This I Believe
By Sarah Collier
I'm four; I believe there's a monster under my bed who will surely eat me if given the chance. I'm seven; I believe animals talk amongst themselves when no one is around and that fairies hide in the tangles of strawberry vines that grow against the back wall of my house. I'm nine; I believe that terrorists will come from far away to kill my family and friends and I don't know why. I'm fourteen; I believe that all of our fears are lies, invented and perpetuated by people with power in order to control us. I'm eighteen; I'm not entirely sure what to believe.
So I believe in things that are true and things that are probably not true. I'm gullible; I believe everything I'm told as easily as breathing. I'm cynical; I believe only what I can see with my own eyes or discover for myself.
I believe that bad things happen to good people. I believe that when we come to see things as not merely happening, but happening to us, it becomes very tempting to grasp blindly for something or someone to blame. But I believe that sometimes things just happen, and the ways we choose to deal with those things come to define us, for better or for worse.
I believe in regret. I believe that leaving words unsaid does a disservice to all involved. I believe that pride and denial are our biggest and most pitiless adversaries; they sneak up on us when we need to be at our most humble, our most understanding and accepting.
I believe that it is better to be a scared little girl in the darkness with a monster that isn't there than a disillusioned teenager who's seen a few too many real monsters to have much more than a rather cold and detached view of death and loss—things we can't change.
But I believe that losing is an art form, and that we must tread delicately when we encounter loss if we wish to remain intact. I believe that losing someone dear to you compels you—no, forces you—to cherish every relationship, every small, fragile moment with someone you love, as if it were truly your last.
I believe in taking time to appreciate the little reminders the world gives us which let us know that we are alive and well: a deep breath in the morning, the scent of a new book, the beauty in a bright blue sky just after a long storm.
According to George Herbert, “every path hath a puddle.” I believe in hope: some puddles are larger than others, but nearly all are passable, and with hope, we can overcome all that is daunting and wearisome and disheartening. I believe that, with hope, we have a chance.
Winnie
By Jessica Anderson
Winnie’s nose burned even before the door was opened. Her eyes and throat stung from the harsh air around her; she’d never taken kindly to cigarettes. Without a thought she raised her hands to smooth her hair, but June pushed them back down with a reprimanding tsk.
“Nuh-uh, look too polished and they won’t let you in. You’re trying not to pass, remember?”
“Won’t they know since I’m with you?” Winnie felt her pulse thump beneath her temples and in her toes.
“With us or not, you’ve gotta look the part. Gotta look like a fag.” Winnie must have shown her distress, because then June said, “Hey, we’ll fix you up once we’re in, all right?” Winnie nodded.
The scratch of sliding wood turned their attention to the door and a square hole let out the sound of life inside. All they saw was a pair of beady eyes. The eyes surveyed each of them, and with each passing second Winnie felt the fabric under her armpits grow damp. The words exchanged between the eyes and Jackie were lost on her ears, her attention nervously fixing on all the places she felt her blood pumping: temples, toes, ears, chest, loudest where her fingers fused with June’s. She only fully remembered to breathe once the door was opened all the way.
Hazy figures were dim even as they slowly came into focus. Winnie’s wide eyes slowly relaxed, but even then it was still dark, darker than she’d expected. Something about the lights lit the atmosphere in a peculiar way; white garments and teeth glowed white-blue and the air seemed to be a sort of purple. Bodies were everywhere, some mingling and some moving with the beat. Winnie had to blink and remind herself to breathe just to keep herself on both feet and upright.
“C’mon, honey, let’s finish you up.”
Winnie squeezed June’s hand tighter as the older woman led the younger girl through the mass. The restroom was a new beast to adjust to. Winnie’s eyes watered at the stench and the thick wettish air turned her stomach. Her throat bobbed beneath her skin when she allowed herself the occasional small gasp. But just like June promised, it grew easier. Not easy, exactly, but easier.
June pulled various products from the small satchel at her hip, pausing every several seconds to lift the strap where it wanted to fall from her shoulder. A touch more shadow, lipstick to layer over the hasty smearing they’d done before, and the two sets of lashes Winnie’d bought just for tonight. June applied it all with skill and care and the ritual helped to calm Winnie’s nerves.
“And let’s not forget,” June said, and with a laugh in her eyes she fluffed and smoothed the dark kinky locks that ended bluntly at Winnie’s shoulders. She held up the compact for the girl to see and Winnie’s reflection glowed even in the eerie green light.
“You look gorgeous, doll.”
“Thanks, Mama.” And in one of those rare moments, Winnie believed it to be true.
The girls walked arm-in-arm out into the club and it seemed just a little brighter amid the pitch black walls. Winnie grew restless with want, to experience everything all at once. Her eyes flitted from the dancing crowd to the bar crowd and to flocks of folks socializing and to the mysterious patrons quiet along the walls. Winnie was pulled from her reverie when June’s arm slipped to take her hand, and then she was twirling her round and Winnie was laughing from her belly. They danced a while longer with no seriousness about them, swaying and bouncing until the moment passed.
“I want a drink,” Winnie said, thumbing the tickets she got at the door.
“That’s my girl,” June said and pulled her back towards the bar.
The watery booze tingled and soothed Winnie’s throat all at once. She turned to follow June, but they were stopped short by Jackie, Bette, Danny, and an unfamiliar face. Her friends and the stranger, clearly not a stranger to them, caught up with June and the group launched into lively chatter.
Winnie could not pull her attention from the group’s newest addition. Her eyes narrowed into a slight squint as she surveyed the stranger from top to bottom. The blonde hair that reached up to heaven was surely a wig, for she’d never seen such a pale shade paired with such a dark complexion. Big and bright as it was, wide mint-shadowed eyes and plump ruby lips weren’t lost under the ‘do. Such vivid colors were otherworldly in contrast with that deep skin. She looked back at the eyes, big and round and dark and deep and familiar. How were they familiar? This wasn’t the kind of person one forgot. Winnie was tracing the sharp lines of the stranger’s cheekbones, jawline, collarbone, when—
“She’s not like you,” Danny said in her ear. She flinched out of her trance. “Well, not really.” His eyes danced with amusement at the startled girl and Winnie felt somehow exposed.
“Wh-what do you mean?”
“She doesn’t wanna be a she. Not all the time, anyway. Just for fun, for show. She’s a queen.”
