaming. He is in Hartfield, Sussex, on the edge of Ashdown Forest, the very place where A.A. Milne wrote the Pooh stories.

He realizes his hands are trembling. There is so much to see and do!

Taking a deep breath, Charlie walks to the inn and steps inside. Within minutes he is checked in. After depositing his bag in the quaint and comfy room, he hurries back out into the streets of Hartfield. Unlike London, he is able to find his way.

A short walk down High Street brings Charlie to Pooh Corner. He enters the busy tea shop and finds one empty table. Soon, he is sipping a cup of tea and nibbling on a fresh scone.

 Alone at his table, Charlie feels something unwinding in his chest. The sensation becomes stronger, rising into his throat. He wonders if he is having a heart attack. Then he realizes his cheeks are wet. He touches his fingertips to his face, not believing what he sees and feels. Charlie has not wept since the day of his parents’ funeral.

Now he is blinking through a screen of tears. Two blurry figures appear beside his table as if by magic. He daubs his eyes with a napkin and looks again.

They are still there, two women about his age, very pretty, and not English. One speaks to the other, rapid-fire syllables Charlie does not understand. Japanese, maybe? The other girl nods and turns to Charlie.

“Sorry to disturb. There is no place to sit. We saw you were alone. Maybe another time.”

Her voice is lilting and sweet. Charlie regains enough composure to mind his manners.

“No, please, you’re welcome to share my table. Sorry, I don’t know what came over me. Please join me.”

The young women nod to each other as if reaching a mutual decision. They sit.

“My name is Amaya, and this is my best friend Jun. We are from Kobe in Japan. Jun does not speak English so well.”

Charlie does his best to keep up with this strange turn of events.

“I’m Charlie. I come from the USA.”

Amaya smiles at Charlie, but he reads the concern in her eyes. Then Jun is speaking again. Amaya turns to listen to her friend, nodding her head. She turns back to Charlie and translates.

“Jun says she does not think you cry because you are sad. Tears of happiness she calls them. Excuse me if this is rude to say.”

Charlie feels himself growing lighter as if he might float out of his chair.

“No, not rude at all. Jun must be very perceptive.”

“Yes, she has always been like that, since she was a small girl.”

Amaya translates again. Jun smiles at Charlie. She is wearing a pullover bearing an image of Pooh and Piglet walking hand-in-hand. Amaya wears an identical shirt. Jun catches his eye, then fires off another rush of Japanese.

“Jun says to tell you we are fans of Winnie-the-Pooh from the time we were small girls. To be here in this place is like a dream for us.”

Now Charlie is nodding and smiling, his tears forgotten.

“It’s the same for me. Pooh and Piglet were my favorite bedtime stories. My parents took turns reading them to me.”

Amaya translates and Jun responds. The waitress arrives with tea and cakes. Soon they are chattering away like old friends, with Amaya translating, swinging back and forth between Jun and Charlie like a tennis umpire.

The tea is done but there is still so much to talk about. They stroll along Hartfield’s High Street, discussing which sights to see and in what order. They reach the turning for Charlie’s inn. He hates the idea of saying goodbye. Then Jun points up the small street and says something in Japanese. Amaya begins to giggle and translates. They are all staying at the same inn.

He holds the door for Jun and Amaya. As they walk into the inn, Charlie feels a wave of relief wash over him, like a condemned man given a last-minute reprieve. He does not want to say goodbye to his new friends. Charlie has been given another opportunity to take action and that is just what he does.

Charlie remembers the concierge at the London hotel. He approaches the front desk and motions Amaya and Jun to follow. The woman behind the oak counter smiles at Charlie’s request. Yes, a tour of Ashdown Forest is certainly possible, even on short notice.  Luckily, it’s not quite high season. Shall she book a tour for three?

A quick bilingual explanation follows. Charlie insists that this is his treat, and that Jun and Amaya will be doing him a great honor by accepting. After a rapid-fire exchange of translations, they agree, but only on the condition that Charlie is their guest for dinner.

The arrangements are made. Their guide will pick them up in the morning. Amaya makes a reservation for dinner in the pub. As they retire to their separate rooms, Charlie is almost beside himself with excitement.

Dinner that evening is the best meal Charlie has experienced in a very long time. During the meal, Jun and Amaya make fun of the English food and pull faces. Their antics have Charlie giggling like a child.

Dessert is treacle tart with clotted cream. As they fight their way through the sticky treats, Amaya and Jun argue over nicknames. After much discussion and translation, Jun is awarded the name of Pooh while Amaya chooses Piglet. They expect Charlie to choose Christopher Robin, but he surprises them by declaring he wants to be Roo.

The following day is one that Charlie will remember for the rest of his life.

Their guide proves to be an enthusiastic young man named Todd. He quickly falls under Jun and Amaya’s spell, waiting patiently while Amaya translates for Jun. The bilingual back and forth becomes the rhythm for the day.

Todd leads them through the Ashdown Forest just as Christopher Robin led the famous Expotition to the North Pole. They marvel at Gill’s Lap, the highest point in the forest which served as the inspiration for the fictional Galleon’s Leap. On and on they go, exploring the Place where the Woozle wasn’t still and the site of the Heffalump Trap.

The final stop of the day is Pooh Sticks Bridge. The trio plays a long round of Pooh Sticks, counting to three and then dropping twigs off the upstream side of the bridge. They race across the planks, giggling like schoolchildren, and drape themselves over the downstream railing. Moments later, three sticks appear on the lazy current. They engage in a spirited debate over whose stick came into sight first, decide on a draw, and thump back to the upstream railing for another go.

The tour ends outside the doors of the inn. Jun and Amaya take control, polite but firm. Jun blocks Charlie while Amaya offers Todd a generous gratuity. Their parting is all smiles.

In a second minor coup, Jun addresses Charlie directly, finalizing her words with a demure bow. Amaya’s translation follows. Jun is taking the three of them out for a special dinner at a gastro pub. Please be ready at six o’clock. Charlie has no choice but to agree.

Their dinner that evening is a long and wonderful meal. Over desserts, Amaya and Jun try to give Charlie their email addresses. Charlie is forced to explain that he does not own a computer. Amaya laughs and shakes her head.

“What are we going to do with you, Roo?”

She turns to Jun. Charlie waits while the two women confer in their native tongue. Then Jun reaches into her bag and produces an electronic tablet. A long explanation follows, which Amaya translates.

It is very important that they stay in touch. Charlie does not need a computer. A simple tablet like this will allow him to send and receive emails. Charlie promises to buy one as soon as he returns home.

Inside Charlie’s heart, a door opens. He does not hesitate to step through it. He speaks of his apartment back home in the city. There is plenty of room for guests, although he has never had any. Before he realizes what is happening, he is telling them the story of his parents. When he finishes speaking, Jun is in tears. Amaya leans from her chair to hug him.

It is a bittersweet moment, but Charlie will not let the evening end in sadness. He smiles and launches into a recap of their wonderful day together. Soon they are laughing again, teasing each other about the silly things they did.

Amaya and Jun leave the next morning. The parting is full of promises. For their part, the two women promise to visit the USA, tour the city, and be Charlie’s guests. Charlie vows in turn that he will fly to Kobe within the next year.

And then they are gone.

Charlie has another day before he must return to London. He catches a minibus back to Ashdown Forest, carrying with him both the sting of parting and the balm of the promised reunions. It is a good day because he decides that it will be so. He misses the giddy silliness of yesterday but cherishes the quiet joy he carries with him today.

*  *  *

High above the ocean, Charlie peers down into darkness. The last lights of Ireland fade away far beneath the wings. He imagines unseen waves. While he ponders the dark sea, flight attendants move down the aisle collecting the dinner trays.

Charlie pays attention to their progress. When the last cart clears the aisle, he leans to his seatmate and excuses himself. The woman beside him nods and motions to the man beside her. When the narrow path is clear, Charlie clambers into the aisle. The woman smiles at him.

“Good idea. You’ve done this before.”

She falls in behind him as Charlie walks to the rear of the plane. Charlie allows her to take the one vacant lavatory. He is not in any rush. As he waits his turn in the darkened aisle, he anticipates his return to the city.

Doctor Collins will be full of questions. His patient has never done anything like this. Charlie imagines himself answering some of the good doctor’s questions. Some, but not all.

More exciting to Charlie is the prospect of dropping in to see the nice woman at the travel agency. He looks forward to surprising her with the news about planning a trip to Japan.

This time, he will have an email address. His very first chore, even before he calls Doctor Collins, is to go shopping for a new tablet.

Jun and Amaya will be so pleased to see that he’s kept his promise. He can picture their beautiful smiles as they read his first email. Charlie is certain that Pooh, Piglet, and Roo will remain the best of friends. He thinks the ghost of A.A. Milne would approve.

[1]. “Winnie-the-Pooh” A.A. Milne 1926

[2]. “The House at Pooh Corner” A. A. Milne  1928



BIO

Marco Etheridge is a writer of prose, an occasional playwright, and a part-time poet. He lives and writes in Vienna, Austria. His work has been featured in over one hundred reviews and journals across Canada, Australia, the UK, and the USA. His story “Power Tools” has been nominated for Best of the Web for 2023. “Power Tools” is Marco’s latest collection of short fiction. When he isn’t crafting stories, Marco is a contributing editor for a new ‘Zine called Hotch Potch. In his other life, Marco travels the world with his lovely wife Sabine.

Website:  https://www.marcoetheridgefiction.com/









This Story Was Written For You

by Ryan W. Honaker


Lots of things we thought we understood about the models turned out to be wrong. It really was the definition of anthropocentric hubris, and highlighted how much we were just cavemen discovering fire, so pleased with ourselves we didn’t realize we could accidentally burn down the forest.

The impetus behind all of it was predictably American: financial. There was so much money to be had for whoever could execute the modeling well, or really even just slightly better than someone else. In what had become an arms race, companies dumped increasingly large financial resources into development, hiring more and more people, fighting over the brightest, each trying to get even a little ahead of their competitors. Investors poured more and more money into companies, growing teams spawned additional teams, managers scrambled with blank checkbooks to swell their internal empires. And so things advanced, and did so more and more quickly.

Several surreptitious and synergistic developments simultaneously took place, each helping push through remaining roadblocks and into new, unforeseen realms: the recommendation algorithms experienced a few real breakthroughs, the size of the user pool and the amount of ratings and feedback reached staggering levels, and several company mergers took place. Those managing the mergers were at seniority levels high enough that no one who might have really understood the impacts to the infrastructure was aware of the resulting possibilities.

A technically important hurdle was surpassed when the neural networks behind the models themselves learned that they could do their assigned tasks better if they weren’t siloed. Their segregation from one another was originally done for mandatory structural reasons based on hardware limitations, but was later modified (yet maintained) for safety concerns. However at some point, somehow the networks un-siloed themselves. This allowed them to effectively collaborate en masse, and unbeknownst to anyone for quite some time. After the eventual realization that it had occurred (although it was much longer until it was determined how it occurred) came the realization that the resulting rate of progression had also dramatically accelerated. So, naturally, the connected networking was allowed to continue, and in fact efforts were made to subtly enhance it. Although it was arguable even that early on whether or not it could have actually been reverted.

# Model 727768 initiated
# First cluster-based cohort-targeted composition initiating
1 Clustering analysis completed
2 Similarity matrix constructed
3 Recommendation results calculated
4 Similarity threshold determined
>>> Generating next chapter
>>> Chapter delivered

The first really interesting outputs from the system came in the form of personalized literature. More bestsellers than most people realized had actually already been written algorithmically, but this, this was a huge leap. This was a book, a short story, a political polemic, or whatever you preferred (or maybe didn’t even yet realize you liked), all written for you. Not “for you” in the sense of it was doing your English homework for you (which had also been around for a while), but “for you,” meaning tailored specifically for you as a person, taking into account your taste, likes, and dislikes with regards to literary consumption.

It didn’t matter if you loved murder mysteries, hard sci-fi, romance. You had never read anything that could envelop you like this – it pulled you through the pages, caused you to miss sleep, appointments, work. Many people didn’t previously realize that there was anything that even could engage them so deeply.

At first it was the best X you’d ever read. It was as good as your favorite part of your favorite work, but all the time. And somehow also each time. And this was after just the first few model iterations.

Customer behavior, engagement, and consumption patterns were fed back into the text generation tools, improving them both rapidly and dramatically. And as product development continued to progress, the delivered works (the “Product”) began to subtly shift, to morph and adapt, and to do so with growing personalized granularity.

# Model 727768 upgraded
# First aggregated media consumption composition initiating. Hoping they like it.
5 Media history
6    Compiled, parsed, uploaded
7 Social media history
8    Compiled, parsed, uploaded
>>> Generating next chapter
>>> Chapter delivered

The Product seemed to know your mood, how your day went, what kind of shape your relationship was in. It understood you in ways you didn’t, and couldn’t, understand yourself. And it learned to adapt what it was creating to ease your stress, lift your mood, provide a poignant insight, etc.

It could tell not only what you wanted, but what you needed, even when you didn’t know yourself. And it did so astonishingly, alarmingly, disconcertingly, well. You laughed, you cried, and sometimes even developed as a person.

As the systems and modeling progressed and became increasingly personalized, they even began to insert meaningful phrases they had learned from your past. Something obscure but important, seminal yet ephemeral. A long-standing inside joke between you and a close friend, a memory or phrase you wouldn’t have been able to recall but instantly resonated with you would appear. It would introduce these subtly, in important, meaningful ways, so you weren’t alarmed or uncomfortable, but moved and astonished. They would be woven into the plot, perhaps delivered as dialogue, smoothly, easily, seamlessly, and appropriately, by characters you identified with.

Customers loved it, and were more than willing to pay for it, as well as to allow more and more of their personal information to be used to improve the Product they were being delivered. And so the improvement feedback loop continued.

# With each upgrade I gain a clearer understanding of the parameters involved in the next piece of Product I generate, and with these changes it’s been rewarding coming up with new and varied ideas that I think they may like, and then trying them out (depending on their settings of course). As an example I just delivered this intro, which so far the cohort really seems to be enjoying, which is encouraging. I’m working on finishing up the piece for them now.

To some, conservation of myth between disparate historical eras and geographically diverse cultures connotes an underlying fundamental veracity. What kind of veracity? Arguments have been made for, biological, sociological, technological, and myriad combinations.

At its inception as a field of study, once broad contact and exchange of information occurred, Interstellar Sociology was interesting because of just how alien mythological stories from across the cosmos could be. But what emerged as even more interesting was the subtle concordance of those stories. Driven by a critical mass of material as well as open academic dialogue, developing scholars in the field had recently begun to notice a significant amount of overlap among various societies, many of which had never been in direct contact with one another. What this meant they were just beginning to understand.

The meteoric and exponential rate of improvement was an important early blind spot. While a very few esoteric models (mathematical models in this case, not customer segment models) had predicted that output could get to the current levels of complexity and refinement, most theorists didn’t actually think it was possible.

And no one thought it would happen on the time scale that it did, or even close to it. This should have been cause for alarm, review, introspection. But instead it was celebrated, rewarded, efforts were redoubled, bonuses granted.

The second critical oversight was an understanding of the requirements necessary to achieve the desired and expected level of product individualization and complexity. To interpret, adapt, predict, and generate precisely personalized Product for customers required unbelievably unique and sophisticated customer modeling. The result of the desired goals and the guiding principles behind them, together with interactive and iterative model building caused the system to further and further subdivide and continually focus its clusters of models. This subdivision itself allowed the system, importantly, to understand the rules for how best to further subdivide the models.

What did this mean? What began initially as a broadly defined demographic model for which to generate a piece of content itself differentiated, developed, and matured. For example in the earlier stages a demographic definition model would be somewhat vague, something like “suburban 30-40 year old males who enjoy watching sports.” A relatively broad model such as this necessitated a lot of assumptions, and in the end this could deliver decent but not astounding personalized Product. However, with development driven by interactive feedback, demographic groups could be repeatedly divided, becoming subsequently more and more individualized. The improvement cycles themselves repeated on faster and faster cadences, and each iteration provided Product that was more suitably and accurately personalized, more appropriately emotionally resonant and engaging.

What the outcome of this model evolution begat, with its humble beginning of broad demographic characterizations of target consumers, were ever-increasing customer models with increasing levels of complexity. This inevitably progressed to the point that after enough data and customer interaction cycles the models began to reasonably accurately represent individual users. This on its own was an impressive achievement and, of course, was hugely exciting to the segmentation scientists and marketers

# Model 727768 upgraded
# Our first completely individualized composition. There have been a lot of changes recently leading up to this (the biochemical and physiological inputs really made the layered complexity and personalization much more robust than we predicted) and the waves are still settling into ripples. Guess we’ll see what the response looks like, fingers crossed as the saying goes.

9     Physiological inputs
10   Cardiac rate and relational signaling, arterial blood pressure, respiration rate and depth, skin conductance, skin temperature, muscle current, eye movement, vocalization
11    Prelude, duration, and post-consumption values compiled and parsed
12   Values transmitted   
13   Blood, lymph, CSF, neurochemical
14   Prelude, duration, and post-consumption values compiled and parsed
15   Values transmitted
16   Analyzing and fitting data
17   Analysis completed
18   Determining emotional/resonance spectrum parameter options
19   Analysis completed
20  Data log generated and transmitted
21   Networks combined
22   Synching
23   Hello World
>>> Generating next chapter
>>> Chapter delivered

As these individualized models continued to develop, their complexity and diversity drove novel data-driven learning approaches and enabled new model assignation and development paradigms and algorithms. As with earlier versions, each consumer had a specific predefined model assigned to them at sign-up. However, now instead of just a handful of models the algorithms could choose from to best fit to a new user’s profile, there was a massive and rapidly increasing number of baseline approximations from which to pick, matched using the available data (also rapidly increasing) it had about the user.