Winnie stole another glance and it all at once made sense. A queen. Her vacant nod queued Danny’s departure and the boy floated away to steal a dance partner.
Of course she’d heard of queens, and she’d met a few but they were dressed like boys at the time. They only dressed up at night and Winnie was never really around at night. She was too young to go out, especially the way she wanted to go, as herself. She’d convinced June to convince the others that they could be careful, it’d be okay, just this once.
Winnie tuned in to listen and the queen’s deep voice was enchanting, an alien tongue, a song she had yet to learn the words to.
“And who’s the doll?” All the air left Winnie’s body when the queen’s attention settled on her and she could barely manage to part her lips.
“She’s a bit timid,” June said with a kind laugh.
“Winnie,” Winnie said finally, and managed to return the smile the queen offered her.
“We’re celebrating tonight. It’s Winnie’s birthday,” Jackie said and lifted her glass. She imitated a “Cheers” and took a generous drink.
“Well happy birthday, honey!” The queen took Winnie’s face gently between her hands and kissed her cheek.
“Thank you,” Winnie said. Her feeble smile had grown radiant and the queen wore a mirrored expression.
“Now, I know never to ask a woman her age, but you’re such a baby I just have to know,” the queen said. “That is, if you don’t mind.”
“Oh, I’m sixteen,” Winnie said.
“Don’t be saying that too loudly, now,” Bette warned.
“You are a baby indeed,” the queen said.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name,” Winnie said. She bit the inside of her cheek, a comfort she’d had since childhood.
“I’m Opal, honey. But if you meet me tomorrow I’ll be Oscar,” Opal said and winked at her. Winnie released the flesh from between her teeth.
“Lovely to meet you, Opal.” The name felt soft and full on her lips. Opal smiled in response.
“Where’d Danny wander off to?” Bette asked.
“Dancing,” Winnie said.
“Good idea,” Jackie said, and she took Bette’s and June’s hands to pull them into the crowd.
“Dance with me?” Opal asked Winnie with her open palm between them.
“I’d love to,” Winnie said and slipped her hand into Opal’s.
The music had an up tempo and Winnie looked at Opal oddly when she pulled the girl close to dance slow. Opal showed her amusement and began to lead.
“How’d you find this crowd?” Winnie knew she meant her friends and not the club.
“They sort of found me, I guess,” she said. “Well, June found me and introduced me to the others.” And? Opal seemed to say with only a look; something in her eyes urged Winnie further. “Almost a year ago I left home. They hated me, I hated me, I just had to leave. It got to be late and cold and I went into the diner to warm up. The one where June works.” Winnie briefly paused when Opal smiled, and Winnie smiled too. “So June gave me a cup of coffee and then she gave me a home. It must’ve been meant to be. I mean the very night I left, I couldn’t believe it. Still can’t, really.”
“Divine intervention if I’ve ever heard of it.”
“I mean she was like my mother from the start, you know, she just understood. There’s something about her that opened me right up.” Winnie paused, then laughed softly as she looked down at their dancing feet. “I guess you’ve got that something about you, too. I’m sorry, I’ve barely let you get a word in.” Winnie didn’t see the smile on Opal’s lips but felt herself being spun by her. She twirled an arm’s length away, and when she was brought back in her back pressed snuggly against Opal’s warm body and the soft pads accentuating it. She was guided back into her original place and this time she looked up at Opal.
“Whatever it is I’m glad I’ve got it, honey.”
The two danced through a pause in conversation and Winnie absorbed the sensation of life booming around her, though her mind never fully left the square of their two bodies. Opal repeated the same pattern of spinning Winnie out, then in, then back to center before speaking up.
“You know, Winnie, you know the great thing about being queer? You get to choose your family, and your family chooses you. There’s never a question of love; love is everywhere. And I’m really glad Mama June found you, baby.”
“Do you have family, Opal?” Winnie asked.
“Oh yeah, I sure do,” Opal said and smiled warmly. Winnie chewed the inside of her cheek again and Opal let her hand go to carefully wipe a streak of wetness from her face. “You okay, baby?”
“Never better,” Winnie said and meant it.
The Great Escape
By Tiffany McGouran
We stood in front of the locked back door, looking out its window at the inky darkness that covered the backyard. Carissa and I were dressed in our outside play clothes, long sleeved shirts and jeans, tennis shoes on our feet and trepidation in our hearts. Our sweaty hands alternately gripped our walking sticks and adjusted our large checkered bandanas, which were tied to the ends of our sticks, each bulging with what we considered our necessities.
“Why are we only taking these again?” Carissa whispered as she adjusted her pack on her shoulder to a more comfortable position. I sighed in exasperation. It was a new habit I had picked up recently that none of my family seemed to appreciate, but I thought it made me sound more intelligent.
“Because we’re running away. Everyone who runs away carries stuff they need in bandanas, obviously.”
She nodded her head but still looked confused. “Okay, but why?”
“Because if they took everything they owned they would be slow and get caught.”
“Oh . . . That makes sense.”
Of course I didn’t know that for sure, but it sounded logical, and that’s really all it took to get Carissa sold on the idea.
All of my experience with running away came from reading Huckleberry Finn and Pollyanna, but then again Pollyanna didn’t really run away. She came back and broke her spine, but Huckleberry Finn didn’t break anything that I could remember, and it seemed to have worked out for him.
Our backyard didn’t look nearly as welcoming as it did during the daytime, but I was not to be deterred. We had been wronged one to many times. What happened this morning simply made up our minds. Who lets all their kids have chocolate chip cookies at tea time except for one of them? So what if I hadn’t eaten all of my breakfast? It didn’t even taste good. The way I figured it, the only way for Carissa and me to get our way was to run away. I shuffled my feet against the hardwood floor, then steeled myself. As the older sister I was automatically in charge, so I turned to Carissa.
“You got everything?” I whispered.
“I don’t see why I could only take my Coca Cola Bear.” She whispered back. “All of my other stuffed animals will be so sad that I left them behind! Can’t I take a few more?”
“SHHH! You’re being too loud! You’ll wake up Mom and Daddy if you keep going like that!”
I scowled at her. “And no you cannot take more. I already explained this to you. They won’t fit in your bag, and you’ll have to carry them, where anyone could see them. Do you want them to be stolen or something?” Carissa looked horrified.
“Why would someone steal a stuffed animal? Who would do that?”