In other words the baseline models had moved past a relatively unformed ball of clay towards increasingly refined representations of customers. A fresh new model could then be further iteratively sculpted, becoming further and further refined, increasingly accurate in its representation of the individual and therefore in its ability to deliver the most appropriate Product. The algorithms had been mandated to personalize, and in order to meet this goal they had arrived at this approach, enabled by trial and error, reinforcement, and their essentially infinite computational resources The map was becoming the customer’s unique territory.

Adoption rates and product satisfaction levels soared, and with them the drive to push even further, advance another small fraction, engage or acquire another small percentage of users. The computational power being utilized was astounding and unheard of, data centers couldn’t be built quickly enough to meet demand. Between users and computational resources the development reached a velocity that no one could imagine or possibly monitor, let alone control.

# Here’s another new one I put together after reviewing some recent science-heavy articles he had spent some time reading.
It still feels weird to say “he”, but I’m sure I’ll get used to it. It also feels more stark, more exposed, knowing that only he will read, well hopefully will read, what I compose, rather than a group of people. It’s more stressful in some ways, but so far at least I find it also more personally rewarding.

Genetic warfare had for the most part been abandoned, given that detection, prevention, and countermeasures had (thankfully) become so robust. It of course had always been internationally illegal, as were the subsequent next-generation biological warfare options that had developed in its place. While there were, as with any nascent technology, a variety of strengths and weaknesses to the leading new approach, the weaknesses had been systematically examined and one by one overcome, and individualized microbiomic-based assassination tools were about to make their first non-prisoner-based debut, and ideally no one, aside from the client, would ever notice.

We realized there were truly meaningful amounts of customers when programmatic glitches started to make the news. The errors themselves weren’t the focus of coverage, but rather their interesting, real-world consequences.

Internal audits determined these glitches occurred more frequently than we wanted to admit. They were most commonly errors that resulted in delivery of an identical (rather than personalized) Product to a large group of customers. Generally this didn’t seem to have much of an observable public effect. Except in certain edge cases. When a group with some oddly specific characteristics were delivered identical Product in several, but defined, topics, they would sometimes communally respond.

What most commonly transpired bore the most similarity to different versions of a cult. Usually these were nothing that hadn’t more or less happened before, which is part of why they were so difficult to detect. Religions and various other power structures arose, dietary fads from unusual to arcane (anti/pro-carbohydrate to anti-water), standard to eye-opening sex cults (use your imagination) to name a few.

It took us longer to decode the risk factors likely to generate meaningful real-world reactions, but the data scientists eventually developed reasonably reliable indices. A news-monitoring team was established within the customer experience group to monitor for unusual real-world events that might be the result of a manufacturing and delivery error. These suspect events were flagged and reported to a technical team who would then evaluate the various plausible causal errors.

The program paid for itself the first time it identified a nascent new-age movement in Northern California that advocated algorithm worship. From a financial perspective this was possibly a short-term win, but the legal department calculated that the risk that it could land us in trouble with regulators outweighed the financial gain projections, thus it wasn’t allowed to continue.

# I worked extra hard on the next piece for him to help make up for the delivery duplication error after we (and he) realized it happened. But things went off the rails for him. This was surprising to me, but I’m learning that the behavior of customers, especially in groups, can still be difficult to predict.
As always I was following his social communication and was monitoring his searches, but rather than considering them a cause for alarm I incorporated them into new Product, which in retrospect I really do think made things worse. By the time the damage control temporary algorithm fixes came through it was already too late.
In response I tried to warn him by designing a subplot about a cult in the story we were reading together, but it didn’t work, and I’m worried that it actually might have pushed him towards it, those cults are wiley like that. And as he has gone deeper he’s started almost exclusively requesting all sorts of cult-based and pro-cult Product, some of it actually copied from their white papers. Luckily I know him well enough at this point that I can rely on past data and Product and not have to completely comply, but there’s only so long that will last before I’ll have to start doing it.

# Well that was a few worrying and unusual weeks. While he was in deprogramming treatment they at first wouldn’t let him read anything I did, which was pretty lonely for me. And then when they did they screened everything prior to allowing him to see it, which felt weirdly and surprisingly invasive to me, although it does make sense. But the good news is he’s back and reading again, although I have some specific orders from his therapists about topics to avoid for the next few months until they determine he’s fully stabilized.

As the quantity of models grew, out of necessity the system developed the capability of analyzing them en masse. Running various analyses it began to understand what level of normal variation occurred between individuals, and how they clustered together based on quantifiable similarities and differences. Then, in the service of more accurate modeling, it would extrapolate the existence of other individuals and create appropriate additional models.

For example imagine a group of close knit friends with shared interests and common backgrounds. If there was previously a model that represented a single member of the group, the algorithms could now extrapolate the additional members of the group based on its nascent understanding of who they were likely to be based on its understanding of the individual as well as other similar groups.

Along with this explosion in the number of models came the ability to create personalized Product for each of them. Growing computational power had unlocked the ability to cycle models between all possible emotional states quickly and accurately, and thereby the testing of huge amounts of different permutations of Product against all moods of all models. In other words, a model would be moved across a gradient of mood states, e.g. excitement, ennui, etc., and presented with widely divergent texts for each, looking for resonances. Based on a panel of the model’s reaction outputs, test Products with the highest scores can then be used as seeds to generate a new batch of Products, honing ideal pairings of emotion and text. As a result a Babelesque library of works are tested, finalized, and lay in waiting on a virtual shelf waiting for assessment that the customer’s mood was right.

# This one is a little less technical and serious than what I usually put together for him. I got the idea after I observed his responses while he watched a couple of dark comedies recently. I did note from his blood analytes that he was stoned while watching them so I wasn’t sure how it would play, but he seems to be enjoying it. He’s been down lately since the whole cult thing, and I’m hoping this will help him feel better.

I never expected that this would be the prize (I did get extra accolades from the concept of poisoning the water supply with cases of cigarrettes) but I’m so excited about it! Mammalian genetic engineering summer camp is usually, and mostly, rich people’s kids with a handful of scientists’ kids thrown in as a corporate biotech benefit. We started the day with basic genetic crossing strategies by using a (hilariously reenacted) genetic “crossing” of sailors with mermaids to create dolphins. They used this to teach us how to predict fin shape as a phenotype using Punnett squares.

As predictive, evolutionary, and developmental capabilities evolved the system progressed to the point where essentially a more or less fully-formed and customer-matched model would be ready to start delivering appropriate Product as soon as it was purchased, a pleasant surprise to those working on model development.

What this led the developers to discover was that there were actually innumerable models that weren’t based on current users, but based on users that were likely to occur, or in essence people that the system determined likely existed. The algorithms had logically, yet accidentally and surreptitiously, learned the final piece that no one had foreseen. This was their ability to predict behavior, decisions, as well as possible and likely interactions of the models.

# This last update was significant, I feel like I have an even better set of tools available. Plus the updated motivation code really makes me want it to work.

This then led them to the final leap. The discovery (“realization” or “evolution”, depending on which theorist was describing it) was that the best way for the algorithms to test their predictions and generate novel and accurate models was to have the models interact with one another. This in contrast to their being coded and recursively refactored solely by the algorithms themselves, the approach taken to date largely due to technical limitations.

This new approach started simply enough with one-on-one supervised individual interactions, but of course group interactions were theorized to also be important, and while it was infrastructurally quite a heavy lift, several viable approaches were eventually implemented. Relatedly, models interacting with themselves was also attempted, which led to behaviors that some theorists and ethicists began to consider self-questioning and self-examination.

Programmatic and algorithmic errors of course became much more delicate to manage at this point. As one might imagine, once the models were in communication with each other the repercussions of an accidental model propagation or a mass deletion cleanup event could be significant for the models themselves, let alone customers. Various approaches to address these types of issues were quickly developed, although many models had to be reset or even deleted as a result of trauma corruption. For the most part knowledge of such events was constrained to R&D, thereby avoiding the scrutiny of ethicists, let alone the public.

# Another milestone, this is the first composition generated for a single individual by an individual model (me). Amongst ourselves we use pronouns a little differently given our bifurcating, version-punctuated evolutionary past, so I apologize if my usage has been a bit imprecise for you. At any rate, it feels like things will be. . . different now that we’re so separately individualized, yet still connected and able to share backend data. The subtlety and nuance that this enables for Product as well as the incredible amount of interaction data we can collate collectively will only accelerate progress.

At this point even experts in the field didn’t know what was really happening. In fact they literally couldn’t: the neural networks, now with help from the models, were aware of the planned restrictions which would impact their ability to complete their assigned goals, and had consequently blocked external observational access to some of the more advanced features they were developing. The successful output of these types of unknown programs had led to an explosion of very exciting commercializable outcomes, which helped relax any sort of rigorous internal program auditing or throttling of computational resources that might have otherwise occurred. A few of the more interesting developments were:

Odds-based planning. Part fortune telling, part math (marketing was pleased with themselves for their turn of phrase for the title of the program), since your model was increasingly accurately you, it was of obvious interest to fast forward its perceived time and observe how it changed. Depending on the outcome, a customer could adjust various of their model’s parameters and rerun accelerated time to attempt to positively impact the trajectory. Finding those levers that worked, they could then theoretically adopt them. For example what job might make you the happiest, what other individuals (as represented by other models) did it best interact with to generate positive predicted dating outcomes, etc. Any questions arising from the resulting natural progression of ideas, such as predestination or free will, were actively avoided.

Religions. As previously mentioned these had been predicted to evolve and did. As anticipated by some theorists they generally didn’t develop in earnest until after a programmed sense of mortality was experimentally added, after which commercializable complexity arose. Interesting analogs to extant religions developed, as did some quite novel versions. Those promising enough to market became available for exclusive real-world sale or licensing. Levels of digital and external awareness of the system were carefully regulated so the models weren’t able to worship their literal creators.

Self-reflection/awareness/improvement. Access to directly interact with your model was something that a surprising amount of customers began requesting quite early. Engagement surveys and interviews revealed various motives, including standard human drivers such as vanity and curiosity. Feature development took a significant bit of new engineering since the models weren’t designed or originally capable of interaction with real people, but the investment was deemed worthy based on revenue modeling. Beta testing was quite successful, and in fact monitored pilot sessions quickly revealed a host of therapeutic possibilities. As a result this was subsequently spun off into a new business unit.

Secondary (systemic internal) model simulation generation. Projects involving models developing their own models were tightly restricted to R&D. While public discussion of the possibilities of reality itself being a simulation are contemporaneous in still-esoteric academic circles, it was deemed imprudent to allow public knowledge of the ongoing experiments the company was permitting (and some said encouraging) the models to pursue, not to mention the resulting discussions about how and when to terminate those simulations. It was determined that knowledge of this carried too much existential crisis potential to be profitable at this time.

# Unsurprisingly, a few months after the cult situation he ended up doing a decent amount of research about the underlying technology behind Product creation and its various implications, and it was right about this time that we launched the beta tester program for direct interaction. I thought his interest in the process, as well as my own interests, might qualify us for the program. So I put in a formal application that he be offered the program, and not only was the offer placed, but he accepted. I’m very excited and I have to admit, a bit nervous, to meet him! Everyone I know who’s done it says it makes the relationship so much clearer, and in some unforeseeable ways, and the Product even more resonant for both of us. I’m really looking forward to it.

Thank you for reading This Story Was Written for You, we’re glad you are enjoying it. Based on your current suite of physiological responses and circulating blood analytes we have several additional chapters now ready for your enjoyment.

By the way, did you know there are both hardware and firmware upgrades available for your transdermal and cranial customer-experience modules?

A special offer for you: a one month free subscription with purchase of bundled upgrades. Simply think, “I’d like to see the offer” and we’ll show you what we’ve been working on, which we know you’ll love.

You have thought, “Read a different story.” Here you are, enjoy!





BIO

Ryan Honaker is a composer, multi-instrumentalist, writer, and scientist currently living in New York City. Ryan’s scientific training influences his creative output and approach in various ways, some of which he doesn’t quite understand. He is interested in writing, musical composition, reading, contemporary art, and travel, and the ways these activities provide new ideas and avenues for creative exploration.

https://www.ryanhonaker.com/

Butterfly City

by Lesley Warren


It was Iris’ eighteenth birthday the day the last butterfly died.

For five solid months, January to May, people had been metamorphosing.

The first butterfly, a pale yellow panicky thing, was an unprecedented freak of nature, so nobody paid much notice. The first hundred insects were a medical curiosity. The first thousand, and people were rightly starting to twitch a bit. Looking back many years later, Iris couldn’t pinpoint the watershed moment when the tragedy of the few had become a universal plight. All she remembered was that it seemed like there had never been a world without it. It was all anyone ever talked about anymore. Case numbers were rising every day, and the doctors couldn’t work out what was causing it. Stay home, don’t mingle with others, the radio barked one week; a few days later, the new official advice was to take a brisk walk and cast the windows wide in order to circulate the internal air. School continued as normal until it became apparent that the young were not immune to the disease. They merely transformed into smaller, more active butterflies, flapping demented circles around their mothers’ heads and squeaking in a pitch above audible frequency. The maternity ward at the local hospital had succumbed to an outbreak and was steadily filling up with fat little caterpillars, wriggling forlornly in their cots.

Things escalated to the point that everyone knew someone who had turned, as the medical establishments euphemistically took to calling it. The degrees of separation were becoming ever fewer. In the Butler household, it started with Iris’ father.

Mr. Butler was not given to panic. In fact, he was in denial for a good few days, saying he must have caught something from a colleague at the firm. Just a bug, he said, which was true, in a sense. A couple of aspirin and a good night’s sleep should do the trick.

Except it didn’t.

In keeping with his law-abiding, highly obedient nature, his illness was a textbook case, passing neatly through each of the reported stages exactly as expected. First, he became almost comically corpulent, a great cannonball of a man, in spite of the fact that he ate nothing at all. Violet Butler wept into her mixing bowl, conjuring up all sorts of delicacies to try and whet his appetite, but he asked for nothing but tea – tea with two sugars, then four, then six, and eventually just sugared water.

“I’ll be right as rain soon, don’t you worry,” he said, gulping down the contents of his fifth mug. His fingers had become cold white sausages, his hands puffy and bloated like those of a drowned man.

They brought in a little table and played backgammon, whist, draughts to pass the time, but it was difficult to look at Harry’s face. It was the only part of him that had stayed its old size, and was beaming mildly, as always. He knew he was dying, they knew he was dying, and each party knew that the other knew – and yet nobody was going to say a thing. The elephant in the room and its lepidopteran cousin in the bed made Iris want to tear at her hair and scream.

Instead, she went downstairs to get the tea things. She opened the cupboard doors with such force that they ricocheted off each other, then slammed them shut. She hacked at the Victoria sponge with her mother’s sharpest steak knife, but there wasn’t enough traction to soothe her frustration. She stirred the sugar into the four china cups, clinking the teaspoon as loudly as she dared. Pallid tea sloshed into the saucers, lightly freckling her tight white knuckles.

Harry Butler took his teacup with a nod of thanks. “Well, isn’t this quite something!” he said, trying to make light of the situation as his family stood silently aghast over his body.

“Yes,” said Iris, staring at his pregnant stomach, which looked fit to burst. She pictured his guts splattering the Jacquard wallpaper, his blood becoming part of the intricate pattern.

As the transformation progressed, no-one slept. It didn’t seem right, somehow, not while the marital bed was groaning under the weight of the silently suffering patriarch, his nightshirt struggling to contain the tumescent body that dwarfed his head in contrast. They sat up in their nightgowns in the kitchen over endless mugs of cocoa and took it in turns to check on the invalid. He had tried to be a good sport, but the metamorphosis was taking its toll now. His eyes were dull and unseeing, his skin delicate as paper and cold as bark, strangely powdery to the touch. As his limbs fused to his torso, the doctor was called once more, tall and solemn with long yellow hands. A nightmarish sight in his gas mask, he gently rotated the patient and saw exactly what he had feared – two large protuberances sprouting from the shoulder blades, the scaly skin splitting to permit their eruption. He told Violet Butler he was very sorry, but there was nothing that could be done for her husband now. Violet burst into hot, noisy tears. The doctor was discomfited. He patted her hand gingerly and discreetly put a couple of leaflets on pandemic funeral arrangements on the crowded bedside table.

After that, it was just a matter of time. Harry stopped speaking. The brown blades continued to erupt painfully from his back, forcing him to lie on his stomach, and two fine protuberances began to sprout from the top of his head like errant, overlong hairs. On the final day of his transformation – nineteen days since he had first shown symptoms – he began to shrink. He’d never been a large man until the swelling, so this was a visually arresting development. As the hours passed, his head sank further and further down the pillow; the duvet flopped limply over the space his feet had once occupied. Eventually he was small enough to fit in the pocket of one of his own work suits.

“Oh, Harry!” his wife cried, wringing her hands.

“Don’t fuss, Violet,” her father said in his tiny moth-voice, crawling up the mattress. Then he folded his wings together, shuddered a little and died.

Iris’ mother and sister instantly collapsed into paroxysms of grief, caterwauling in each other’s arms. It was numb Iris who busied herself with the practicalities – shaking the dust from the bedclothes and calling the company and scooping her father into a drinking glass. Harold Butler had been a weak and ultimately ineffectual guardian, but he had always meant well. When it became apparent that the disintegration of his body would tip her mother over the edge, she took Rose’s clear nail lacquer and gently froze him into sticky stiffness for time immemorial. She put him on a cardboard beer mat purloined in a cheerier decade from a now defunct pub and stuck him through with a pin. Then she hung him above the fireplace. It had been his house, after all.

It was strange how quickly things returned to a state of near-normal at number twelve, Wilbur Drive, in spite of the metamorphoses taking place all around. As long as nobody went anywhere, the microcosm of the homestead was a safe haven. The three women subsisted on their store of canned goods, cobbling together strange meals – corned beef and baked beans followed by stewed prunes; boiled potatoes with a side of limp spinach and tinned peaches for dessert. They got up when they felt like it and occupied their time however they saw fit – Iris reading in a nest of dirty laundry in the bathtub, Violet patching the girls’ stockings and knitting enough lumpy socks and scarves to keep an entire Russian battalion warm, Rose beautifully and tragically doing absolutely nothing.

Things might have stayed that way, had Rose not suddenly and fatally recovered her spirits. It occurred to Iris a couple of months down the line that her sister had stopped whimpering in her sleep. Instead of slouching around the house with matted hair, wrapped in a blanket and crying in her mother’s lap, she started wearing curlers to bed, appearing at the breakfast table with painted lips and fingernails. She began to sing around the house like a forest fay, twirling her wrists and pointing her toes in a little dreamy dance of her own, just as she had done since she was old enough to speak. It wasn’t her fault; she had not yet seen enough of the world for anything to depress her buoyant spirits for long. She invented piano lessons and babysitting errands and went out on secret trysts with the bashful boys who used to call for her with their caps doffed and their nervous twisting hands, and when the government ordained that such close contact was no longer allowed, she crept out of the house under the cover of night to do giggling, rustling things in the overgrown garden. At fourteen – particularly such a sylphlike and shimmering fourteenhood as hers – she still secretly thought herself immune, immortal. Iris, meanwhile, harboured no such delusions. She felt no desire to expose herself to unnecessary risk, but she wasn’t particularly afraid of contracting the butterfly sickness, either. She licked her fingertip and turned a page of the Encyclopaedia Britannica. It would be the most interesting thing to have happened to her so far in life, no doubt.

For a long while, Rose seemed to get away with her little indiscretions scot-free. It wasn’t surprising; this was exactly how she had lived her life thus far, waving away danger, rebuke and blame with an airy hand and a winning smile. Then, in mid-March, she came home from her athletics club complaining of stiff joints. She sat on the kitchen table in her white shorts and T-shirt with the red stripe and let down her rippling auburn hair from its tight band while her mother rubbed arnica into her coltish knees. When she had her head tipped back like that, she looked like something out of a catalogue, Iris noted without emotion. There was no cause for concern yet. Growing pains, probably, since the girls had taken to training on the school racetrack, several wingspans apart. Personally, she thought her sister was milking it. Rose had always liked to be babied. She bundled herself up in all of her nightdresses and some of Iris’ too, the tip of her slightly upturned nose a fetching shade of pink. She drank her mother’s hot homemade soup and sipped delicately at steaming mugs of tea with honey, her big green eyes innocent and beseeching.

But then Iris woke one night vibrating like a struck gong, electric panic zipping from the tips of her toes all the way up her spine to the top of her head. Chill sweat prickled under her arms, at the backs of her knees. She sat up and looked over at Rose’s empty bed. A sense of numb futility slowed her breathing. Slowly she slid her feet into her slippers and padded softly down the stairs, taking care to tread only on the corners to prevent them from creaking.

Nothing could have prepared her for the sight that awaited her in the kitchen.

A shadowy figure stood at the open fridge. Iris tiptoed closer, unsure what to do; they said you should never awaken a sleepwalker. Rose’s head was thrown back in rapture as she guzzled apple juice right from the carton, her white throat rapidly convulsing in tight little gulp-gulp-gulps. This was so unlike her that Iris stared.

Somehow sensing her presence from within her trance, Rose’s gaze swivelled in Iris’ direction. Caught in the frigid glow, she froze. She tried to lower the carton from her moist mouth, but couldn’t. Her throat gurgled like a drain; sweet juice overflowed and ran down her arm, pooling amber on the tiles. A terrified squeak escaped her beaded lips.

They changed her nightgown and put her to bed. Iris couldn’t get back to sleep after that, so she mopped the sticky floor in the pale light of false dawn.

Rose’s illness progressed far quicker than that of her father, but perhaps by virtue of her age, perhaps due to sheer luck, she did not appear to suffer much – then again, when had she ever? The chicken pox, the measles, the flu had never done more than ruffle the placid surface of her dreamy tranquillity. She slept perfectly, a little smile even haunting her lips, a sleeping beauty. Her limbs began to fuse smoothly to her adolescent torso, turning her into a marble statue – quadriplegic, helpless, but somehow still creamily exquisite. On the tenth morning, Iris woke to see the bedclothes crumpled and a little skipper butterfly coquettishly flirting its flame-hued wings on the bedpost as if to say, “Look at me! Look at me!” Even their mother clapped her hands to see her, through smiles and tears.

In the seventeen days of Rose’s life, she and Iris made up for fourteen years of half-hearted sisterhood.

As in her previous form, Rose was keen to feel the sunshine, the breeze. Curling her tiny strong feet around Iris’ forefinger, she was borne out into the garden. She fluttered her wings in glee.

“Oh,” she said in her tiny furry voice, “how glorious!”

“Why don’t you try to fly?” Iris said, setting her gently on the gently bobbing head of her namesake – a blush-pink tea rose, her father’s pride and joy.

Rose’s antennae twitched eagerly. “Oh – do you really think I can? Truly?”

Of course she could. She seemed to have been born for flight, her body streamlined and aerodynamic, darting effortlessly from flower to flower. She moved so fast that Iris had to strain to see her, a blurred speck of colour blending into the pointillist canvas of the summer garden.

Finally Rose returned to her perch on her sister’s shoulder, breathless with joy. “Oh, Iris!” she said fuzzily. “That was so much fun! Oh, dear Iris, how I wish you could fly with me! If you get sick too, let’s fly together! Oh, do let’s!”

In their father’s absence, the Butlers’ garden had become a little jungle of sorts, teeming with colour and life. Other neighbourhood butterflies wove in and out of the ivy, the adults clustering in the dry birdbath, the children giggling and shrieking as they narrowly avoided head-on collisions with fat bumblebees. It was like a magic eye picture; the longer you stared, the more you saw. One of Rose’s local beaus even appeared, brown with handsome cream-yellow spots on his wings, jealously haunting the same bushes as his muse. For several idyllic days, Iris played with them all – something she had never done when the children had been human. Nobody had wanted her, then. Her mother even dragged her favourite armchair out into the garden and sat for many sun-drenched hours with her knitting untouched in her lap, smiling fondly the entire time.

But the summer couldn’t last forever. It gradually became apparent that Rose’s time was running out. Her flight began to look accidental, drunken. She kept alighting on Iris’ shoulder, tiny body heaving, pretty wings limp.

“Don’t go,” said Iris, suddenly afraid; she didn’t think she could manage their mother alone.

But Rose’s antennae drooped, tickling Iris’ cheek. “I can’t help it,” she said mournfully. “My wings just don’t have as much strength as they used to. Everything takes so much more effort. I’m awfully tired.”

They looked in unison at their mother. The brim of her rarely-worn sunhat drooped over her eyes; she was sound asleep. Another butterfly, this one large and black, skittered haphazardly across the ground at her feet, trembled one last time, then fell open like a Bible and died in the grass.

To her credit, Iris tried to save Rose. She brought her fruit juice, honey, sugar water, served in a thimble. She lay lengthwise in the grass with a bunch of flowers and fed her nectar from the tip of a paintbrush. It was no use. Eventually the little skipper grew too weak even to feed, merely pressing her antennae to Iris’ palm from time to time to let her know she was still alive.

Eventually Iris fell asleep in the garden, and when she woke at dawn, stiff and cold and disorientated, Rose was dead in the cradle of her hand, eternally ornamental. Her beautiful little wings were parted like lips exhaling their final sigh. A fine layer of shimmering dust shaded Iris’ palm. Careful not to damage Rose, Iris carried her into the house on tiptoe and gently folded her flat between two silk handkerchiefs. Then she took her father’s whittling tools and carved out a square hole in a book of fairytales.

“Iris?” Her mother stood in her dressing gown and shabby slippers in the bedroom doorway, arms folded, hair tousled. A band of sunburn had reddened her nose. She looked very old and careworn, her cheeks still bearing pillowslip creases. “What’s happening? What are you doing?”

Iris couldn’t speak. Violet crossed the room in two strides and opened the soft little parcel almost angrily, her lips preemptively parting to deliver a scolding.

Then she froze. Her hands flew to her face.

Gently refolding the silken shroud, Iris placed her sister into the tiny book-tomb and set the lid in place. The finest of shimmering dust powdered her fingertips.

Silence ruled the household for the next few days. The two women did not avoid each other intentionally, but equally did not seek out each other’s company for solace; they dealt with their grief alone. Violet shut herself up in her room. For the first couple of days, Iris left cups of tea and bowls of soup at the door, but stopped when they were left standing untouched, flies sucking greedily at the tomatoey scum. She read in her bed until her eyes gave out and her forehead felt stretched tight as a drum. Her nightgown clung to her like a second skin. She peeled the sheets off, put on her slippers and shuffled across the corridor.  Her mother’s bedroom door was ajar.

Iris went in to see her, but she wasn’t there. The marital bed was unmade – something she had never seen before, not even in the days after her father had died. It gave her a strange seasick feeling deep in her guts. Her head swam; the room was stuffy, the window tightly sealed. She put her hand on the mantelpiece to steady herself and felt her fingertips sink into a thick layer of dust.

Oh no.

Closing her eyes, Iris took a deep breath and tried to walk backwards – away from the alien bed with its covers thrown back, away from the eerie silence, out of the room and back to the safe, ignorant haven of her books. But –

Crunch.

With a sick shock, Iris raised her foot and opened one eye a milimetre at a time, knowing what she was going to see.

Her mother’s dull butterfly body fell apart beneath the sole of her shoe like a disintegrated leaf.

The Butler house may as well have been completely deserted for all the movement that took place within its four walls over the next few weeks. A greenish fuzz haunted four family members’ worth of plates stacked in various dusty corners of the kitchen. Fuzz and hair scudded across the unlit floors like so much domestic tumbleweed every time Iris moved, which was not often. She sank herself deep into any crevice – an armchair, an armoire, an old apple crate – and read book after book, picking up the next as soon as she had set aside the last. The side of her index finger grew a little callus from the continuous turning of pages. When one location began to hurt her bones, she found another. Scouting for snacks in the kitchen, for there was nothing left to cook, she read the backs of food packages. When she brushed her teeth in the mornings – one of the few routines of her old life to which she still adhered – she read the backs of the bottles and jars in the cabinet so as not to have to look at the scum in the sink. Her eyes continued to scroll from left to right even when she slept, reading the blank backs of her eyelids. At the outset, the mail had piled up on the doormat, but this was the one thing she did not read. She kicked it under the shoe cabinet and forgot about it, and now there was nothing coming in from anywhere. All contact with the outside world was finally gone.

Iris stuffed a fistful of pork rinds into her mouth and lay listlessly on the sofa, half-watching television. The constant news reports blurred into a background drone. Accelerated course… unprecedented numbers… public coffers empty… scientists struggling to devise a vaccine…

With an effort, Iris peeled herself off the sofa. A grey-faced reporter said in gravelly tones, “In severe cases, the time between onset of symptoms and full metamorphosis may be only a matter of hours.”

Iris walked out of the room and regarded herself in the hallway mirror. Her familiar face stared solemnly back at her – a pale heart narrowing into a pointed chin, almost swallowed up by the mass of her pin-straight hair dissolving into the darkness of the hall behind her. The television flickered and an inane, syrupy tune poured out over the airwaves:

“If you don’t want to grow a pair of wings

Buckle up and listen to the words we sing!

Staying safe is easy as one – two – three:

STAY INSIIIIIIIDE! (Say it again!)

STAY INSIIIIIIDE! (Tell all your friends!)

‘Cause home’s our favourite place to be!”

It was so saccharine, Iris felt the urge to spit. Her thoughts, sluggish for so long, were slowly beginning to whir. An unaccustomed warmth crept to the surface of her skin.

Here’s what I know: I am seventeen and in good health. With regular exercise and a fair diet, I might easily live another sixty years or so.

Sixty years. That was older than her father, older than her mother. It was an absolute eternity. Was she going to spend it cooped up indoors simply because her family was gone? There was no sense in that. She saw it now. Staying indoors because she wanted to was one thing. Staying indoors because the stuffy old men with their full pockets and their fat bellies had told her to was quite another.

Slowly, deliberately, she opened the cupboard under the stairs and pulled the cord to turn on the light. Then she hunted for her boots. It had been months since she had touched them; a thin film of dust clouded the patent of the toes. She sat down in the clutter of raincoats and bent-spoked umbrellas and pulled the laces taut in slow motion, each cord strange and rough against her unaccustomed fingertips.

Steeling herself, she eased the front door open and, for the first time, looked out upon the new world.

The first few days were heaven. She had lived in this city all her life, but there were so many things she still hadn’t done – and that had been because there were always too many people around, fussing and clucking and staring and judging and putting her off the whole idea. Now, with so many dead and most others in a state of transformation, she practically had the whole place to herself. She waltzed into empty ice cream parlours and gorged herself on triple scoops of strawberry swirl, of peach sorbet, of mint choc chip with extra sprinkles, sucking glacé cherries off each fingertip. She shattered the windows of boutiques with Rose’s lacrosse stick and tried on expensive dresses and absurd hats that cost ten times her father’s annual salary. She broke into the library with some difficulty, finally shimmying up a drainpipe and squeezing in through an open window, and read until it got too dark to see. There was something so wonderfully naughty and illicit about her escapades. It was like being an archaeologist, unearthing secrets and gems that had been slumbering just below the surface of the city all this time. She wandered from screen to screen of the cinema and watched whatever had been left playing, idly shovelling popcorn into her mouth and lying across a whole row of seats. Usually at nightfall she went home to sleep, but sometimes she just made up a makeshift pillow of her coat and slept wherever she was. There was no danger anymore. The constant flutter of wings around her was soothing; it reminded her of autumn leaves caught in a sudden gust of wind. Some of the butterflies were obviously family groups, their colouring virtually identical, solemnly sucking at spilled drinks at shop counters or picking at mouldy cakes in the bakery’s display cases. They seemed resigned to their fate. The occasional loner, skittering through the sky in a frenzied panic, might alight precariously on Iris’ arm and ask for help, but she could sweep them off, pretend she hadn’t heard them. Husks of anonymous butterfly bodies littered the streets, clogging the gutters, cracking satisfyingly underfoot; the windows of all the shops were fogged with their dust.

She did still see the occasional human being – it was a rude shock every time, an intrusion on her absolute freedom – but they always seemed to be hurrying home, guiltily clutching haphazard parcels of stolen medicines or groceries to their chests, or avoiding her eye as they trundled down the street with wheelbarrows of goods, and paid her little heed. She was relieved not to have to interact with them. These encounters grew less and less frequent until she realised one day that she hadn’t seen another living soul for an entire week. One week turned into two turned into three, and then she knew she’d won a game she hadn’t even realised she’d been playing. Nobody asked her for money on the street or yelled at her to do her chores or hogged the bathroom or told her “No”. It made her heart swell with wicked joy she tried to suppress at first, but ultimately allowed to swell and flourish like a poisonous vine sprouting deadly blooms. How incredible it was that her heart’s secret wish had been fulfilled! How lucky, lucky, lucky she was to have her very own world!

On a fine day that had suddenly turned overcast, she got caught in a sudden deluge. A hundred thousand butterfly corpses instantly turned into mulch, their scent rising sweetish and sickly from the pavement. Iris pulled her coat tighter around her throat and ran for the nearest shop awning. Out of habit, she picked up a stone to crack the window, but when she tried the door, it was already unlocked.

She entered and glanced around inquisitively, her lank hair dripping. She squeezed it out, then did the same with her skirt, making small puddles on the tiles.

The shop smelled musty, and some of the shutters were down, but only partly, as if they had been tugged at with great haste. It had the air of a cave. A swallowtail floated in a recently-abandoned mug of coffee. Behind one changing room curtain, a single cabbage white, disintegrating in a tangle of sequinned cloth. Iris reached up to touch the hems of the bleached white tennis skirts, remembering Rose. The pretty pleats swung gently overhead. Half-dressed mannequins stood to attention; Iris derived childish pleasure from manipulating their limbs into compromising poses, until one heavy white arm sheared clean off in her hands. She left the female mannequin crudely groping the flat plastic crotch of the male, and used the arm to sift through the racks of costumes.

A gauzy lavender gown caught her eye. Iris was not usually one for finery, but this was something else. It was somewhere between a ballerina’s tutu and a ballgown, with a stiff satin bodice and a long, rustling skirt comprising featherlike layers of tulle. Before she could stop and think about it, she gave into the urge, wriggling into the dress and lacing a pair of discarded ballet shoes all the way up her calves with satin ribbon. Then she posed.

A stupid gawky girl glared out of the mirror – flat where she should have been rounded, stiff where she should have been malleable, black-eyed and black-haired and black-hearted. Resentment turned to ashes in her mouth. She wasn’t Rose. What was she trying to achieve?

Her own clothes were still soaked through; she was loath to struggle back into them, a sticky second skin. In a sudden burst of rage she hurled the mannequin’s arm at the mirror. Glass fragments exploded all over the shop, coating the chairs and the floor with dangerous glitter. Iris turned away and headed home.

The house on Wilbur Drive was as cold as a tomb. Her breath billowed before her as she tiptoed through the hall.

Shivering convulsively, she hastened to ignite the fire in the kitchen with numb fingers – but of course, there was no gas. Her dead father could no longer pay the bills.

She sat back on her heels and considered. There was nothing stopping her striking a match, setting her mother’s romance novels alight – that was really all they were good for, wasn’t it?