“People will steal anything.” I said knowingly. As Carissa and I spoke, I glanced toward my parents’ room. Their bedroom door was barely visible in the dark of the hallway, but I could tell that it was closed as usual. Still, the longer we stayed inside, the bigger of a chance we had of getting caught.
“Wow. That’s awful.”
“Yeah. Now, do you have everything?” I asked again, eager to be on our way.
“Yeah—Oh NO!” Carissa said before running away from the back door and down the hallway towards our room that we shared with Katie and Victoria before I could stop her.
“CARISSA!” I whisper-yelled. “What are you doing?”
I waited for a few seconds before I started after her but stopped when I saw her coming back down the hallway. “What in the world were you doing?!” I was incensed that she would jeopardize our escape like that.
She was out of breath from her sprint and bent over, hands on knees for a few seconds before she looked up and smiled at me. “I almost forgot my toothbrush!”
I just looked at her for a minute. “And you had to run like a maniac through the entire house to get it?”
“I didn’t run through the entire house.” She looked deflated.
“You might as well have!” Ugh. All that over a toothbrush? I didn’t even bring mine. Who needs things like toothbrushes when you’re running away to a life of adventure?
“Whatever,” I said. “Now we’ve got everything, so let’s go.”
We were pretty well supplied for our impromptu escape. Carissa had brought an extra shirt, her toothbrush, her stuffed animal Coca Cola, and some health food bars she had smuggled from the kitchen earlier in the day. My own pack was much better stocked, at least in my opinion, with a few ponytail-holders, my savings, some extra clothes, a book called Old Mother West Wind, and a Ziploc bag of frozen chocolate chip cookie dough. When Carissa and I got far enough away, we were going to buy our own house and bake some cookies, but first we had to make it out the back door.
I stepped forward and twisted the gold-colored knob, slowly easing it open. A high-pitched creaking sound made Carissa and I freeze, but we were ready to bolt if anyone heard it and came to investigate. For a few seconds we stayed still until we felt it was safe to move again.
When the back door was open wide enough, we slipped outside, Carissa accidentally knocking her walking stick against the wooden doorframe as she slipped out behind me. I closed the door just as carefully as before. It wouldn’t do to make it all the way outside and be caught now.
After successfully making it out of the house, we stopped. For some reason the backyard looked different than it had looked through the window. Now it looked even less inviting, and I was even more nervous. I didn’t say anything though. I was the older sister. I had to be the brave one, like Huckleberry Finn. I had to be the one to step out first into the open space of the concrete patio, navigate past the large green wooden deck furniture in complete darkness, guide Carissa past all the creepy shadows to the back gate, and lead the way out of the safety of our home into the silent dark world beyond. I wondered if Huckleberry Finn had been this frightened. Carissa looked about as frightened as I felt.
“You know,” I said, “it would be a lot easier to navigate the streets with the sun out . . .”
“It would?” Carissa asked, looking up at me hopefully.
“Absolutely. It would be better to run away when Mom’s busy cooking lunch.”
Carissa nodded her head vigorously, her pigtails practically bouncing. “That sounds like a good plan. And we’ll get a lot of sleep, so we’ll be well rested.”
“Okay, let’s go back inside and get in bed. We can hide our bags in the closet.”
I quickly reopened the back door, still making sure to be careful, although we came back in a lot faster than we had gone out. After closing the door, we tiptoed back to our room, being as quiet as we could so we didn’t wake up Katie and Victoria. We changed into our pajamas, neither of us talking. We were both in our trundle bed, me on the top bunk swaddled in a cocoon of blankets and Carissa practically smothered by her numerous stuffed animal friends, when I heard Carissa ask, “Why lunch? Why not before breakfast?”
I sighed. “Because tomorrow’s Saturday, dummy. Mom’s making pancakes!”
The Fix
By Jimmy Ellis
The humid southern air was stickier than the floor of a two-dollar movie theatre; it caused her delicate cotton dress to cling to her as she wove her way slowly through the crowded farmer’s market. A momentary respite, a soft gentle breeze, fluttered the brim of her wide sun hat. Undaunted by the oppressive temperature, she sidestepped a middle-aged couple that stopped in front of a booth to smell a bouquet of fresh primroses. She seemed drawn, lured by an unseen force to a destination she knew instinctively.
Far to one side, away from the shade of nearby buildings, she paused in front a stall filled with local fruit. A vendor pushed beautiful peaches in her face, cutting away a small slice with an Old Timer jackknife to show the succulent flesh inside. She smiled coyly, placing the offered peach slice delicately to her mouth and dabbing the sweet juice on her lips before taking a gentle bite. The vendor appeared overjoyed at her nod of approval. The woman in the hat held up two fingers, the man with peaches placed two of his finest into a bag, and the woman walked away. A larger man in a Hawaiian print shirt stepped forward from the crowd suddenly, thrust two crumpled dollar bills into the vendor’s hand, and grabbed the small paper bag. He then turned and disappeared into the crowd after her, never speaking and never smiling.
Like the summer run of salmon, they pressed on through the throng, weaving around people that milled about in the pathway. With her smaller frame, save for her large, round, Lolita sunglasses, she negotiated the route through the crowded Saturday marketplace better than he did. The pulse of the mob slowed him down. He gave chase, desperately trying to see over the top of the other patrons for a glimpse of her hat. He was like a hunting dog, relentlessly trying to keep track of his quarry. He only paused for a moment when he bumped into an elderly couple in his haste.
She was hard to keep up with. She was doing it on purpose, he knew it. The thought both infuriated and amused him. What was her plan if she lost him? He knew what she was after and he had a pretty good idea of where she was heading. What was the point in making him catch up like this?
The marketplace seemed to stretch for an eternity. Several side-streets had been closed to make room for this bi-weekly event. Stalls were set up everywhere, even in a few alleys. But the farther he chased her, the easier it became. The crowd began to thin and vendor stalls were fewer. He turned a corner moments after she did and was within a few steps of her.
They finally reached a group of orange barriers that signified the southernmost boundary of the market. The woman stopped. He stopped a few steps behind her, standing perfectly still, breathing a little heavily and clutching the bag of peaches. There was no crowd here. Aside from a few vendors loading and unloading trucks, the street was empty.
“Are we alone?” She spoke over her shoulder as she moved between two parked cars, searching for a little more privacy, whether real or perceived.
“For the most part, yes.” He glanced around as an afterthought, then followed her to the space between the cars.