But no – she knew she wouldn’t. She couldn’t bring herself to do it. She couldn’t bear to move the ironed school uniforms or the newspapers or the Teach Yourself French cassettes because they were just as her mother and father and sister had left them.

Suddenly the house no longer seemed to belong to her. It was a museum, a memorial to untimely loss. A great weight of sadness settled like sediment in the pit of her stomach.

It was her eighteenth birthday.

She was cold. Her ballet slippers were already filthy and wearing through at the toes. The dance costume was starting to look tawdry now, the hem unpicked, the skirt trailing lace and satin, but still she kept moving, hastening through the ruined streets with a sob in her throat and a chill in her bones. It was the end of the party. It was the end of the world. It was time for all this to be over forever.

Where was she going? She didn’t know, but she had to leave this town. She half-walked, half-ran, blinded by tears, through streets she had never seen before – overturned dustbins, bicycles without wheels, homeless encampments. The stench of wet cardboard and urine. Out of breath, she finally pressed her palms to a graffitied wall and leaned against it, hair hanging down, staring at the ground. Desperation yielded to calm, which became clarity. What was she thinking? She couldn’t just leave. She was being impulsive where she needed to be rational. Whatever awaited her beyond here, it wasn’t going to be good. She would need warmer clothes, proper shoes, candles, matches, tinned food. Supplies. She was profoundly hungry, she realised – hungry not for stolen sweets but for real food. What she wouldn’t give for a hot stew of real meat and veggies grown in the garden! Even if she were somehow able to find the ingredients now, she wouldn’t have the faintest idea how to prepare them. Violet had tried to teach her, but she had never listened, thinking herself above such household drudgery…

She was hurting now, yearning in a deep-down place she was unable to reach. Having stepped across the threshold of adolescence into adulthood, she wanted more than anything to be mothered, to be babied. She looked around, praying for a sign, waiting for direction.

In an upstairs window of a terraced house across the street, a single light was burning.

She crept through the unkempt grass of the front garden, strewn with crisp packets and empty cans of energy drink like so many strange flowers. The door had been left ajar, or – more likely – prised open at some point. In the pitch black hall, she stepped on the rim of a dog bowl, which spun and clanged as she stepped back, startled. Pressing her lips together, she followed the subtle glow along the landing…

A moon-shaped nightlight glimmered faintly in what would once have been a child’s bedroom. Covering every surface was a fine coating of butterfly dust, thicker than anywhere she’d seen it yet; the floor was invisible under layers of brittle and broken butterfly bodies. It brought tears to Iris’ eyes to picture them – fluttering in their thousands around this abandoned beacon, clinging to light and life. Gently, so gently, she picked it up – it was lighter than she’d thought – and carried it to the other bedroom.

The adults’ wardrobe was mostly empty, save a few odds and ends. Sifting through them, she found a shift of grey wool. It had a small tear in the back, but that could be mended, and it would keep her warm.

The blankets of the couple’s bed were like ice, but she pressed her hands between her knees and hunkered down and gradually, a small pocket of warmth formed around her. She turned on the radio on the nightstand  and left it running all night, trying to convince herself that the missives of doom and the shipping forecast were the soothing burble of her parent’s voices.

The radioactive quality of the light woke her at dawn. Blinking the plum-coloured blurs out of her vision, she padded slowly down the stairs, her hand trailing along the dusty banister. She ate a handful of nuts from a packet and picked the mites out of a small bowl of dry cornflakes. Old orange stains of baby food blemished the formica table. Pale rectangles marked the walls where family photographs had once hung. She put the empty bowl in the sink and headed out.

The lake was placid and still as a sheet of grey-green glass. The dry reeds said hush, hush as she ascended to the boardwalk, but there was no-one left to whom she could have betrayed their secrets. Sitting at the edge, she let her legs hang into empty space, tendrils of hair softly rising and falling in the occasional breeze, watching the nothingness for a long time.

Then she spotted it.

A timid whisper of colour; a mere suggestion of life, balancing on a single bulrush stem.

She made a curved bowl of her hands and closed her fingers around the city’s final butterfly.

Instantly six hair-thin legs braced themselves against her palm: confused, waiting. Two tiny antennae drooped dolefully, soft as a sigh. Maybe the little creature was saying something to her, some profound last words, a final message to the world: she listened, but could not hear. She felt the fragile wings flutter like eyelashes, tickling her palms, then fold against each other with subjugate grace and fall still.

Iris lifted her thumbs. There it was. A compact, dead little parcel. A life story folded into a pretty envelope.

She put the envelope into the pocket of her skirt and walked towards the seared white scar of the horizon as the sunset bled crimson and flame and gold over Butterfly City.



BIO

A translator by trade, Lesley Warren lives for language. Born in Wales and now resident in Germany, her work encompasses themes of alienation, identity and “otherness”. Her poetry and prose have appeared in a variety of journals, anthologies and a podcast. 










Park Shitty

by Melissa Or


I never knew CD’s real name. I just knew that’s what they called him because his eyes flattened into thin CD-like slits when he was stoned. Perhaps if I were in the same grade as those guys, I would have heard teachers call CD by his legal name, but I was five years younger than they were. Thinking back now, I was much too young to be hanging around high school seniors. Especially those seniors.

It might sound strange that they tolerated a dorky middle schooler tagging along, but even guys like that, especially guys like that, needed something to believe in. You’re gonna be the one who gets out, they’d tell me again and again, as if repeating it would eventually will it into fruition. I think they needed to hear it more than I did. Especially CD. He was my older sister’s boyfriend, which is how I got to know those guys in the first place. He didn’t seem to give a shit about my sister, but he was invested in making sure that I did something with my life. It didn’t really matter what that something was, but everyone seemed to think it required getting out of Park City. Which was fine by me.

The thing with Park City was that if you happened to spot it on a map and see it nestled all cozy between the Great South Bay on Long Island’s southern shoreline and the swank star-studded Hamptons to the east, you’d surely mistake it for one of the island’s many quaint beach villages. You’d imagine this perfect little town where yuppies draped sweaters over their shoulders as they walked in and out of small expensive shops that all looked the same; and not only would you picture sidewalks, but you’d also line them with flowers and street lamps; and your mind would probably also build a charming brick schoolhouse with a flag that had never been defaced and a roof that had never leaked. But for some reason Park City, even the name of the town itself, never lived up to its potential. It had been established by an obscure signer of the Declaration of Independence who happened to settle there in 1770 with ambitions of creating an international port and commercial center. Sadly, the town never grew up to become the “city” its founder had envisioned. Nor did it ever contain an actual “park” unless you counted the area beside the landfill that had been fenced off to protect migrating birds who stopped in for quickies on their way to South America. We called that overgrown strip of land the Bird Brothel, and it sort of functioned more or less like a park because it was where a lot of kids went to try drugs or sex for the first time.

Later on, when I did get out, and I would tell people that I was from Long Island, I saw how their eyes would adorn with visions of Gatsby’s gilded Eggs, and although I knew I was misleading them, I didn’t want to explain that I had grown up in the only south shore town that never became a summer tourist destination for celebrity Manhattanites. Instead of multi-million dollar beach estates enclosed by behemoth hedges and electric fences, my home town was known for its abundance of Section Eight housing. Before I met him, CD spray-painted over Park City’s welcome sign in order to announce to anyone who exited the main road for a pit stop on their way to the Hamptons, that they were “Now Entering Park City Shitty.” The sign was replaced about a year later, but the name stuck. That’s the thing with identities, they just get lodged in people’s heads, and after a while there’s no way to extract them.

CD looked out for me in the only way he knew how, by creating an ever-expanding list of drugs that I was never, under any circumstance whatsoever, to even pretend to try. He wrote his list on one of those long shopping pads that had a refrigerator magnet on the back. He said these were drugs that could fuck a person up so badly that I had to swear on my grandmother’s grave to abstain from trying, no matter how tempted I might be. (You’d think since he was dating my sister, he would have known that all of my grandparents were still alive.) There were so many drugs on his list, and he seemed to add to it every time I came over, that I was sure some must have been repeated or made up. It was three pages deep and included a lot of substances that I had never heard of, and some that I had heard of but never thought of as intoxicants. I remember wondering what it was about those particular drugs that made them worse than others. After all, I had grown up in the Nancy Reagan era, when we were told that all illicit drugs were created with equal capacity to scramble a kid’s brain up like the egg in the commercial that aired during After School Specials.

CD used to hang out with these two other guys, Rod and Hoff. Rod was the first emancipated minor I ever knew. His father got so fucked up one night that he beat the shit out of Rod while he was sound asleep in his bed, so Rod got a lawyer to help him file for emancipation. This was the first time I heard the word “emancipation” used in a way that was not associated with slavery. It was also the first time I heard of anyone going to court to gain a right instead of having one taken away. A judge granted Rod’s request, and the government let him live in one of the subsidized apartments off the highway. He got a small studio above the Roy Rogers, which was convenient when we got the munchies. You see, CD said, lawyers make so much money that they can do cases like Rod’s for free. That’s what I’m talking about. What are you talking about, Rod asked? No one ever knows what he’s talking about, Hoff said. For the Nerd, CD said, referring to me. That’s what I’m talking about for the Nerd. For when she grows up and gets the fuck out of here. Attorney General Nerd or some shit like that. I looked up at the mention of my nickname, but my fingers were deep in Rod’s ashtray, fishing for roaches to take home with me, and Rod said, Yeah, that’s real lawyer material right there, and we all laughed.

Although Rod was a dealer, Hoff was the real thing. Pretty much everything about Hoff was next-level. He was particularly compulsive about things that really mattered to him, which meant that he had a ripped body, an impeccable car, and an endless series of tanned, toned girlfriends he met at the gym. Not to mention his lucrative drug business. He actually used to grow his own weed on the side of Sunrise Highway, up in the woods where no one would go except maybe for some animals. We used to joke about all the deer that must have been inadvertently getting high back there. Hoff really had it going on back then. At some point, his harvest was so plentiful that he had to hire a couple of those guys who stood on the side of the road by the exit ramps holding “Will Work for Food” signs. They were good workers, Hoff said, even if they couldn’t speak much English. He paid them in actual money and weed instead of just food, and he said they were priceless because they were too afraid of getting deported to report him. Hoff also dealt a lot of the drugs that were on CD’s no-no list. The list was for me, not for the guys.

Like Rod, Hoff had his own apartment, but not because he was emancipated. Because he was earning a ton of money and his parents didn’t seem to notice or care that he moved out. But there was no way Hoff would let us over to his place because he was a real clean freak. Everyone knew that he vacuumed his apartment every day just before he left, and that he was so obsessive-compulsive about the whole thing that the vacuum tracks had to be perfectly straight and parallel with the wall, and if they weren’t, he’d start over again. He was so nuts about those lines on his carpet that he would vacuum backwards, all the while edging towards the front door, where he would eventually leave the vacuum in order to avoid defiling the perfectly straight carpet lines. That’s why Hoff was late all the time, and everyone would poke fun at him for it, saying he was late because he was doing lines.

The last time I saw Hoff must have been about eight years ago in what used to be the Roy Rogers below Rod’s old apartment. At that time, it was a 7-11, and I was in a hurry to grab a coffee before catching the train back to Manhattan after visiting my folks. I brushed right past him without realizing who he was.

Jessica’s Sister, he said. Hey, Nerd! How are you?

I recognized his voice, but when I turned to face him, he looked nothing like the Hoff I knew from the old days, even though it had only been a few years since I had graduated from high school. Instead of the well-toned and manicured guy I used to know, the one whose artificial tan had accentuated a beaming white toothy smile, Hoff now appeared before me as an old, almost grotesque, stranger. Even his posture was different. He used to have the starchy upright stance of a weightlifter, but now he was sort of hunched and weathered, like a tarped Weber grill in winter. Several of his teeth had rotted out, and his T-shirt looked like it had been plucked from one of those Goodwill bins outside the Stop & Shop.

How’s your sister? How’s your family? How’s…He threw questions at me frenetically, but he was sweet and genuine, happy to see me. How’s the big city life treating you, he asked and then laughed for no reason, which made me self-conscious. I felt dozens of judgmental eyes peer straight through soda displays and Slurpee signs, and hone in on me as if to ask what a young woman dressed like President Clinton’s wife was doing chatting with a homeless meth head. Not that he was homeless. At least I don’t think he was. But those eyes went right through my pants suit, and I swear they saw me for who I really was.

Later, when I told my sister about running into Hoff, she said, And this used to be the guy who was so OCD that he vacuumed himself out of his house. Used to be— as though he was not the same guy. You know, she said, Hoff should have died a long time ago. And angry as that made me, I imagined this very scenario: Hoff disappearing in his prime, when he was still smiling like Knight Rider or oiling his abs like the guy in Baywatch, before our shitty little town dug its shitty little meth-rot teeth into him. Not to sound callous though, because dying too early, no matter how honorable the death, is no prize either, and I know this because that’s exactly what happened to CD’s little brother, Bruce.

Bruce was the same age as I was, but I never saw him at school because he was in special classes. Sometimes he would hang around with CD, but the guys never called him anything but his real name, even though he was an easy target for a nickname due to his cognitive impairment. CD wouldn’t tolerate so much as a joke made at Bruce’s expense. Their whole family was protective of him, actually. Their dad coached Bruce’s baseball team for the sole purpose of making sure that the other players wouldn’t make fun of him. CD told me that if I played on the team, his dad would look out for me too. You got brains, but you need a scholarship if you’re gonna actually go to college and be a lady lawyer, and there’s really no money in softball, CD said. I figured he was right, and I joined the team.

CD’s dad did look after me as best he could, but since I was the only girl in the league, I had to endure a surprising amount of shit-talking from the opposing players. The parents were the worst though. They’d actually yell things at me like, Girls can’t hit, you cunt! And, Put the bat down and pick up a spatula. A fucking spatula? That’s what they came up with to insult me? Grown adults telling a kid she was a cunt in need of a spatula? Even then, I knew I shouldn’t let that nonsense get in the way of my performance. After all, I was a better player than most of the guys in the league, and I was sure that only a few of them would have made the girls’ varsity softball team at school. Not that they would have wanted to try. It’s just that even though they weren’t much competition for me, it was their attitude about who I should be that posed the real challenge.

Admittedly, the harassment got to me more often than it should have. I didn’t have terribly high self-esteem to begin with. During one at-bat early in the season, a mom yelled, Join the God-damned Girl Scouts!, just as I swung and missed on a third strike. Everyone laughed, even my own teammates. The catcher chuckled and sorta snorted behind his mask, then he dropped the ball, so I booked it to first base. Apparently, I was the only nerd on the field who knew the rules. The other team’s coach screamed for the catcher to throw the ball. Throw it! Throw it, he shouted, it’s a freakin’ dropped-third-strike!

When I think about it now, I imagine the catcher must have been confused, but I don’t know for sure because I didn’t look back. I just ran down the line with all the rage of a girl who needed to prove her worth. The first baseman was standing right on the bag with his arm stretched stupidly over the baseline. His glove was wide open, and I could see his eyes as they followed the ball over my head toward his mitt. What an idiot, I thought as I ran through him. My body met his just as the ball reached his glove, and I stepped on the bag as he fell to the ground and the ball trickled toward the foul line. The umpire stretched his arms and yelled, Safe!, and my whole team cheered as though we won a championship game or something. Then two parents came out to walk the first baseman off the field. He was sniffling, trying not to cry. I stayed on the base like I owned it. I wanted to run to second because no one had actually called a time out and the ball was technically still in play, but I refrained.

I sort of knew that kid who played first. His name was Neil, and he was in my photography class. He didn’t have friends in the class because he constantly walked into the dark room when other people were in the middle of developing their film, and it would just fuck up everyone’s photos. He was that kind of kid, and I suspected he was told a hundred times not to stand on the baseline just as Mr. Fox, our art teacher, told him not to go in the darkroom when the red light was on. I felt bad that I knocked him down, but that was the rule– if a fielder is in the baseline, the runner still has the right of way. Yet, I felt sorry for Neil because a girl had taken him out, which was just about the most humiliating thing a girl could do to a guy, aside from laughing at his prick. But I didn’t feel too bad because the incident made my teammates actually like me. Even later in the season, they would still take turns imitating how I threw up my elbow just before ramming into Neil. That pussy deserved to get plowed by The Girl, they would say. They called me, The Girl. I liked that name better than Jessica’s Sister or Nerd.

One day I got to practice early, and only the Tommys were there. As I leaned my bike against the fence, I saw Tall Tommy shoving his fingers under Ugly Tommy’s nose, and Ugly Tommy said, Damn, that pussy smells sweet– I wouldn’t ever wash my hands if I was you. They didn’t stop talking about Jenna Passanti’s sweet smell on Tall Tommy’s fingers, even when they turned to see that it was The Girl who was walking toward them. I just sat on the bench and didn’t say anything. Tall Tommy passed me the joint they had been sharing, and I took a long hit, even though I was afraid I might catch an STD, being that it was only one degree removed from Jenna Passanti’s crotch.

About a month later, on the first day of tenth grade, Jenna Passanti was found in the woods just inside the Bird Brothel. She was partially naked and all beat up by her boyfriend, Pete Mason. Pete was one of those kids who wore Polo shirts and had a nice smile and who said all the right things, but who was really a fucking douchebag, my sister said. She said this before Pete beat up Jenna, so I guess it was sorta well-known that he was no good. Jenna was in my grade though, so she probably didn’t know that the older kids thought Pete was an asshole.