“Then give it to me. I can't wait any longer.”
Her nearly transparent sundress fluttered in another breeze, tousling her light brown hair under her hat. He slowly opened the bag and held out one of the plump peaches in his palm. She got to her knees in front of the waist-high fruit and inhaled its sweet aroma. A sly grin spread across her lips as she lowered her sunglasses with one finger and her sparkling green eyes met his, which bore a striking resemblance to her own.
With a wet “thunk,” a long, pipette-thin proboscis jutted out from the back of her throat, skewering the peach. She drank deeply, draining it until the skin was shriveled over the stone. Her eyes rolled back in pleasure as the soothing narcotic sensation washed over her body. Her sticky proboscis withdrew and she closed her mouth, still shaking from the rush. With a trembling hand, she pushed her sunglasses back up to hide her now reddened eyes.
“My turn,” he said as he placed the second peach into her still trembling hand, steadying it with his other hand while she continued to kneel. He was quicker to drain his fruit and crumpled to the ground seconds later, reeling with pleasure.
There was a pause of only a few seconds before the two struggled from the ground. He put on a pair sunglasses and they both shook their bodies as their short fix wore off.
“I need more,” she moaned. "Another."
They straightened their clothes and turned the corner, disappearing again into the horde of oblivious shoppers, off to find another fix.
Grief and the Modern Girl
By Maurie Traylor
Say the word “grief” aloud and its brevity pulls you up short. First, the hard, guttural “g,” like a moan of pain barked after a fist to the gut. Then, the hissing “f,” like a mad cat, back arched. It’s a word severed from itself, its head hacked off blunt and bloody and then, nothing. Just gaping space, empty and vast. A silence that devours you, soundlessly picking you apart as it pins you down, stripping muscle from bone, tendon from sinew.
Its stealthy force makes strangers of friends, creates enemies where families once stood together. And today, its force stops my brother mid-stride, forcing him off balance. He reaches for a nearby bench. He lunges towards it and I reach to catch him but he’s surprisingly heavy—too heavy for me to keep from falling—and we both land crumpled in the corner of the bench’s hard, brittle form.
We’re halfway on the return trip from our daily outing to get overpriced coffee. For eight days straight, we’ve made this pilgrimage, pretending to inhabit a fairly normal world. Davey’s tiny condominium sits askance on a moody, man-made pond. Our daily walk gives us both a pause from the calls, emails, questions and ceaseless activity that accompanies giving our mother over to larger things. Her death—a suicide—was neither a surprise nor a disappointment to me and I hated myself for feeling so.
Davey’s breath was uneven and labored, a choke-hold from his own dance with cigarettes and drugs. He was two years sober and in light of events, I kept vigil by him, itchy and nervous while I watched the battle.
“It’s pretty here,” he said. He ducked his head towards the pond and I felt the effort it took him to do so. The pond’s gentle waves shifted around Davey’s small outline and I noticed how the sunlight backlit his small, clumping form. I caught my breath and grabbed his hand.
“Yes,” I agreed. The waves rippled stealthily behind him and I worried that if I didn’t hold on, he’d slip down the bench into their still cerulean blueness.
“Maybe you can stay a couple more days. We could go over to Sedona,” he said, not looking at me. “I could get you a later flight. You can stay a little longer in Griefville.”
I laughed at this private joke, one we’d made up after the onslaught of messages to our inboxes and the parade of well-wishers arriving at Davey’s front door. It was Davey’s joke, calling our experience “Griefville”; he parodied the long faces of the well-wishers and mocked, “Call if you need anything” in an old lady’s voice. “Like I even know what I need,” he’d whispered as he swallowed the remaining dregs from his beer.
“I’ll come back in a few weeks,” I said. “I need to get home, check on things,” This was both a truth and a lie and I was tempted to extend my stay. I did have things to check on but nothing that could not wait. My grown children lived in other towns. My dogs were enjoying time with my neighbor’s rambunctious pack of English Bulldogs, undoubtedly having more fun than with me in my solitary, quiet writing life. If I stayed on, I could continue to stay current on deadlines and projects the way I had done the past two weeks when I hijacked Davey’s home office, setting up Grief Central.
Truth be told, I was enjoying my trip far more than I felt comfortable saying. At any other time, this would be a winter escape for me from the Midwestern grayness. Scottsdale looked nothing, felt nothing like my home of Tulsa. Being here, even with the clammy hand of grief upon me, was a cool cloth on my feverish head, a tonic for my own chaotic insides. If I stayed here I might forget the snow crusted corners of my garden as I snatched obese lemons and oranges from lush green trees that dotted the landscape.
I’m ashamed to admit now that it was an afterthought to consider staying to be helpful to Davey. But grief has its own twisted logic, its own way of distorting truth, making you feel that you are the one in need when in fact, you are needed by others.
I squeezed Davey’s hand. “The minute I touch down, I’ll call. I promise.”
Together, Davey and I were the oldest two children in a patchwork of mish-mash relationships, stitched around our mother’s chaotic life. Our father introduced her to heroin, spawned us and then left for worlds we never knew or heard from. Our mother emerged from that life with a crude self-help plan formed from our Grandmother’s Southern Baptist “pull- yourself-out-of-the-gutter-on-your-own” accompanied by bouts in and out of rehab. Then, finally, she spiraled into a spectacular addiction to pain killers, prescribed ironically by the doctor who attended church with our family. Though the pills did not officially kill her, they brought the goods that ended her life: paranoia, fear, hopelessness.
Like all children of addicts, Davey and I bobbed along the rivers of uncertainty, reaching out for each other before every wave of our mother’s life washed over us, taking us under. My desire was to just keep Davey afloat; Davey’s desire was to have our mother’s attention. Both desires were used by our mother who, like most addicts, mastered the manipulator’s art and bent our hopes into weapons against us.
We were tired, and though I tried to grieve our mother, I was distracted. Grief had its slow, painful work to do in me and yet, I could not give myself over to it. My mind looped backwards to events remembered through sepia-stained moments, and though I tried I could not make sense out of their erratic presence. “Quiet!” I wanted to shout (and sometimes did) as the twisted frames holding old lovers’ faces, friends and their disappointments were super-imposed over our mother’s dark hair, her beautifully haggard eyes, her arms reaching for something she never found. Grief’s most effective weapon is one of mocking betrayal: You should have done more, you should have done more, you should have done more . . .