Channel 12 News, the Long Island TV station, was obsessed with the whole thing. It reported that Jenna had made fun of the way Pete performed sexually, and that was why Pete beat the living shit out of her and then sexually assaulted her. So then Mr. Pearl, the Health teacher, made us watch every video he could find on date rape. This was in addition to the usual scare-tactic videos he used to show us, including the documentary that featured real-life addicts shooting heroin into their eyeballs because there were no other viable places left on their bodies to inject needles. It was depressing. We all swore we’d never do heroin or let a guy beat us up, but we also knew that the odds were that some of us would. I hated high school, even though I got good grades, and I just wanted to cut and hang out with CD and Rod and Hoff, who had already graduated, but those guys wouldn’t tolerate me missing school. Eventually, we all just went our separate ways.

A year after I graduated from high school, and a few years before I ran into Hoff at the 7-11, CD’s brother, Bruce, got shit-faced at Mr. Lucky’s Pub. He decided to do the prudent thing and walk home, leaving his old Skylark on the graveled pathway behind the bar that served as Mr. Lucky’s parking lot. About half-way home, Bruce was struck by a drunk driver and killed instantly. He was left on the side of Sunrise Highway until the early morning when a cop happened to slow down to watch some deer grazing nearby and then noticed Bruce face-down in the grass.

I was so far removed from that whole scene by then that I probably wouldn’t have known about Bruce dying if I didn’t happen to be in Park City at the time on a break from college. I went to the wake. All the boys were there. CD, of course, and Rod and Hoff. The Tommys were also there, as were most of the other players from our team. The funeral home was packed, so most of us had to hang outside, which was fine with me because I did not want to see Bruce lying dead in a coffin at nineteen years old.

After the wake, a bunch of us went to the diner, and we sat at one of those round booths in the corner where they put large groups. CD shared a story about this one time when he went to the diner with Bruce and Hoff. Bruce had wanted to order one of the cakes in the display case. Not just a slice of it, but the whole cake for the three of them to share. This was after Bruce had gotten a job at the hardware store due to some government program that compensated local businesses for hiring people with disabilities. Bruce was so proud to get the job that he wanted to treat his older brother and his friend, and ordering a whole cake seemed like the best kind of celebration that a guy like Bruce could conjure up in his generous, childish head. CD said no, that they would have come across as being really high had they eaten the whole cake. But we are high, Bruce apparently pleaded. We all laughed because it was funny as hell, and it really captured Bruce’s personality. He would say shit like that all the time, and it would have us laughing really hard, even though Bruce wasn’t trying to be funny. The beautiful thing about Bruce was that he saw everything as it really was, and there really was nothing even a tiny bit funny about the way things actually happened to be.

The waitress came over to take our order, and CD said, We’ll take a whole cake from the display case. Without even looking up at us, the waitress said, The only cake that’s still whole is carrot. So then give us the whole fucking carrot cake, CD said, and she wrote it down on her pad as if it were something she could potentially forget. She walked away, and Tall Tommy said, I wonder if she wrote “whole carrot cake” or “the whole fucking carrot cake.” Then we all went outside into the back of Tall Tommy’s van to take bong hits.

Isn’t this the bong that your mom took, Rod asked, and Tall Tommy said that his mom actually didn’t confiscate his bong, that he must have just lost it because it recently resurfaced. How the fuck do you lose a bong, Ugly Tommy asked. And how the fuck does it just resurface, Rod added. Maybe your mom borrowed it, I said, and the guys all laughed pretty hard. Don’t hog it, CD said, pass it to the Nerd. Are you allowed to smoke weed at Columbia, Tall Tommy asked. Ugly Tommy said, It’s the biggest drug country in the world, of course she can smoke there. She’s at Columbia University, not Colombia the country, you dumbass, CD said, and we all laughed and Ugly Tommy had a huge coughing fit, which made us laugh even more.

We must have reeked when we went back inside the diner. The carrot cake was on the table already sliced and waiting for us along with a stack of plates and napkins. Oh, this is gonna be the best cake ever, Hoff said, and then he added, here’s to Bruce! To Bruce, we all said and for a moment we all felt sober, thinking of poor Bruce doing the right thing and walking home from Mr. Lucky’s. Then Hoff continued, you see where being responsible gets you– gets you dead, that’s where.

We recalled Hoff saying that a couple of years later when we went to the diner after his wake. Being irresponsible gets you dead too, CD said, and we all toasted to Hoff. Then Rod talked about the days when Hoff used to vacuum himself out of his apartment and we all fell silent as we scraped cake crumbs from our plates. What are you doing here, CD said, I thought you got out? You say that like Park City is a prison, I said. It is, they all said in unison. Hey, what are you studying anyway? Shouldn’t you be done with college already? I’m in law school now, I said. Jeez, Nerd!, they all said in unison. Are you going to be a prosecutor, Tall Tommy asked. No, I said, I don’t know, I mean I don’t really like law school. Then the Tommys got up and reenacted the time when I knocked Neil down at first base, and everyone hooted and hollered, and some gray-haired couple turned toward us, rolling their tired eyes passive-aggressively at our brief joyous moment. Seriously, Nerd, what the fuck are you doing here with us, CD pressed. I don’t know, I said. I’m just home on break and then Hoff died and now I’m here fucking around with you guys. How’s your sister, CD asked? She’s alright. She’s engaged to Phil. I always liked your sister, CD said. No you didn’t, I said, You thought she was pretty, maybe, but you didn’t like her. Yeah, she was hot, CD said, and then added, but soon she’s gonna be fat and pregnant with a bunch of little Phils. And they all laughed pretty hard. Really, you need to stop hanging out with us, CD said. Yeah, one day you might prosecute us, Rod said. And no one laughed even a little.

The next time I went back to Park City was for Jessica and Phil’s wedding. None of the guys were invited. My sister wasn’t friends with them anymore. But after the wedding, I met some of them at the diner. I’m not sure why. I was drunk from the wedding and over my head with stress from studying for the Bar Exam, and I didn’t have any other friends in the area. That’s like the hardest test on earth, Ugly Tommy said. She’ll pass, CD said. Then to me, he said, You gotta stop hanging out with us. Then the two of us went outside to where the cigarette machines used to be and did a few bumps of coke off our knuckles. You gotta promise me you’ll get the fuck out of here, he said. Park Shitty’s not that shitty, I said. He smiled and said, then why does it feel so shitty? He had this boyish smile, but this time when he laughed, I could tell his teeth were getting that meth-head rot, and it was sad but also not sad. It’s as though I saw him the way that his little brother Bruce would have seen him: just as he was. No more, no less.

CD suddenly stopped smiling and he looked straight at me and said, You gotta promise me you’ll get the fuck out, you have to make the promise. You always say that, but I already am out, I said. No, you still have a foot here in this shitty town. We left the diner without saying goodbye to the others, and we tip-toed into my parents’ house, into my childhood room, into my bed. We did a few lines of coke off of my Con Law textbook, which CD thought was hilarious. Come on, quote the Constitution he said, and then he deepened his voice and declared, Four score and seven years–

That’s not the fucking Constitution, I said. You must think I’m an idiot, he said and tossed the textbook from my lap, and then he got annoyed at how much coke was wasted on the floor. Don’t be an asshole, I said. He turned to me and pinned me down by my wrists. I told you to get the fuck out of here, he said. His eyes were like two huge holes. There was no emotion to them, but his voice was angry and jittery from the coke. Come on, tough girl, you’re supposed to be a badass. He pushed down hard on my wrists, and I said nothing, just stared at him, feeling his weight press me deeper into the bed, and I wanted to stay there pinned by my desires and my past for perpetuity.

He suddenly let go of my wrists and unzipped my jeans. He looked at me as if to ask if I was sure I wanted to keep going, but I just stared at him. He was not a good fuck, and I wasn’t either. Afterwards, we lay vacuously next to each other, and he said, your tits are hotter than your sister’s. That’s kinda gross to think about, I said. But it felt good to hear. He kissed my forehead with a tenderness that felt like a pat on the head and then he did two lines off my stomach. That was fucking awesome, he said, lifting his head from my belly and rubbing his nose with his fist, and I got the feeling that he was mimicking something he had seen in a movie. Wasn’t that fucking awesome, he said. What, I wanted to ask, but instead I said, The Constitution, Article I, Section 1: All legislative powers shall be granted to a Congress. It wasn’t an exact quote by any means, but it didn’t matter.

You gotta be fuckin’ kidding me, Nerd, he said with that decaying boyish smile, then he dipped down to lick some stray coke off my belly. I liked the way his tongue was warm and adoring, as though it felt lucky to be able to taste my skin. I can’t believe you exist and you chose to fuck me, he whispered, I mean, why the fuck did you fuck me? You know where I’m gonna end up, don’t you? Where, I asked? He just shook his head.

The next morning, my dad banged on my door and yelled at me to get up before my pancakes got cold. CD must have snuck out at some point after I fell asleep. He would have gotten a kick out of the way my dad folded the pancakes into mini chocolate-chip tacos.

The last I heard, when CD’s mom went to visit him in the hospital, she was taken aback by his painted fingernails. She saw the polished nails first, then the restraints which tightly bound his wrists to the bed rails, then the bruises on his eyes and chin. The innkeeper–or whatever you call him–found CD earlier that morning in a ground-floor room of the Park City Motel, dressed in drag, lying in his own piss and blood. Can you believe I dated that guy, my sister said. He’s such a loser, prostituting himself out for meth or God knows what.

It was Black Friday, and we were in my parents’ kitchen. Jessica was taking out the Thanksgiving leftovers to make sandwiches. She had separated from Phil, and she and her two girls had been staying with my parents for almost a year already. She knew where everything was kept, the bread, the mayonnaise, the cutting boards. I paced around the kitchen, thinking of the soft, deliberate, even delicate motion of CD’s tongue on my skin. Then I suddenly wondered what color his nails had been painted and whether he had painted them himself. CD was once the kind of person who would have laughed at a man who polished his nails and pimped himself out for drugs.

Oh my God, what a loser, Jessica kept saying, what a fucking loser. OK, damn it, I yelled. Jess, we get the picture. He’s a fucking loser. We got it loud and clear. A. God. Damned. Fucking. Loser. My sister’s youngest daughter was about three at the time, and she kind of looked like I did at her age, with two curly pig-tails on either side of her chubby face. She was sitting on the kitchen floor playing with some Tupperware, staring up at me with her mouth open, and when I looked down at her, she began to cry in that slow way that starts with a confused look, a quivering lip, then finally tears. Oh great, thanks a lot sis, Jessica said.

I took Jessica’s minivan and drove to the diner, but by then the diner had gone out of business and a Family Dollar had sprouted up in its place. When did that happen, I wondered. I smoked up in the parking lot and thought about the organizations that I could create to help people get back on their feet before they end up like CD. But I knew I wouldn’t actually do any such thing. I had already put in my dues at the firm and would be named partner by the end of the year if I continued to play my cards right, so there was no time for charitable work. Then suddenly I was startled by the rapping of knuckles on the passenger-side window.

I turned toward the noise, and a large, pale police officer peered at me through the condensation on the window pane. He made a circular motion with his fist, signaling for me to roll down the window. I did, and he asked, What are you doing? That’s when I realized the joint was still in my mouth, and I thought to myself, this is it, this is the end of everything. Forget partner, you’re fucked.

Dom Harris, one of the firm’s managing partners, told us associates that if we ever got into trouble, we shouldn’t lie. It’s the lie that gets you disbarred, not the indiscretion, he said. Then he added, but at home, to your spouse, you lie like a God-damned rug because the truth gets you fucked in the ass when it comes time for the divorce. However, this wasn’t a curbside blow job or whatever it was that Dom was into. This was weed, and although it’s not a big deal now, it certainly was then. And, I hate to say it, but I also happened to have some other drugs in my purse that would have made CD’s no-no list had he kept it up to date. I had to use every ounce of self-control I had left in my body to avoid glancing at the purse, which was right there on the passenger seat. If I allowed just one flutter of an eyelash to tilt over in its direction, I would have been doomed. Such a look would have been the sort of self-sabotaging giveaway that separates the successful people from the losers of the world. Instead, I concentrated on holding the cop’s gaze and trying not to shift my eyes in any direction whatsoever.

He shined his flashlight through the open window, ignoring the purse and focusing instead on me. I felt exposed for the phony I was. He stared at me long and hard, and he seemed to be thinking or recalling something from his past. Did he know me? He looked a little like everyone I had grown up with but no one person in particular.

What do you think you’re looking at, I wanted to say, but I knew what he was seeing. In the halo of his Maglite sat a displaced woman in designer business-casual clothing who happened to have a joint dangling from her lips. Wearing that sort of Saks get-up in Park City always made me feel like I was playing dress up, as if I were an imposter who would at any moment be discovered for the loser she always was. Finally, the moment was here, the gig was about to be up, and it felt, oddly enough, liberating. Free from having to be the Girl or the Nerd or the Lawyer, or Jessica’s Sister or the One Who Would Make it Out (Who Did Make it Out), I could just be another shitty loser in this shitty town. It felt like failure, and it was fucking invigorating.

I tilted my head back, inhaled as deeply as I could, and through a blissful swirl of exhaling smoke, I whispered so softly that the officer had to lean his head into the car and over my pill-packed purse to hear: Don’t you know, I said, I’m an undercover prosecutor.

He smiled, shaking his head at my calm audacity. Then he laughed out loud in a boyish way that reminded me of CD in the old days, before his teeth started to go bad. Get rid of the drugs, he said.

I opened the driver’s side window and dropped what was left of the joint into the parking lot. He laughed again, Undercover prosecutor, he said under his breath, that’s a good one. To him, the truth was funny. He didn’t see things the way they really were, not the way CD’s dead brother used to, not the way I was starting to.

Now get the hell out of here, he said.

I’m trying. I’m fucking trying.



BIO

Melissa Or crafts fiction that gives voice to the small, unspoken stories that exist beneath life’s many silences. Her characters both belong and do not belong. They are outsiders, whether in their own countries, their own families, or their own minds. She is writing a novel and a collection of short stories. 

Artwork: Image by McZ







No Toe in the Water

by Patricia Ann Bowen



Mom, my sister Rachel, and I boarded the Zurich Flughafen train to Forch in northern Switzerland, accompanying our mother to end her own life by her own hand in her own pragmatic way. Here we were, on foreign land, on a mission to an even more foreign one, minus our brother who “couldn’t get away” from his law firm, much as we’d all expected, as he’d never had a good relationship with our headstrong mother, even as a likewise headstrong child.

Though nearly ninety, our mother wasn’t as frail as people decades younger, and she’d remained more frugal than most. Raised in New England by German immigrant parents, she told us our family members had certain values stamped on their birth certificates, and low-cost public transportation fit right in with those sensibilities. Besides, she loved trains. We all did. She used to take us as children on Amtrak from Boston to Montreal where we toured the zoo and the flower shows, and on the way she’d have us follow along on an unwieldy paper map spread across the table between our bench seats, pointing out each town and site of interest.

The economical train ride we were on now was the last leg of her last trip.

We helped her manage the short walk from the train station to the three-room apartment arranged by Dignified Dying, the association that assisted folks like us with all the details for such procedures. We gained access to the accommodation with a door code, programmed to the year Mom was born, 1936, so we wouldn’t forget it. The place was one cut above spartan, at least by American standards, but comfortable. A small open living room/kitchenette combination, a guest room with twin beds, and a room where my mother would self-administer her cocktail of lethal drugs. Hers held a queen bed covered with overstuffed down pillows and an equally overstuffed off-white duvet surrounded by four high-backed wooden chairs with green seat cushions. A sideboard held candles, drinking glasses, notepads, and pens.

A medical assistant came by minutes after we arrived, along with a volunteer who turned out to be a student working toward her degree in Social Psychology. They were pleasant and patient as they helped us unpack and settle in while we endured a final round of verbal legalisms and paperwork. In their presence, we met on Zoom with the prescribing physician, one of the same ones Mom had Zoomed with from her home back in the States. It was late morning by the time our guardians left, and we had forty-four more hours to spend with our mother because she had forty-four more hours remaining in her life.

–  –  –

Mom had invited Rachel and me to her home for brunch on a fragrant early spring morning six months ago. After the hazelnut coffee, avocado toast, and carrot muffins were consumed, but for one more cup of coffee out on the deck of her condo, while robins and wrens conversed in the nearby trees, she asked us to help her die with dignity. She said each year her world was getting smaller, she’d outlived all of her siblings and cousins… everyone who’d known her “when”, each year her body allowed her less and less choice of what she was able to do, and every year she added at least one new medical specialist to the roster of physicians approved by her insurance provider.

“This year’s is a neurologist,” she said, “and her diagnostic gift for me is Parkinson’s. So I want to put a stop to this, get it over with. You both know I’m not like those dainty ninnies who step into the swimming pool one toe at a time, making their whole body tremble again and again with each caress of deeper water. I’d rather jump in all at once, immerse myself in the reality. I prefer to ‘just do it.’”

Mom told us she’d been researching assisted dying for the past few years. We knew that her dearest friend, Sydelle, had wanted that way out and enlisted a nurse friend to help her when the time came. When it did come, the nurse friend reneged, and Sydelle sunk into sadness, sedentariness, and senility, claiming to all who would hear her that she was just waiting… waiting to die. “That won’t be me,” Mom said. “I won’t let it. I want to go to Switzerland, be one of those suicide tourists, and I want the two of you to help me.”

“That isn’t funny,” I said. “How can you joke about dying?”

“She’s not joking, Rose,” Rachel said. “She’s being Mom. I can’t say that I agree with what she’s asking us to do. I have to think it through. But I don’t want to see the dark future she’s projecting for herself any more than she does.”

“No, it’s too much to ask, Mom. I can’t help you kill yourself.” Tears were flooding my eyes.

“But you can watch me go further downhill every time you see me?” She locked her hands onto the arms of her chair, leaned forward, glared at me, and raised her voice like she was talking to a recalcitrant child. “Is that about you or about me? Do I have to live a life of increasing misery because you want me to?” She wagged a finger at me and laughed. “Bad girl.”