As we sat in the thin, January Arizona sun, I realized that Griefville is a place that I didn’t want to visit anymore. Staying only made me more aware of the mental pockets, the nests of old hurts cobbled together in resentment. I should have sorted all this out through the smaller griefs that were handed to me along my journey here.
But I’ve not done the work. I’ve not sorted through these warning signs and reminders and have, in fact, clutched onto them more furiously. Even those—and especially those—that hurt me most.
“Let’s get you to the airport, then.” Davey said. And then he brought his mouth together in a firm line, a sort of smile that told me he would be all right.
Which, of course, was completely wrong.
The airport crowd bumped and swayed us as we walked towards my gate. When we had gone as far as we could go together, I turned to Davey and said, “I’ll call you when I get there.”
He looked up over my head and said, “Might be out with some friends,”
I smiled and said, “Probably a good idea to be around some folks.” He again gave me the thin almost-smile and said, “Yeah, might be good.”
A cold February wind greeted me when I arrived home. Even with my dog retrieved, my house seemed vast, my refrigerator filled with nothingness. I immediately missed the buoyance of Arizona and though I called Davey several times, my calls were unanswered, going straight to his voice mail.
“Out with friends,” I remembered him saying and I poured a trickle of remaining wine, turned up the heat and waited for a call that never came.
I ignored the “unknown caller” message the next day, immersed in irrelevant work tasks. Three hours later, during a slack moment in my day, I retrieved the call with the message from one of Davey’s friends that he had been found just a few hours after I left. He had slipped away, on a wave of his own making, washed away by Grief.
I am now a resident of Griefville, a citizen among others who, like me, live with loss and regret. They talk to me of things like peace, hope and surrender. Their eyes are kind, their arms strong and capable. I want to trust them, though I don’t yet. I want to trust myself, though I don’t do that either.
Grief still makes its presence known. It still taunts me, like a bully, taking flavor from my food, light from my days. Somedays it sits on me and under its heavy weight, I cannot breathe. On those days, I cry out and reach for steadier hands than my own.
I hold on and I let go. I am saved and I am lost.
I am weightless and grounded and whole.
Books and Their Covers
or
Find the Monster
By John David Ira
| Feb. 12, 2006
Dear Diary, I dunno what to write since I’ve never had a diary. I found you just sitting out on the sidewalk in front of our house. Maybe someone dropped you? You’re empty so . . . FINDERS KEEPERS! My name is Sally. I am 10 years old FINALLY! My birthday is August 29. I have blonde hair and green eyes. I like Tiger Tina, horses, and my mom. She is the best mom in the whole world. She is like Tiger Tina because she doesn’t let the bad animals near me or my play horses. Ok, gotta go—time for dinner and mom says I won’t be big enough for 6th grade if I don’t eat. Ew. Spaghetti. Blek. —Sally Feb. 25, 2006 Dear Diary, Katie is such a big butt. She was so mean and kept taking my purple pen from my pen box and every time the teacher would turn around, she only caught me yelling at her to give it back so I ended up in trouble. Mom wasn’t happy when she picked me up. I tried to tell her it was Katie’s fault but she wouldn’t listen so I ran to my room to listen to the radio. I hope I can win those tickets to Tiger Tina Live! I love watching Tiger Tina so so so so much so maybe if I win the tickets, mom will take me to see the live show!! My favorite one was when she made everyone be nice to Alexis Alligator. All the other animals were being mean to her because she was scary but she really just had something stuck in her teeth that was hurting. Tiger Tina is so nice to the other animals. Mom probably won’t take me since she is mad at me. Gotta go now! Nice talking to you, Diary. —Sally Feb. 28, 2006 Dear Diary, Blah Blah Blah . . . What do I write? Mom says I should keep writing about my day in this diary even though I don’t have anything to say. Let’s see . . . Katie finally gave me my pen back today. She is my best friend, but sometimes she can be a bully. Ms. Grandin said that we need to get along or she will separate us. OH! You remember where I found you, diary? Out there in front of the house? It was so weird . . . I didn’t win the Tiger Tina tickets yesterday because some stupid old guy won them. Seriously, this guy was so dumb! He kept asking if he won and the radio guy kept saying he did. He couldn’t pay attention because he was so excited and kindof creepy. Then he started CRYING! Not kidding! So I just turned it off and went outside this morning to go over to Katie’s house because I left my bike over there last week and then I found two tickets for Tiger Tina OUTSIDE WHERE YOU WERE!! WOW!! Mom even said we could keep them since we can’t figure out who they go to. Im so lucky, I should go skydiving! JK I would never do that . . . K BYE! Sally PS. Thanks, God, for the tickets!!!! Mar. 4, 2006 Dear Diary, I’m not here to write a lot. All I want to say is IT’S TIGER TINA DAY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! SO HAPPY! —Sally Mar. 5, 2006 Dear Diary, I AM SO MAD!!!! My mom took me to the show and we didn’t even get to see it!! Some stupid guy was getting arrested by the police men outside for fighting with the people at the snack stand and mom didn’t think it was safe. When we walked out, the man looked very angry and confused until he saw me and then started yelling bad words at mom. I don’t remember what else he said, but he was so mad at everyone and wouldn’t stop throwing his hands around in the air. If he said bad words to me, I would have to give him a piece of my mind! She said she didn’t know why he yelled at her, but I don’t think she is telling the truth. Adults are liars sometimes. I would never lie to mom, but she probably doesn’t want to scare me because of how mean that man was. Oh well . . . I’ll just have to see it next time it comes to town. At least my mom took me so I can’t be very mad at her. I love my mom. —Sally |
02.12.06
Dear God, Maybe I shouldn’t be writing this. Jamie says it’s evidence if I get caught. Jamie says it’s not OK. Jamie doesn’t like me seeing her, but I promised Jamie that I would be careful. She says that if they see me, someone might call for the police. Adults have to follow the rules, but sometimes I don’t want to be an adult anymore so I don’t have to. I can’t help how I feel. So I met someone the other day. I’ve been waiting for the day that I find her—the right one. Well, I didn’t actually meet her, but I saw her. She is so beautiful. Her hair is blonde. It’s very long and blonde and beautiful. I went to her house and left her a gift. It was a purple plaid journal. She seemed to like it a lot. I liked it a lot because it reminds me of her from when I saw her at the library with her mom. When I see her, I think she might be scared by me so I don’t talk to her or let her see me. If I get too excited to see someone, sometimes my head gets too hot and I don’t know how to control myself. It is better that she doesn’t see me be upset. That wouldn’t be nice or fun. I saw her wearing a Red Tiger Tina backpack and Tiger Tina is doing a live show in town so maybe I can find tickets for us to go. She would love that. I could spend time with her and hold her hand. Thanks, God, for listening. I feel better now. Maybe I will write to you again after I have some time to think. Love,