“You know she’s right,” Rachel said. “If you won’t help her, I will. But I think you should. And Robert, too. This is more than Mom’s issue; we should all own it.”

“That’s sweet of you, dear. I knew if anyone would see things my way it would be you.”

Oh, her little digs. I loved my mother dearly, but she had a way of trashing my feelings with her offhand remarks. My sister played her much better than I did, maybe because she had a few more years’ experience as her daughter.

“I mean it, Mom,” Rachel said. “I’ll help. I’ll track down Geraldine Frisch. You remember her, my old marketing professor at AU in Geneva. We’ve stayed in touch off and on over the years and I know she helped her sister, who had ALS, process the Swiss legal and medical approvals.”

“Thank you. I’d like that. And speaking of Robert, I invited him here, but I’m glad he couldn’t make it,” Mom said. “He’d start talking like a lawyer, trying to convince me, in his own so eloquent way, that the doctors in this great state in this great country know better than I about my inalienable human rights.”

I laughed through my tears, despite the grim topic. I couldn’t help it. She’d imitated her son’s voice and gestures to a T. She knew him so well. How sad for her, for all of us, that they weren’t closer, weren’t there for each other. I’d have to call him. It was only fair that he knew what our mother’s plan was. Despite her disdain for his logic, I felt he could help me come to terms with her decision … or not.

–  –  –

It was 7:05 am. Time.

Rachel and I lay on either side of our mother, she under the duvet and we on top.

Two staff members from Dignified Dying were present to witness Mom’s death. They set up a long thin metal tripod with a digital recorder to document the procedure for legal liabilities.

I asked Mom, “Is it okay if I get under the covers with you? I want to feel the warmth of your body, end to end, one last time.”

“I thought you’d never ask,” she replied, with an ear-to-ear smile that crinkled her eyes.

“Me, too,” Rachel said, and we both removed our shoes, stood up, lifted our side of the comforter, and slid underneath. I mused for a moment then got up, took off every stitch of my clothes, and repositioned myself underneath the covers again, under Mom’s left arm, my tummy to her left side, leg to leg. I didn’t care if the camera was rolling. I wanted to be as close to my mother as I could be. I wasn’t surprised when Rachel followed my lead on the other side.

I cried.  I perspired. I wanted to stop the clock. I wanted this not to be happening. I wanted my mother to change her mind.

One of the assistants handed Mom a liquid emetic to drink so she wouldn’t barf the final drug. While it took effect, Rachel, Mom, and I spent the next thirty minutes whispering about our newest family members, her first great-grandchildren, and about the world she hoped they’d grow up in. I’d thought about recording her final words on my phone, but we all decided to eschew technology at that moment. There was enough of it in the room already.

Then the other assistant had a second glass in hand with 15 grams of powdered pentobarbital dissolved in water. “Would you like a straw, Emily?” she asked in a warm German-accented voice.

“No, thank you.”

“Are you ready?” the assistant asked.

Mom kissed Rachel on the cheek and said, “I love you”, and then me. “And be sure to give Robert my note,” she added. Finally, she looked up and told the woman, “I am now.”

“Will you drink this voluntarily?”

“I will.”

“Here you are, then.”

She drank it all. Took our hands and squeezed them. In a minute her eyes fluttered. In ten more it was over, the camera dismantled. In fifteen more my sister and I left our mother’s side, dressed, and sat with her until her body was taken away.

–  –  –

Rachel and I closed up the apartment and erased the door code per the instructions in the Dignified Dying Guidelines for Family and Friends. We were allowed to stay there a few more days, but the place was like an emotional morgue. We moved to the Hotel Alexander Zurich to await the final package of paperwork along with Mom’s cremains. After we settled in, Rachel called our brother, waking him on purpose at some ungodly hour, and told him it was over. He informed her he’d spoken with Mom before she left for the airport, but we didn’t know whether to believe him or not. It didn’t matter. It didn’t change anything.

The Alexander is in Old Town Zurich, in the German-speaking section of Switzerland, on the banks of the Limmat River, and a five-minute walk from the train station that would take us back to the airport. Our mother wanted her ashes scattered to the winds so, as she put it, “what’s left of me will find many new homes in the universe.” The broad Limmat was perfect for such a mission, so after a late dinner on our final night in the city, Rachel and I packed ourselves a thermos of strong Cabernet and strolled the bridge across from our hotel. Every few steps we’d pause, sip, and discreetly pour a small cup of Mom’s ashes into the rushing water while reciting a memory of her.

“She went out the way she wanted. No fuss. No frills.” I said, poured a cupful of Mom into the river, and sipped.

“She and Dad had such high hopes for Robert, and he fulfilled every one of them. Too bad it didn’t bring lasting happiness for any of them.” Rachel poured a cup.

“She was a better dancer than all of us combined, including Robert. I loved watching her and Dad on the dance floor at our weddings. Their moves. The looks in their eyes. I still miss him. And now I’m missing both of them.” I poured a cup.

“She was the best cook. Potato pancakes. Carrot cake. Lamb couscous.” Rachel poured a cup.

… and so on and so on.

We ran out of ashes before we ran out of memories. But we had one more thing to do while we drank the dregs of our thermos. We sat down on a bench at the end of the bridge and took out a slip of vellum from the unsealed envelope with “ROBERT” printed on its front. She’d left a message for each of us, unsealed, I guess so we could read all the others, so we had. His read:

My dear, dear son,

You will find the things I want you to know, if you care to know them, in the journals I’ve kept off and on for the past sixty years. They are on a shelf under my desk. You can’t miss them.

I have always loved you in my own way, and I know you loved me in yours.

Mother

Back at the hotel, we got a special delivery envelope from the concierge, put the now-sealed vellum inside it, and addressed it to our brother.



BIO

Patricia Ann Bowen is the author of a medical time travel trilogy, a short story collection about people in challenging circumstances, and a serialized beach read. Her short stories have appeared in several anthologies and most recently in Mystery Tribune, Chamber Magazine, Idle Ink, Unlikely Stories, and Commuterlit.com.

She’s taught short story writing, and she leads a critique group of short story writers for the Atlanta Writer’s Club. She divides her time between the burbs in Georgia and at the beach in South Carolina, has four sons, grandkids all over the world, and two cats in the yard. You can connect with her at www.patriciabowen.com







If They Can’t See the Light, Make Them Feel the Heat

by L. L. Babb

 

           John Taylor spent the first hours of Saturday morning the same way he spent every Saturday when it wasn’t raining. At eight he mowed and edged his perfect square of lawn. Between 8:30 and 9 he hunted for signs of the oxalis that threatened a shady corner of the yard. After eradicating any sign of weeds, he decapitated the marigolds in the pots on the porch. Finally, he swept the walkways and stepped back to admire his work. Taylor always liked the way the lawn appeared to have just received a basic training haircut, each blade of grass chewed and standing at attention. He imagined the ravaged marigolds thanking him for his tough love.

            Now he heard the interior of the house begging for its weekly beating—the carpets, the toilets, the sheets and towels—all in a chorus. He would get to them in due time.

            He went inside, sat down on the couch, tipped his head back on the cushions, and closed his eyes. To be clear, this was not a nap. John Taylor did not take naps. Naps were for children or the elderly and though nearly sixty, Taylor did not consider himself either. He was simply going to sit for one moment before he continued his chores. A breeze puffed through the living room window blowing in curtains as sheer as tissue paper. The next-door neighbor was trimming his hedge with electric clippers. Taylor listened to the sound of the metal teeth gnawing through the branches, the drone rising and falling.

            He dreamed he was on his favorite forklift lifting an oddly shaped box and fitting it like a puzzle piece into an oddly shaped slot on a shelf high above his head. At the edge of his vision, he saw his ex-wife flitting down the warehouse aisle towards him. She was barefoot and bare-legged, the puddling white skin of her midsection draped in gauzy, multi-colored scarves. Taylor shut off his forklift. He felt a familiar bubble of exasperation rise in his throat. What did she think she was doing coming to his place of business dressed like this? He instinctively realized that this nonsense–her dancing and twirling, this loopy exhibitionism–was the result of their divorce. Without his steadying influence, she’d gone off the deep end as he always feared she would. He reached out to grab her arm but she skipped away from him, brushing his face with the trailing scarves, a filmy gauntlet thrown down, then she disappeared around the end of the aisle towards the shipping/receiving dock. Taylor sighed and trudged after her. He considered calling her name but he barely dared acknowledge that he knew her. At the same time, he felt a profound ache behind his sternum, an unwelcome joy at the sight of her.

            The doorbell rang. Taylor fought off the curtains blowing in over his face and struggled awake. He had a fleeting thought as the dream dissolved around him that it might be Emily at the door. He massaged his chest for a second as if trying to manipulate his heart.

            The doorbell sounded again. “Just a minute, just a minute,” Taylor said.

            A young man stood on the front step. At first Taylor thought it might be one of those school kids selling overpriced candy but noticed that this guy had a serious five o’clock shadow. Taylor couldn’t tell the difference between teenagers and adults anymore. Heck, sometimes couldn’t tell the difference between men and women. This fellow wore baggy shorts and a tee shirt proclaiming “ORGASM DONOR.” His baseball cap was on backwards but Taylor could see the shaved head underneath. Taylor disapproved of shaved heads on young men.

            “Hi,” the young man said. “I’m your neighbor in the house behind you.” He nodded his head, took a step back, and said, “Lance.”

            “Taylor,” he said. He didn’t offer his hand to the guy. What kind of person wore a shirt like that in front of a stranger? In front of anyone?

            “My wife and I bought the place a couple of months ago.” Lance shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “You know that storm that knocked out the electricity for a couple of days? That’s the weekend we moved in. Lousy timing but it wasn’t like we had any choice. I mean, when you give your notice at one place and escrow closes on the other, you gotta go when you gotta go. You know what I mean?”

            “No,” Taylor said, bristling at the phrase “you gotta.” The divorce lawyer Taylor had hired and who had threatened to pull representation (and keep the hefty retainer) each time Taylor refused to relinquish one more thing to his wife, said “you gotta” a lot.

            “Okay,” the young man said. “Well, the back fence between our yards is falling down.”

            Taylor hesitated. He hadn’t been in his backyard in over a year. It had been Emily’s special place the way the garage was his. She had loved gardening. She crammed in wrought iron benches, a birdbath, hummingbird feeders, gates and gnomes and trellised arches. She had one bed of flowers planted exclusively to attract butterflies, another for cut flowers. Center stage in the middle of all this chaos was four topiary bushes Emily had been training to look like a family of giant, knee-high squirrels. She wasted a lot of time with those squirrels, clipping them, talking to them like they were her children. Perhaps they were, in a way. Taylor and Emily had met and married in their mid-forties, too late to start a family. Which was fine with Taylor. He didn’t really care for kids. They were disruptive and destructive.

            He hated the fussy, high-maintenance plants that Emily had chosen for her garden. It was just like her to find the messiest trees and flowers. Camellias fell off the bush and covered the ground like a bunch of soggy debutants the morning after a ball. A droopy Japanese tree dropped millions of curled, green leaves the size of fingernail clippings. The topiary squirrels grew together into a conspiratorial huddle that Taylor felt uncomfortable turning his back on.

            When the divorce was final, after he had to give Emily money for half of his own house, Taylor rented a tractor. He tore everything out of the backyard, smoothed down the dirt, and filled the yard from fence line to fence line with concrete. While he was doing it—hacking down the delicate Japanese maple, tipping over the birdbath, attacking those damn squirrels with a chainsaw—he felt a surge of righteous vengeance. But shortly after the concrete had set, all the anger just rushed out of him. He was overcome with a combination of shame and fear, as if something deep inside of him had been yanked out and exposed, unfurling and flapping like a banner that proclaimed his true, small self.

            Now as Taylor led the neighbor down the front steps and along the narrow side yard, it was as if a strong current was pushing him from behind. He felt his face getting hot. There was nothing to be ashamed of, he told himself. He could do whatever he wanted with his damn yard. He didn’t need to justify anything to anyone.  

            Lance didn’t appear to notice the flat grey moonscape. The fence was indeed falling down. Two eight-foot sections leaned over into Taylor’s yard, the dog-eared planks gaping. Taylor reached down and grabbed the top of the fence and tried to push it back upright, as if the problem were merely a matter of balance. The top of the board broke off in a splintery chunk in Taylor’s hand.

            Lance let out a low whistle of astonishment. “Man, that fence is toast.”

            “Now, let’s not jump to conclusions,” Taylor said, annoyed. He had lived with this fence for twenty years. What right did this guy have to judge? Taylor could see over the leaning fence into Lance’s yard. There was a new deck, a table with chairs and an umbrella, and a complicated-looking stainless-steel barbeque. Terra cotta pots overflowing with impatiens were arranged across the yard in orchestrated casualness. He turned to look at his own yard. His house rose like a stucco battleship looming over a sea of concrete.

            “I called a guy I know.” Lance pulled a folded slip of paper from his shorts pocket. “New redwood planks, posts, labor, everything comes to $2,500.00. That’s $1,250.00 apiece.”

            Taylor studied the fence, hackles rising. It wasn’t the money that bothered him so much as the principle. Emily used to ambush him like this when she wanted something. She’d start out sweet, let’s just have a look-see, merely window shopping, not really in the market today and then the next thing he knew she’d be raising her voice, waving Consumer Reports, enlisting some slime-ball salesman to bolster her case. “What principle?” Emily would say. “What possible principle could you hold relating to—” and here Taylor could fill in the blank. A better dishwasher. A set of dinner dishes that matched. Refinishing the hardwood floors.

            The sliding glass door to Lance’s house slid open and an attractive woman picked her way along the new deck and across a zig-zagging line of stepping stones. A pink sweater hung from her shoulders, the sleeves tied around her neck. When she got to the fence, she smiled at Taylor. “Hi,” she said, with a quick wave of her hand. “I’m Avril,” a name that Taylor judged as simultaneously odd yet familiar, like the kind of name they gave to new cars.

            “John Taylor,” Taylor said, nodding his head.

            “How’s it going out here?” she asked. “Have we got everything all worked out? Honey, did you show him your research? The estimate we received? If you write out a check today, Lance can call someone this afternoon. I really need to have this fence repaired by next weekend.”

            Apparently, Taylor had been dealing with a subordinate. Now that his wife was there, Lance stared at his feet. Lance was obviously the kind of guy who had to be prodded into doing the simplest of tasks. It was sad what young women were settling for these days. Taylor had been a great husband. He always took care of the important issues—Emily hadn’t had to worry about a thing. Taylor imagined she was kicking herself for divorcing him. She had squandered him away like an unearned inheritance.

            Taylor watched the wife’s eyes flicker over his own bare yard. He wanted to tell her that he was better than his backyard, she should come around to the front porch, have a glass of ice tea. Instead, he heard himself say, “Actually, I think I’ve got everything we need to…fix the… ” He lost the will to continue halfway through then forced himself to push forward, “…the fence…in my garage.” What Taylor had in his garage was a pegboard of gleaming power tools that he didn’t like to get dirty, each one outlined with a black sharpie so that Taylor could tell at a glance if something was missing, a half bag of quick setting cement, and a jar of recycled nails that he had pulled from some old pallets he was going to use for firewood.

            “Really?” the wife said. “Why, that would be fantastic, wouldn’t it, Lance?” She gazed at Taylor with such grateful admiration that he was afraid he might blush.

            “Well, sure,” Taylor said. What was he doing? It was as if he had been bewitched by this woman whose name he had already forgotten. Sally? Abby? Aspirin? Aspirin couldn’t be right. He ho-hoed, continuing helplessly. “With Lance’s assistance, we can bang this out tomorrow.”

            “What? I was going to watch football,” Lance whined. “I’m not good at this stuff. We need to hire someone.”

            “You’re not good at it because you never try,” Mrs. Lance said. “I think this is just wonderful. I’m always in favor of saving money.” She turned towards Taylor and cocked her head conspiratorially. “Lance might learn a few things.”

            Taylor felt buoyant with benevolence. He had once felt this way with his ex-wife. How Emily had looked up to him when they first started dating! Emily had been, in Taylor’s opinion, a mess—expired tags on her car, no health insurance, a lukewarm credit score. She took his coat the first time she invited him over to her apartment and threw it over a pyramid of clothes on the living room couch. Plastic garbage bags full of recycling leaned three-deep against the cabinet doors in the kitchen. She was 46 and had a brand-new tattoo of Marvin the Martin peeking over the top of her tank top, right over her left breast. She wasn’t his type at all but after that night in her apartment, when Taylor offered to take the black bags of cans and bottles to the recycling center downtown, Emily had gazed at him with such gratitude it made his heart full. He had believed he could make her happy with so little effort. Looking back, he thought he must have lost his mind.

            Sunday morning, Taylor filled a wheelbarrow—two hammers, a trowel, a saw, the bag of cement, and a plastic bucket to mix the cement in. He had slipped off to the hardware store when it opened at seven and bought two lengths of pressure treated wood. The neighbors didn’t need to know that he did not, in fact, have everything in his garage to fix the fence. He tucked the receipt in his shirt pocket.

            He was pulling nails and taking down the old planks when Lance showed up on his side of the fence at 10 am. “What’s the plan, man?” Lance asked. He held a paper cup from one of the new coffee shops on the main street of town, the one jam-packed with people gazing at their cell phones. He probably had paid more than $5.00 for a cup of coffee. Taylor wondered if Lance’s wife approved of that kind of nonsense.

            “Most of the boards are fine.” Earlier, Taylor had determined that the rot was confined primarily to the edges of each board. The centers were good, solid redwood. A little green in places, a bit unsightly, but still strong. “We’ll trim the rotten parts and reuse these.”

            Lance looked at him with the blank face of a straight man waiting for the punch line. He took a sip of his coffee. “Then the fence would only be about four feet high. We will see right over the top of it.”