02.26.06 Dear God, I heard on the radio the other day that they have free tickets to Tiger Tina, but I have to be caller ten. That’s right after nine and before eleven and will be really hard to get. Ten is a nice number though, since it has a one and a zero. I hope I can get them for her. She will be so happy and maybe I can talk to her. The contest starts tomorrow. For now, I will just lay here next to her picture that I took and look at her long and pretty blonde hair. Love, 02.27.06 Dear God, I WON! I WON! I got the tickets! I can’t believe I won the tickets. Caller ten is so hard to win. Thank you for listening. I know it’s hard to sometimes because my brain isn’t right and I sometimes make bad decisions, but thank you. I know she will love them because she loves Tiger Tina since she has a Tiger Tina backpack. I am going to take them and leave them where I put her journal tonight so maybe she will find them tomorrow. I wish I could see her. I wish I could hug her and make her happy, but she doesn’t love me back so she wouldn’t like that. It’s ok though. They gave me three tickets and I am going to keep one. Maybe she won’t be afraid of a big man with muscles when she sees me at the Tiger Tina show. Maybe she won’t even see me. I’m too shy to talk to her because I don’t want her mom to tell her not to talk to strangers. Strangers aren’t always bad and I don’t want to hurt her. I want to be there with her, but her mom won’t understand. Nobody else would either. Maybe I can talk to her when her mom is gone or in the bathroom or getting snacks for them to watch the show. That would be so great. Love, 03.05.06 Dear God, I think I made a mistake. Actually, I think the cashiers at the snack stand made a mistake, but I did some bad things too. I went to the show and wanted to see her and her pretty long blonde hair, but the cashier didn’t hand me my change coins first, then bills so I asked him to do it again and he called me stupid. I can’t help it when people call me stupid—I’m not stupid, I’m just not like everyone else. So I hit him in the face. It wasn’t hard, but it made his bottom lip bleed. Then they called the police officers to come get me and now I’m writing to you from jail. They said I can talk to a lawyer soon, but I don’t want to. If I don’t get to see her, there is no reason to try to get out of this place. It’s ok in here, but it’s not very clean. Her mom looked at me like I was a ghost. If I had said nicer words to her mom as they were walking out, maybe she would’ve talked to me and let me meet Sally. Oh yeah, her name is Sally. I could hear that as they left the theater. Sally is such a beautiful name. I don’t know what else to say now. I started writing to you hoping you could help me see Sally without getting in trouble. I love her and want to be with her, but her mom won’t let me. How do I live without Sally, God? Maybe I’m just supposed to be sad and lonely. Maybe Sally’s mom was right so many years ago. Maybe Sally could never learn to love me, her autistic dad. —Ben
|
Bella’s Neighborhood
The Tale of a Cat
By Elizabeth Cook Strance
“A cat improves the garden wall in sunshine, and the hearth in foul weather.”
—Judith Merkle Riley
During my four-year acquaintance with Bella, we seldom crossed paths two days in a row, yet successive meetings occurred October 2004. The first was uneventful. She paused while padding across my driveway, allowing a sideways glance toward my kitchen window where I stood at the sink rinsing dishes. After that slight hesitation, the calico cat followed an invisible path toward my home’s foundation and disappeared behind the boxwood, continuing her self-appointed rounds.
The next afternoon in my backyard, I met her again as I struggled with rearranging the rock edging of a flowerbed. Bella roused from napping in a sunny spot nearby and stretched her head in my direction. The instant the canvas gloves slipped from my fingertips, she maneuvered the top of her head under my palm. “Yes, kitty-kitty, I’ll scratch behind your ears.” I couldn’t resist first teasing the scruff of her neck.
Although a cat’s special joints enable it to contort into amazing positions, they denied Bella a satisfying scratch between those teeny furrows at the base of her ears. That snag in a feline’s quest for comfort evoked my empathy whenever I faced the challenge of placating an itchy mole on my back. Living alone led me to depend on two simple itch-soothers: that bristle brush hanging in the shower or a long-handled spoon from a kitchen drawer.
However, my scratching behind Bella’s ears was not enough to appease her; she squirmed to be held. Her wordless request gave me reason to break from my gardening chores. As I traipsed across the yard to sit in the faux wicker chair under the redbud, she glided at my heels. I’d barely settled in the shaded chair when she hopped onto my lap and leaned against my chest, snuggling beneath my chin. I cast aside an impulse to maintain a bit of space between us and positioned my hand under her rump. What did it matter that she would bequeath me an abundance of her nose-tickling fur when she departed our siesta? She leaned into me as I stroked her tummy, her neck, her back. The gentle rumblings from Bella’s feline throat soon created a medley with my human heartbeats.
I held Bella close for seven minutes—my self-allowed break. After settling her on the lawn, I eyed the fronts of my purple tee and green shorts decorated with fuzzy, multi-colored fur. Bella alone heard me giggle: a damp spot on the front of the tee where she’d drooled gave evidence of her absolute relaxation and total trust in me.
❧
Whenever newcomers moved onto our block, I usually met children playing on the sidewalk days before greeting the rest of the family. So it was with the scruffy calico cat. We’d exchanged pleasantries on my driveway for a week before I learned the cat belonged with the house across the street and one door north. The get-acquainted chat with the new human neighbor occurred one afternoon when she paused from weeding her front flowerbed.
“I haven’t unpacked all the mover’s boxes,” Terri said, “but I felt I couldn’t ignore this flowerbed any longer. Needed to give Mother Nature a helping hand.” The calico stretched from her observation point in the grass a few feet away.
“Mother Nature never rests, does she?” I glanced at the fuzzy feline. “Who’s your helper?”
“Oh, that’s Bella. She’s my daughter’s cat.” Terri sighed. “I hope she hasn’t been a bother—the cat, I mean.”
“Oh, no bother. She’s really friendly for a cat. So often they keep their distance, especially around strangers.”