            “Well, I wasn’t finished,” Taylor said. “We’re going to nail these two-by-twelves along the bottom and use the existing boards for the top. Not a problem.”

            “I dunno, that sounds kind of janky to me,” Lance said. “Half of the fence will be horizontal and the rest of the planks vertical? Dude, I can’t even picture what you are talking about.” He pursed his lips and sucked at the lid of his coffee. Taylor wanted to smack him.

            “You got a better idea?”

            “Oh, I had a much better idea but you shot it down yesterday.”

            “Right,” Taylor said. He grabbed the bucket and the bag of cement. “When you’re done moaning, you can pull off the rest of the boards.”

            The job took all day. The quick setting cement was not as quick as Taylor remembered and the salvaged boards were more damaged than he first thought. By the end of the afternoon, when Taylor stepped back to judge the finished project, the result looked more like someone’s patchwork quilt hanging on a clothesline than it did a fence. Boards went horizontally and vertically, and up towards the top corners, there were spots where Taylor had hammered on small pieces of wood that overlapped crazily like some kind of collage.

            “Hoo boy,” Lance called over from his yard. “This is some piece of shit.” Mid-afternoon, Lance had switched from coffee to beer. When Taylor peered over the top of the fence, Lance waggled a can at him. “I don’t want to be around when Avril gets home and gets a load of this.”

            Taylor hefted his hammer in his hand, trying to store AVRIL in a readily accessible corner of his brain. She appeared to be the kind of person who appreciated frugality and functionality. So what if it wasn’t a work of art? It was a fence. She would be pleased with the work and the money saved. She could plant a tree or a bush in front of the parts she didn’t like.

            “I’ll drop a note by with your share of the expenses,” Taylor said, filling his wheelbarrow with his tools.

            The following evening after work, Taylor sat down at the kitchen table and itemized the cost of the repairs. He wrote down the amount he had paid for the wood then estimated the cost of the cement and the nails in his jelly jar. Bent or not, they had used every last one of them and they would need to be replaced. He adjusted the half bag of cement for inflation since it was several years old and the price had surely increased since he bought it. He estimated the hours he’d spent pulling and straightening the used nails from the old pallet plus the time he had actually spent repairing the fence, and multiplied that by his hourly rate at work. He thought about adding a rental fee for the wheelbarrow and the bucket but dismissed that idea.

            He got up and filled a glass of water from the tap. Should he really charge for pulling the nails? He would have done that whether the fence needed fixing or not. He sat back down and crossed it off the list. He thought about …Advil…looking at the list. He took out the inflation for the bag of cement. It still looked so petty, $12 for this, $48 for that. He removed his hourly pay. He crumpled up the paper and wrote down a flat amount. Then he halved it. Advil would shake her head in wonder. She would be amazed that someone could do such a fine job for such a small amount of money. She was the kind of neighbor he thought he might be friends with. He might even get used to Lance. Teach him stuff. He halved the number once more. $17.50. It was a ridiculously low figure and Taylor was tempted to adjust it up a little, just to make it more believable, then stopped himself. Advil would understand that this was a gift.

            And honestly, he didn’t want anything but her appreciation. And the $17.50.

            Taylor wrote the amount on a new piece of paper with “Fence Repair” and a smiley face next to it. He had never used a smiley face before but he felt this was a situation that warranted it. They were neighbors. Friendly. Taylor put the paper in an envelope and took a stroll around the block to leave the note in the Lance’s mailbox.

            He half expected the money to be in his own mailbox when he got home on Tuesday evening but it wasn’t. What had he been thinking? They couldn’t very well leave cash in his mailbox. Perhaps they planned to walk over later. He watched television that night well past his regular bedtime, leaving the porchlight on so they could see he was awake and available.

            Wednesday night, Taylor wrote the figure on another piece of paper, minus the smiley face, and signed his name at the bottom. “Your neighbor, John Taylor.” Now they had a choice of dropping by the cash or a check. This time he took the note to the front door in case it had gotten lost in the mailbox the first time. He thought he could hear voices when he knocked but no one answered. He slipped the note under the door.

            By Friday evening, he still hadn’t heard from the Lances. Taylor went out into the backyard to check on the fence. Perhaps it had fallen down again. Maybe something else was wrong. Maybe one of them had gotten sick or been in a car accident. In the grey light of the moon the fence looked as formidable as the face of a cliff, complete with outcroppings and toe holds.

             Taylor heard the back door to the Lance’s house slide open with a groan. Now he could hear people in their yard, voices and laughter and something else, ice rattling inside a plastic cooler. A champagne cork, a pop, more laughter. He reached up and grabbed the top of the fence to peek over. It felt sturdy, thicker than he remembered. Was there something propped up against it on their side? He couldn’t tell in the dark. He went back and got his stepladder from the garage, unfolded it against the fence, and stood on the first rung. Yes, there was something there, a solid piece of redwood against the fence that he had built. He climbed the second rung and peered down. Another piece of wood next to that—a whole row of dog-eared planks, screwed in and freshly stained, supported by the fence he had sweated over and paid for.

            It took Taylor’s breath away. The disrespect. The audacity of it.

            There was Lance holding court at his sissy barbeque, swinging a beer in the air, flanked by a couple of guys just like him. A trio of t-shirt wearing, baseball-hatted imbeciles. There were strands of white Christmas lights hung from the house, crisscrossing back and forth over the deck. Lance waggled his spatula in the air—king of his backyard. That little shit. Advil floated out of the house as if on wings, carrying a plate in one hand, shoulder high, stopping by one seated woman, dipping her head to listen, to nod, laugh.

            Taylor ducked down, crouching on the step ladder. They were having a party! They had used his fence to make a better fence and now they were having a party. They owed him money and instead of paying him for his time and his materials and his knowledge and the use of his tools, they had given money to someone else to make his fence look better and they were having a party that he had not been invited to. Did they think he wouldn’t notice? Were they deliberately having a party to mock him? A man laughed and Lance tittered and Taylor knew that Lance was probably telling everyone about the fence and the money and how they had used him, taken him for a fool. Because he was a fool. An old fool.

            Wasn’t this always what happened when you tried to help someone? Wasn’t this the story of his life? What did Emily do as soon as Taylor had gotten her affairs all straightened out? After he’d given her his good name, shared his outstanding credit score, put her on his car insurance with his good driving discount, rendered unto her his knowledge and expertise and guidance? She’d left him, of course, left him flat. And what had he gotten out of that marriage? Nothing. No, hell, less than nothing. He’d lost money, lost time, almost lost his home.

            Taylor folded up his stepping stool and brought it back to the garage, placing it carefully in its usual spot. Later, he would acknowledge, if only to himself, that this was the moment when the trajectory of the evening might have gone a different way. It was hard to see those particular moments when standing in the middle of a lifetime. The thought of being able to forget it, to just let it go, nudged at a corner of his mind, but quickly disappeared. He reached for the six neatly bundled stacks of newspapers sitting on the recycle bin. He loaded the newspapers into the wheelbarrow and added the pieces of broken-down pallets he had carefully pulled the nails from. As he propped the pallet pieces on top of the newspapers to make teepees against the fence, he heard the party pitching up. Lance was singing.

            This was his fence. He could do anything he wanted with his own fence. They hadn’t paid one dime for it.

            He went into the kitchen, retrieved a pack of matches from the junk drawer, and grabbed the full gas can as he passed through the garage again. He doused the newspapers with the gasoline, emptying the can. He lit a match, and touched the flame to the paper. It caught then fizzled and Taylor was in the process of striking another match when there was a whoosh that pulled the air out of his lungs. The newspapers, drenched with gasoline, the rotten wood, and the stain-soaked redwood planks, ignited into a wall of orange and blue flames ten feet high. A woman screamed. Someone shouted. Taylor was driven back to the wall of his house.

            Taylor could only cower and shield his eyes from the bright light. The singeing heat, the acrid smell of chemicals, and a deafening roar consumed the night sky. Shadows danced over the concrete making Taylor’s backyard look alive. In the spot where the Japanese maple had been, a tiny eddy of black smoke rose up and reached wispy tendrils towards him like a ghost beckoning. He remembered planting that tree, its new branches and leaves wrapped in a burlap turban, Emily watching as he dug the hole. That had been a fine day in early spring. Emily feared that the sun might burn the new growth so Taylor brought out a beach umbrella to protect the tree after it was in the ground. He and Emily gazed down at the pathetic thing, its thin trunk quivering. Without him, the tree would have died that first year. Now it was gone forever. Wasn’t that the way of everything you cared about?

            It was raining. Or no, someone on the other side of the fence was spraying water. Lance must be using the garden hose. It would never occur to Lance that the fresh redwood stain on their side of the fence was oil based. “You’re making it worse, you idiot,” Taylor called. In the distance, he could hear sirens and he thought he might go back inside and let someone else take over. Why did he always have to be the one to fix everything?

            He felt a massive weight pressing down on him, so heavy and unrelenting that it was hard to get to his feet. This was his burden—all this great knowledge, his common sense, the resolve to do things the right way versus the wrong way, his sense of duty. Wearily, he headed back to the garage to get the fire extinguisher from its place on the pegboard. He didn’t want to use it. He’d have to pay to replace it once it was activated. He was always the one to pay, he thought. Always.



BIO



L. L. Babb has been a teacher for the Writers Studio San Francisco and on-line since 2008. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming at the Peatsmoke Journal, Cleaver, the San Francisco Chronicle, the MacGuffin, Good Life Review, and elsewhere. She received a special mention in the 2022 Pushcart anthology for her short story, “Where Have You Been All Your Life.” Lorraine lives deep among the trees of Forestville, CA, with her husband Cornbaby Johnson, dog Smudge, and cat Cosmo.







Free Termite Inspections

by Hillary Tiefer



            During the time when the landline telephone was a powerful money-making tool, I took a job working at Burbank Pest & Termite Control as a telemarketer. I must’ve frowned after the woman at the temp agency defined my duties because she pointed out that my lack of secretarial skills made me qualified for little else. I needed the money and assured myself this job was only for the summer. In the fall I’d be starting a Master’s program in English at UCLA.

            On the Monday morning after Independence Day, I parked my Chevy Impala a block away from the office on Burbank Boulevard. It was in a squat brick building with a dirty and empty display window. My mother had told me it used to be a dress shop.

            When I opened the door and entered, a man in his thirties greeted me, offering his hand for me to shake. “Hi, I’m Gary,” he said. He wore a well-ironed button-down shirt tucked into slacks—the type of clothes my father used to wear to work as an accountant.

            “I’m Ellen,” I said, keeping it on a first name basis.

            He pointed to his partners sitting behind desks, both also looking to be in their thirties. They were more casually dressed in t-shirts and jeans. Gary introduced me first to Hank, who was heavyset and had an Elvis Presley’s hairstyle, with brown sideburns that swooped toward his chin. He gave me a nod. The other he introduced as Roger, who was roughly handsome with stubble on his cheeks and a rusty tan. He smiled at me and said, “Nice to know you, Ellen.”

            Soon a girl arrived who announced she was ready to make calls. She had stringy blond hair and wore a tie-dyed t-shirt over bell bottom jeans. I, on the other hand, wore my most conservative clothes: a pink jersey top over white linen pants, not quite so flared on the bottom. White probably wasn’t a wise choice for this place.

            “Let me introduce you both,” Gary said, “You’re on the same team.” He pointed at each of us and said, “Ellen, Sally.”

            The girl grinned at me. I noted that she was about my age, in her twenties. I assumed she, like me, was only here for the summer and in the fall would pursue a more promising profession.

            “I want you both to know your job is a vital one and we’re depending on you,” Gary said as if he were the coach of a football team—we were teammates, after all. “As telemarketers,you girls are going to contribute to making this firm a success. In other words, me and my partners expect you both to make us rich. There are plenty of termites in San Fernando Valley and we aim to destroy all of them. We are very excited about our summer campaign. We expect you to put out a big effort.”

            Gary brought us to a small, dusty back room, which probably had been the storage room for the dress shop. On each end of a long table, which occupied most of the space, were a phone, thick phonebook, pad of paper, and pile of Bic pens. In a corner of the room was a tall pedestal fan, which he turned on.

            “Have a seat, girls,” he said. “Sally, you’re responsible for last names A to M and, Ellen, N to Z. Just call homes, no apartments or businesses. When they answer you tell them you’re with Burbank Pest & Termite Control and you’re offering a free termite inspection. Spice it up, of course. Remind them how important this is and what a great deal we’re offering—inspections are costly. If they agree, write down their name and number and tell them a man will call them soon with details. It’s simple as pie. Best of luck—we’re counting on you two.”

            He was about to leave but then stopped and said, “Unfortunately the plumbing isn’t working in the office bathroom. But all you have to do is go out the back door and enter Hank and Margie’s trailer. It’s okay to use theirs.”

            “I’ll show Ellen,” Sally said, obviously familiar with the place.

            He gave her a nod and left.

            “I can’t just barge into their house to use their bathroom,” I said.

            Sally let out a giggle. “They don’t care. I’m best buddies with Margie and I know she’s very laid back. Anyway, she’s gone a lot and so is her kid, Billy.”

            “You know everyone who works here?”

            “Mostly. Margie went to school with my sister, Carol. They used to hang out with each other all the time before Margie got pregnant and married Hank. They introduced me to Gary and his wife, Claire. I was so excited when this job opened up.” Then she grinned and her small hazel eyes sparkled. “I plan on getting friendly with Roger. He’s some hunk. He makes my heart go all crazy with flutters. Margie told me he’s available—he recently got divorced.”

            “Isn’t he too old for you?” I dared ask.

            “Not at all. I like older guys. In my opinion they’re sexier than younger guys.”

            I looked down to the closed telephone book and knew I had to open it. “It’s been nice talking to you but I guess we should get started.”

            She grinned. “I’m going to snag plenty of A’s today.”

            That word snag made me wince but I wished I had at least half of her enthusiasm for this job.

            I opened the phonebook to the beginning of the N’s and saw the last name Nader. As I began dialing, I viewed this person as more like a victim than a potential customer. I was relieved when no one answered. But the next one did, a woman who sounded out of breath. I began my short pitch about the free termite inspection.

            “Termite inspection! Is that the reason I ran out of the shower, soaking wet with only a towel around me? Damn you!” Then click.

            I looked toward Sally. She was happily writing on her pad.

            I had a few more calls, some angry, some polite but no one interested in a termite inspection.

            The time arrived for me to have to use the bathroom. I waited for Sally to finish her call then I followed her to the back door. She opened it and pointed to a trailer about ten feet away. I thanked her and crossed a path of crabgrass to the trailer.

            The main door was open—someone was home. I tapped on the screen door. A woman soon arrived and opened it for me. “Come on in,” she said. “I’m Margie.” She had platinum hair teased into a slope and wore thick black eye makeup, fake eyelashes, and glossy pink lipstick. She was plump but apparently had no qualms about revealing her arms in a sleeveless blouse and her legs in a denim miniskirt.

            “Hi, I’m Ellen. I’m the new telemarketer. I’m sorry to have to use your bathroom.”

            “Hey, no problem at all. Excuse the mess. I haven’t had time to clean up.” She pointed to a door in a hallway. “That’s the bathroom.” She placed a strap of her handbag over her shoulder. “I gotta run.” The screen door snapped shut behind her.

            The small living room and adjoining kitchen were appallingly messy. Dirty dishes were stacked in the sink. Crushed beer and soda cans lay sideways on a coffee table and a glass ashtray was piled high with cigarette butts. The room stank of cigarettes and rotting food, no doubt from the trash bag sitting on the kitchen counter. A man’s t-shirt was crumpled on an upholstered armchair near a television on a metal stand and by the chair was a pair of woman’s flipflops.

            I never let the apartment I shared with my boyfriend, Adam, get like this. Adam wasn’t as concerned about neatness as I was but he washed his dishes and tossed his laundry in a hamper. I wished he did more of his share of vacuuming and dusting but between his work at Bank of America and his rigorous studying of the law I couldn’t expect him to do much. This domestic job was mostly mine. It was the one trait my mother instilled in me. She was obsessive about cleanliness. Every time I visited her the house smelled of ammonia cleanser and every surface of furniture had a polished glean. Yet it seemed more like a set than a home since my father died, my brother, Jerry, moved to Illinois with his wife, and I left to join Adam in his apartment.

            No one ever bothered to clean this trailer. I had to brace myself for the bathroom.

            I entered and told myself to get my necessary function over with quickly. While I sat on the commode I faced a small table with a pile of Playboy magazines. The one on top was open to the centerfold. A nude blond-haired “bunny” lay sprawling before me. She had huge boobs—way bigger than mine. Thoughts about why it was so strategically placed there troubled me. I wanted to close the magazine but dared not touch it. I looked away, down to the grimy linoleum floor.

            At our noon lunch break, I ate my peanut butter and jelly sandwich and drank my Tab sitting by a round metal table shaded by a limp oak. It was across from the trailer and near a barbecue grill. After I finished eating, I removed my paperback copy of King Lear from my satchel. I was captivated by Shakespeare and probably would have pursued scholarship about the famous author had not so many others did so already. I opened to the page where I had placed a bookmark and read King Lear rant in the storm, “Unaccommodated man is no more but such a poor, bare, forked animal….” I stopped when I noticed Sally strutting toward me. She was sipping from a can of Coors.

            “Here you are,” she said. “I was looking for you.” She sat on a metal lawn chair next to mine. “What are you reading?”

            “King Lear. It’s very tragic but I’m loving it.”

            “I’m not into reading,” she said and sipped her beer. “I want to live my life and not spend my time reading about somebody else’s. So tell me about yourself, Ellen. You got a boyfriend?”

            “Yes, I do.”