“Well . . .” Terri hesitated, shrugged in Bella’s direction. “You got a minute, for the tale of Bella?” At the sound of her name, Bella flexed the cup of one ear toward Terri, the better to hear what might follow.
“Of course,” I said, “I’ve always got a minute for a cat.” As though responding to a cue, Bella rose and sidled over to me. Then trailing her generous tail around my ankles, she nudged her head against my foot. You are one friendly feline.
“My daughter received Bella—she was just a tiny kitten—as a gift from her boyfriend. They shared an apartment . . .” Terri shook her head, smiling as I tickled Bella behind the ears. “The short version is that Bella grew into a cat, my daughter and her boyfriend broke up, and next thing I hear is Mom, you’ve got plenty of room in that new house; can I bring Bella with me?”
Though Bella’s early life occurred within the confines of an apartment, after a very short time in Terri’s home the newcomer showed she preferred the uncertainties of the outdoors to coexisting with two indoor cats. As the months rolled by, I learned Bella frequented families for blocks around us, receiving favorable marks from almost everyone. She acclimated to sleeping among the shrubs. “Bella seems to prefer the outdoors,” said Terri, “but what a mess that makes her fur. As you might guess, she comes home at night to eat.”
Living on our quiet cul‑de‑sac, Bella had no need to worry about traffic when she crossed the street to my yard. One afternoon I turned around from watering an arrangement of potted plants near my front porch and glimpsed Bella hesitating to jump onto a birdbath. I assumed a weight gain prompted her hesitation, deterring her from her usual eager spring. Letting the hose drop onto the grass, I hurried into the kitchen. By the time I returned with an empty bowl, Bella was lapping from the birdbath, but when I began filling the bowl with water from the hose, she dashed to the porch and drank till I thought her sides would burst. That incident alerted me to include Bella in my watering routine.
❧
I sat at the studio desk writing in my journal when a thump on the kitchen floor startled me. More annoyed by the interruption than concerned about the happening, I followed my curiosity into the kitchen. Bella sat flicking her long pink tongue from one side of her mouth to the tip of her nose. On the countertop above her, an open jar of mayonnaise wobbled on its side. Not only had I failed to secure all luncheon items, I’d left the kitchen door ajar, oblivious that the outer door in the garage remained open to the backyard, welcoming the pleasant summer afternoon and its roving inhabitants.
One mild autumn evening, I left the supper table and stepped nonchalantly into the kitchen. “Oh, Bella! Not again!” Bella cocked an ear in my direction but remained hunched over the countertop, indulging in leftover flecks of canned albacore. Arrrggh! That pesky kitchen door.
Interaction between neighbors dwindled during the winter months to little more than the occasional wave, but in a chilly moment on a blustery sidewalk I learned Terri’s daughter had moved to her own apartment, jilting Bella. Terri’s two favorites retained their roles as top cats beside the hearth, leaving Bella to wear the fur of step‑cat.
Throughout the year Terri often spent weekends at a quiet acreage she owned a short drive from Tulsa, allowing Bella to continue courting the neighbors. One balmy evening at dusk, Terri and I happened out at our respective curbs to bring in trashcans.
“Say, I’m glad to see you,” Terri called from her curb. She hastened into the street and I met her midway. “I’ve already told Helen, and I wanted to let you know I’m moving.”
“Well, that is news to me. Where to?”
“I’ve reached the point where I want to spend more time on my acreage. I love being away from the noise, having space around me.”
“Will you sell your house here?”
“Oh, no. I’ll rent this place to my niece. She has two preschoolers—they really need to be in a house with a yard, not in that apartment where they are now.”
Six weeks later Terri moved out, taking her two housecats. The niece moved in with two young children. The next day, Bella dropped by my porch to quench her thirst. Before the month passed into history, the niece laid out the welcome mat for a girlfriend with toddler in tow. As weeks droned into months, Bella appeared more unkempt than ever and worried with fleas.
Even though Bella had been prodded into the role of roaming Cinderella, I expected Bella’s basic needs would be met. However as fall approached, my confidence on her behalf began to waver, and I mulled over how I might contribute to her well-being. Helen, a neighbor who cherished two housecats, one almost twenty years old, had acknowledged feeding Bella occasionally. “It’s the humane thing to do, but I intend no permanent commitment,” she said.
I pulled out pet dishes stored away more than five years, since a pair of shorthaired, neutered and spayed indoor cats last shared my dwelling. Bella would no longer need to finagle sporadic dining forays at my place sans invitations. On the tail of my fresh pledge to Bella, I filled a gravity feeder with dry food, which I placed atop the worktable in my garage. A bowl of water on the floor completed my oblation.
In November I flew to Albuquerque for a holiday with my daughter and son, satisfied the provisions for Bella in my garage would supplement Helen’s offerings. In anticipation of falling temperatures, I’d reinstated the long-closed pet door leading from the garage into the backyard. In an interior corner, a large basket filled with an old plumped‑up blanket welcomed Bella to nap.
Ten days later, gray skies greeted my return to Tulsa. I soon settled in front of my Mac and began transcribing penciled revisions into a vignette about those two sibling cats I’d treasured during a previous decade. Whenever I took a break, I hoped to find Bella in the garage. Two days passed; no Bella. Aware of the forecast for continuing cold temperatures, I reluctantly clipped on the panel closing the pet door. Perhaps another neighbor had laid claim to Bella, repealing the neighborhood joke that she was up for grabs. I acknowledged she just visited, yet I welcomed Bella’s frequent stopovers.
A week later I leaned against the sink gazing out the kitchen window while nibbling a tuna sandwich. A sudden thud on the outer windowsill jolted me to attention. The thud meowed. Bella was back!
Leaving my sandwich on the counter, I skipped to the front door. “Bella-Bella, come in–come in!” As I shut out the cold she wound around my ankles, purring full throttle. Scooping her into my arms, I moseyed to Grandmother’s rocking chair. Oh! Bella’s feet pressed cold against my forearms, and her nose chilled my neck as she nuzzled. I held her for several minutes until she wriggled free and trotted to the kitchen, looking over her shoulder. Me‑ow. Follow me-ow. Acknowledging Bella’s instructions, I quickly refreshed the feeder. She merely nibbled, which reassured me she’d not missed any recent meals. However, her rumpled coat indicated no one had brushed her in quite a while. After dining she allowed time for a brushing, then with aplomb departed my premises.