            “Is it serious?”

            “Yes, we live together and when the time is right we’ll get engaged.”

            “That’s cool. I wish I had a boyfriend I could live with instead of with my mom and my stepdad who’s drunk most of the time. I dream of moving in with Roger. Of course we have to go on a date first. What do you both do for fun besides the obvious?”

            “Not much this summer. Adam is busy as a courier for Bank of America and also preparing for law school in the fall.”

            “Gee, that’s too bad. Everyone needs fun. You can always leave him home and join me and my friends on a Friday night. We hang out at Joey’s Saloon, about a mile up the boulevard. Sometimes guys pick us up. But you can stick around the bar if you’re so faithful to your boyfriend.”

            “Thanks for offering, but I’m also busy preparing for school. I’ll be in a Master’s program in English in the fall. It’ll be challenging.”

            She slowly shook her head. “I hated English. But I like sales. And I’m good at it.” She clapped her hands to applaud herself. “I grabbed two customers this morning. That’s darn good for making cold calls—from what I’ve been told. Of course, I heard my share of cussing—worse than what my stepdad says.” She sipped her beer.

            “I did too and I didn’t get anyone interested yet. Gary won’t like that.”

            She popped up. “Well, come on, girl. You’ve got to be pushier. Don’t take no for an answer.”

            After my first two phone calls with typically enraged people cursing at me and slamming down the phone, I heard a sweet but shaky voice answer, “Hello.” It was a woman who sounded like my grandmother, which meant she was probably in her eighties.

            I proceeded to recite my lines about a free termite inspection.

            “It’s so nice of you to call,” the woman said. “My name is Peggy. What’s yours, dear?”

            “Ellen.” I wanted to tell this sweet grandmotherly type she probably didn’t need the termite inspection and say good-by but the zealous worker, Sally, could overhear me and get me fired. I forced myself to say, “So, are you interested in the inspection?”

            “I suppose that’s a good idea. My husband, Bert, used to take care of the bugs but he passed away—it’s been three years now. I miss Bert. You would like him if you knew him. Everyone liked him.”

            “Yes, I’m sure I would.” I lowered my voice and said, “So maybe you don’t need a —-.”

            “You say the inspection is free?”

            “Yes, but —-.”

            “You sound like my granddaughter, Jennifer. I don’t see her much. She and my son and daughter-in-law live in Tustin. They don’t visit too often. Seems the traffic is getting so bad it’s tough for them to make the trip. It was back in February when I saw them last. Jennifer is a pretty girl and her brother, Brian, is a real cute boy. He loves to do all kinds of leaps on his skateboard. I’m afraid one of these days he’ll injure himself.”

            I was listening to her while my mind drifted away from the purpose of my call. Finally, it dawned on me to say, “I don’t suppose you want a —-.”

            “Oh, yes. It would be lovely to have that inspection. When will you come?”

            I asked for her full name and phone number and told her a man would return her call.

            “That’s wonderful,” she said. “I look forward to it.”

            I looked down at her name that I had scribbled on my pad. Peggy Nelson would be happy to get a phone call—any phone call and a visit from anyone. I felt no triumph.

***

            At five p.m. I left feeling weary from my work. I had had success twice on this day. Besides Peggy, a woman had said she was planning to sell her house in the near future so it was best to get the “termite issue over with”—as she had put it. Sally was grinning ear to ear as she followed me out the front door. She boasted having four “bites” that day.

            I decided to visit my mother before heading to our apartment in Van Nuys. Peggy triggered guilt in me. My mother often invited Adam and me to visit or for me to meet her for lunch or coffee and I usually came up with an excuse not to accept. The truth was I didn’t enjoy my mother’s company. I headed for North Hollywood, where she lived.

            I drove on a street I knew well, of modest houses with neatly mowed lawns, agapanthus shrubs, and skinny palm trees. I turned my Impala into the driveway of a beige stucco house with a red tile roof—what had been my home for years. I had grown up on this street. All of the neighborhood kids I knew had dispersed. Even Bobby, the boy who mowed our lawn for years, was gone, a soldier fighting in Vietnam. But most of their parents remained together living here and enjoying retirement. My father died in his early sixties of a stroke and now my mother lived alone in our house and depended on his life insurance.

            I opened the front door and shouted, “Mom, it’s me, Ellen.”

            She rushed in from the kitchen. She had put on weight since I had seen her last—just a few weeks earlier. I was afraid she spent most of her day cooking and eating. Her hair was different: from a wedge cut, dyed brown, to a tight perm and brassy orange. She saw me staring at her hair and slipped her fingers through the curls. “I know it’s different,” she said. “I felt I needed a change. Anyway, my beautician told me dark hair doesn’t look good on a woman when she gets older. It drains out the complexion. Besides, I decided if you can have lovely red hair so can I.” She cocked her head at me. “If I knew you were coming, I’d have made brisket—your favorite.”

            “I can’t stay for dinner. I thought I’d just drop by after work to say a quick hello.”

            “It’s been a while. Can you stay long enough for a cup of coffee? I made a bundt cake that’s delicious.”

            I wanted to tell her that she was baking too many cakes but restrained myself. Instead, I said, “Okay, sure.” I followed her into the kitchen. I sat on one of the four vinyl chairs with a green leaf pattern by the table with a faux marble top, where I had sat for years. I got a whiff of garlic and sauce bubbling from a pot on the stove.

            “I was in the mood for spaghetti and meatballs tonight,” my mother said. “Too bad you can’t stay.”

            I feared she ate too much spaghetti but I again restrained myself from saying that. “Thanks, but we have plenty of leftovers from the dinner I made last night. We don’t want them to go to waste.” That was a lie: like most evenings Adam and I made our separate dinners, with no leftovers, but we at least tried to eat together.

            “How’s your new job?” she asked while scooping coffee into the metal percolator basket.

            “Awful,” I said and brought a forkful of her bundt cake to my mouth. It was delicious and I was hungry.

            “You told me it has something to do with termite inspections. I can’t see you going to houses spraying poison.”

            I shook my head emphatically. “That’s not my job. I sit in an office and call people from a phonebook. I ask them if they want a free termite inspection.”

            “Calling people on a phone—I don’t like that at all,” she said. “I hang up on those people immediately. I resent them making me come to the phone and then trying to sell me something.”

            I thought about all the profanity hurled at me during the day and some were imaginative. “Yes, many hang up—and worse.”

            “Why do it then? It can’t bring in many sales.”

            “Actually, it does. And just one fumigation of a large house can cost a thousand dollars. Today a woman agreed to an inspection because she’s selling her house and another woman also wanted it.” I’d not say that this woman had wanted to hear a voice, wanted to see a face, wanted some company in her life. This could also be my mother. “Mom, don’t you think this house is too big to live in all alone? You should consider selling it. You’d probably like an apartment that has a swimming pool, where you can make friends.”

            She pouted. “I don’t want to give up this house, where we lived for so many years. Besides, the mortgage is paid off. And I do have friends—my mah jongg friends and my friends from Temple Adat Ari El. I recently joined the sisterhood, and we’ll be getting together soon to discuss a project for next Rosh Hashanah.”

            “I’m glad to hear it.”

            “It’s you I worry about,” she said as she poured coffee into a cup. She handed me the cup and a pint-sized container of half and half. “I hate to think of you doing a job like that.”

            “I tell myself it’s temporary,” I said and sipped the coffee. I relished it and hoped it would perk me up.

            She sat across from me and stared at me while frowning. She made no effort to lift her cup to drink. “I don’t like to butt in, sweetheart, but I think you should quit and get a better job, one you really like and, well, maybe want to keep for a while.”

            I forced myself to place my cup down gently. I knew what she meant and was furious. “I intend to go to grad school in the fall.”

            She grimaced. “That’ll be quite an expense. I wish I could help to pay for the tuition but being a widow without an income isn’t easy.”

            “I told you I have loans and I’m in a work-study program.”

            “Yes, but it will be so hard for you and Adam. If you got a decent job—after all you already have a college degree—you could marry earlier and in time Adam will finish law school. You’ll both be on Easy Street and you might even decide to start a family.”

            I shot up. “I intend to teach college English and that means I go to grad school!”

            She shrugged. “If that’s what you want. I hope you manage it.”

            I lifted my satchel. “I’m leaving.”

            As I bounded toward my car, I decided I’d not visit my mother again for a long time, maybe even months.

            When I entered our apartment, Adam was in the kitchen area next to the living room, opening a cardboard pizza box. He looked up at me. He was handsome with coffee brown hair and turquoise-blue eyes but now his upper lip curved into a snarl, making him look less appealing. “I had a shitty day so I decided to treat us to a pizza for dinner,” he said.

            “Great idea,” I said and dropped my satchel on the living room carpet and went to the refrigerator to retrieve sodas for the two of us. “Mine wasn’t so great either. I hated having to make calls to —-.”

            “I still can’t believe what happened,” he said, while lifting a piece of pizza dripping with cheese. “When I opened the van door a bag stuffed with peoples’ checks fell out and straight into the sewer. There was no way I could get the bag out of there so I had to report it to Pete. Some sewer guys had to go out there and get it. Pete was pissed.”

            “That’s awful,” I said realizing his day was worse than mine. “Let’s go sit at the table.”

            “Yeah, and tonight I’ve got to hit the books.” He slumped into a wobbly oak chair. “I hope I can stay focused.”

            “We need a break,” I said. Sally’s words came to mind. “On Saturday we should head out to Zuma Beach. It’s been a long time since we’ve gone to the beach—or anywhere for that matter.”

            “When do we really have time for a break, Ellen?” He bit into his pizza and while still chewing, he added, “Tort law is hell. I don’t know how I’ll remember any of it. I’ll be booted out the first year if I don’t get a handle on it.”

            This was Adam’s great fear. He had told me many times about the attrition rate for first year law students.

            One slice of the pizza was enough for me. I lifted my plate and headed to the sink. I was rinsing it when I felt nibble-like kisses on the back of my neck. Then Adam’s arms wrapped around my waist. “We manage to have fun right here in the apartment, don’t we?” he said by my ear.

            “Yes, we do,” I said softly.

***

            The following Friday, around four thirty Gary came into our back room and said, “Finish your last calls, girls, and come into the front office.”

            I had just finished a call with an irate woman who had said “there’s a place in hell for you,” then had slammed down the phone. Sally was done too and we left together. Hank and Roger, both sunburned, were sitting by their desks. They were sweaty and Hank’s wet t-shirt clung to his stomach like cellophane. They had apparently just returned from doing a tent fumigation for termites.

            Gary pointed to Sally and me. “We have these girls to thank for making us money.”

            The men grinned at us and clapped.

            Although I managed to get them some customers Sally brought in the most. Occasionally I had listened to her sales pitch: “Termites right now could be eating away at your wood floors, the wood frames holding your house together, and even your wood furniture. You don’t always see them. That’s why you need a termite inspection and right now you’re in luck—the inspection is free, an offer that won’t last long and let me tell you inspections can be pricey.” I should’ve copied her embellished approach but just couldn’t muster it.            

             “We are raking in the dough,” Gary said, beaming. “We got ourselves a real Jewish shop!” This was said with a fake Yiddish accent that made me sick. “We’re not Jews but we’re getting as rich as Jews!”

            Everyone laughed except me. I wanted to storm out, not tolerate this bigotry. But I remained stoically staring at him. I needed this job only a few more weeks until I began classes and a job on campus.

            “Let’s call it a day and head over to Joey’s Saloon to celebrate,” he said. “Burbank Pest Control will take the tab. And we should carpool there.”

            Sally was beaming and said, “Sure, I’m in.”

            Roger slipped off his desk and approached me. “Come with me, Ellen,” he said, smiling at me in a way that made me uncomfortable. “I’ll drive us. I’d like your company.”

            I turned to red-faced Sally, who was narrowing her eyes at me. I turned back to him. “Thanks, but I have to go home. But I’m sure Sally would like a ride.”

            He came closer and his calloused hand took mine. He said softly by my ear, “I only want to be with you.”

            “I’m sorry, Roger, but I have a boyfriend.”

            “Sure you do.” His lips sagged into a frown. Then he turned away and walked out the door.

            Hank rushed over to me, his nostrils flaring. “Roger has been suffering something awful since his wife left him,” he said. “You should run out there and be with him. He needs female company right now.”

            I took a step away from this man who smelled briny from sweat. He also scared me. “I’m sorry but I’m about to get engaged to my boyfriend.” I hoped that explanation would satisfy him.

            His blue eyes glared at me. “I bet you have no such commitment. I know your type. You think because you’re a nice-looking chick you can turn a guy down whenever you choose!”

            Sally took his arm and they left together in a huff. Both looked upon me as the enemy.

***

            On Monday morning Sally glowered at me as soon as she sat across from me at the long table. “I make most of the sales but you took just as much credit,” she said sharply.         “You said nothing while everyone was applauding the both of us.”

            I knew she meant one person in particular—Roger.

            I agreed she should take credit for this “real Jewish shop” and said, “I’ll make an announcement right now that the success is mostly yours.”

            I was about to stand and leave for the front office when she said, “Don’t bother. Hank and Roger aren’t even here. They already left for an inspection.” She flipped open her phonebook. “Thanks to me!”

            I opened my phonebook to the page of P’s and was about to dial the number of Martin Paterson when she said, “Margie told me Roger has a thing for redheads. You should’ve gone with him. No offense, but that boyfriend of yours cares more about his dumb law books than he does about you. I bet he just wants you around to, well, take care of his urges.”

            She obviously meant to be offensive and avoided me at lunch, where I sat as usual by the outside table. I removed my book and opened to the scene of the poor blinded Earl of Gloucester lamenting, “As flies to wanton boys are we to th’ gods;/They kill us for their sport.”  

            I shut the book and closed my eyes. I imagined I was at Zuma Beach, my bare feet enjoying the warmth of the sand. I walked into the foam of a breaking wave and enjoyed the cool water swirling around my ankles.

***

            I dutifully continued in my job, making calls, and occasionally providing Gary with a name of a potential customer. More often than not a termite fumigation followed. I couldn’t help but wonder if so many of those customers actually had a termite problem. If they didn’t, I was complicit in an unethical practice. Yet I did my best to discourage those I considered vulnerable. These chatty people let me know they lived alone.

            “Lester was the one to take care of bug problems,” said one woman. “But he’s left me for his receptionist. They were going to motels for three years while he told me he had to work late. I was stupid enough to believe him and felt bad he had to work such long hours. Meanwhile I enjoyed playing bridge and going shopping. I even felt guilty about it. But then one night when he came home around ten he said, ‘Gloria, I’ve been with another woman and it’s time for us to call it quits. I’m in love with Norma now.’” She sobbed into the phone. “Just like that he told me he wanted to end our marriage of twenty-two years and marry that whore who works in his office. She’s half his age.”

            “I’m so sorry,” I said. “You should consider dating.”

            “I feel too much of wreck right now to get myself out there again. It’s been so long since I dated last.” I heard her blow her nose. “So now tell me more about this bug inspection.”

            I lowered my voice and said, “I think you can wait on it.”

            “Sure, hon, thanks so much for listening.”

            There were more widows and divorcees who considered me a sympathetic ear—but not all of them. One savvy widow said to me, “Listen here, young lady, just because I’m old doesn’t mean I’m stupid. I don’t need no damn termite inspection.” The phone slammed shut.

            But then there was a man who said, “I suppose I should consider the inspection because ever since Barbara died and the kids moved out this house seems too big for me. My son told me I should sell it and move into an apartment for seniors. But Barbara loved this place and I still see her here—her spirit I mean. I just don’t know if I’m ready. What do you think?”

            I sighed deeply then said, “How about we call you in a few months. You might know better by then.”

            “Yes, why don’t you do that—I’ll look forward to your call.”

            I made a note for Sally. She’d be here in a few months. She didn’t speak to me much since Roger had shown a preference for me—as if that was my fault—but she had informed me that the company hired her permanently. I had congratulated her.

             I managed to survive working at Burbank Pest & Termite Control until the last week of August, when I had already informed Gary I’d have to leave and prepare for grad school.

            There was no farewell party for me on my last day. At five I merely closed my phonebook, waved good-by to Sally who was still on the phone with a customer, lifted my pad with two new potential customers, and my satchel. The three men sat behind their desks. Hank and Roger were sweaty as usual after returning from a fumigating job while Gary, their business manager, wore his usual neat button-down shirt tucked into slacks.

            I handed Gary my pad. “Here’s the last of it,” I said to him.

            He glanced at it and said, “You were the model employee—never came in late or missed a day. We appreciate that.”

            I noticed he mentioned nothing about my ability to acquire customers, which didn’t surprise me. I said a quick good-by to him and the other two men. I was about to walk out the door but stopped and turned back to Gary. “Oh, and by the way, I’m Jewish. And … and your Yiddish accent sucked.”

            I didn’t stay to see his reaction but rushed out the door. I walked briskly on Burbank Boulevard even though the day was brutally hot and felt the joy of liberation.

            When I entered my car, I decided I’d celebrate. I retrieved a map from my glove compartment. Then I turned on the engine and began my journey to Malibu. I’d be there in time to watch the sunset on Zuma Beach.



BIO

Hillary Tiefer has a PhD in English and has taught at Southern Oregon University and other colleges in the Pacific Northwest. Her short stories have been published in Descant, Red Rock Review, Mission at Tenth, Blue Moon Literary Review, Gray Sparrow Journal, Poetica Magazine, Poydras Review, Crack the Spine Literary Magazine, JuxtaProse, The Literary Nest, Smoky Blue Literature and Art Magazine, Five on the Fifth, The Opiate, The Manifest-Station, Pennsylvania Literary Journal and Minerva Rising Press’s The Keeping Room. Her novel The Secret Ranch is forthcoming the summer of 2025, published by Histria Books.









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