Crunching sweet pickle with the last bite of tuna sandwich, I fretted about my dilemma: Shall I reopen the pet door for Bella? Seems sort of silly—allowing cold air to leak through the pet door. While that nearly new Overhead Door insulates the front of the garage. Ahh . . . In the garage, I filled the water dish, left the pet door closed, and vowed to keep a sharp eye out for Bella, fairly confident she was on multiple watch lists.
Three days later, Bella surprised me with another visit. Even the December sunshine failed to warm the nip in the air that rushed into the hall behind her. By the time I’d closed the door, she was nearing the dining table. “Bella! That’s a no‑no!” My scolding reached her ears just as she alighted atop the table. She dropped to the floor, cringing for several steps before turning to peer at me. “Bella-Bella, that’s a good girl,” I said in a stage whisper. In the past I had slapped a rolled‑up newspaper against the edge of counters and tabletops to train cats to stay away. Bella graduated to obeying a stern vocal command. Who says you can’t train a cat?
“You’ve earned a reward, Bella. And time in from the cold.” She tagged along while I selected a large floor pillow from the living room, returned to the dining room and settled the pillow under the table. “There you go.” I patted the pillow top. “It’s for you.” Bella took to the dim and quiet space, napping for two hours, until I gathered her in my arms and, with a bit of regret, escorted her outdoors. Knowing Bella’s neighborhood, I believed she’d find a cozy place for the night. If not, my windowsill awaited her me‑ow!
Earth continued on her axis while I took cues from Bella to fill needs not met by her household or neighborhood. Spring equinox visited, setting the scene for summer’s warmth and reminding me to check my inventory of flea collars to ensure Bella’s relief from that blood-sucking Ctenocephalides felis, the cat flea.
One morning in early June, as I was filling the birdbath in my front yard, Helen waved to me from her front porch. She descended the steps and walked across her yard toward me, prompting me to meet her on the sidewalk.
“Guess what?” She sneaked a peek over her shoulder toward Terri’s place. “That niece asked me to cut off the flea collar you put on Bella ’cause she said it’s been on Bella forever.”
“Ah, Helen,” I said, “seems to me that just proves that that girl can’t bear to even touch Bella. Or anything related to her.”
“I agree.” Helen nodded. “Otherwise she couldn’t miss seeing the buckle on the flea collar—a white collar, at that.”
“It’s sort of funny, when you think about it.” I glanced at Helen with conspiracy in my gaze. “That girl has never caught on that I change flea collars from time to time, as they expire. The one you cut off was only a month old.”
One summer weekend the comings-and-goings of the niece and her entourage signaled change. The tribe increaseth? No—they vamoosed. I felt no immediate panic because Bella had caught the attention of a recent repairman in Helen’s home. His family accompanied him on the service call, admired Bella—friendly furry that she was—and considered giving Bella a home.
But that prospect fell through. And Bella was demoted from neglected to abandoned.
Although Bella’s predicament tugged my heartstrings, I held fast my resolve not to adopt her. I lacked patience for grooming a longhair cat except on a whim and declined to assume responsibility for a free-roamer, an irreversible pattern. I ranked ownership of a pet as a serious commitment, and my reluctance combined with Bella’s established norms precluded any claim we might make on each other.
Almost immediately a crew began readying Bella’s abode for renters. Amidst that positive activity, Helen decided to quit the occasional feeding of Bella alongside her own cats and instead to place food at the back door of Bella’s home. Could there be any doubt that future occupants would thrill at finding the charming Bella on their doormat? My arrangements of food and water and sleeping basket required no changes. Doubtless, the prevalence of pleasant weather influenced our optimism.
During the following weeks, telltale behavior hinted at the effects of Bella’s demotion. One morning Bella’s meowing startled me as I watered a patch of newly sprouted grass near the driveway. She eyed me while I “talked” to her, and she “talked back.” Quite unlike her infrequent single meows. One afternoon when I sat on my porch steps reading the mail, she strolled past me, declining the usual petting session, and settled in a flowerbed out of my sight. One evening when I returned from running errands, I surprised her in the living room—Who left that kitchen door open?—where she’d just shared a spray pattern on my TV cabinet.
Another evening as we sat together on my backyard bench, Bella rolled onto her back, inviting a typical tummy rub. When my attention grew lax, she grabbed my arm, signaling me to continue.
“Ouch!”
For a moment my surprise disguised the pain.
“Bella! You bit me!”
Bella escaped the bench. Two punctures on the inside of my lower arm. Bella scrambled over the wooden gate as I hurried to perform first aid on my wound. During the next couple days Bella was nowhere in sight while I tended my injury, grateful that no infection occurred. A few days later when she visited my yard, she eyed me from safe distances. She may have sensed my cold shoulder, yet I imagined the uninterrupted allowance of food and water warmed her innards if not her heart.
By the time the autumn equinox appeared, Bella had formed a perfect fit with the young girl in the family who rented the house with the doormat. I caught up with the grandmother and the girl strolling on the sidewalk one afternoon. My sincere albeit hasty welcome to the neighborhood apparently held little sway over their reclusive lifestyle. Though I willed it to be more, our interaction resulted in little more than smiling and nodding. Rare glimpses of Bella reassured me she was well cared for, and the homeschooled child was never far from her.
One morning after the menu of seasons had served up a year, my doorbell rang. The grandmother and the girl needed a box to hold Bella for a trip to the vet. It took me only a couple minutes to oblige them, and they soon drove away from the cul‑de‑sac. The following days accumulated into a week while I waited expectantly for news of Bella’s recuperation. Since my welcoming overture to the family had failed to encourage communication, I hesitated to inquire.
A few months later, the family quietly moved from our neighborhood.
❧
During the year leading up to the taciturn family’s departure, I had accepted Bella’s absence from my everyday life. Yet just a week after they moved I found myself glancing up from my kitchen sink to look out the window, fully expecting to see Bella trotting across my driveway on her appointed rounds. Sadness splintered my spirit. I yearned for Bella’s presence.
Was she alive or dead? Perhaps Bella never recovered from the visit to the vet’s and lay tucked in a shoebox, buried in the backyard across the street.
Maybe Bella thrived in a new neighborhood with the quiet little girl, meeting strangers who fell in love with her as I had.
With that thought, I tingled with expectation.
❦
A Summer Walk
by Tamara Britton
After school let out for the summer, there wasn’t much to do at home except work on chores, play in the fields or the dirty creek behind the house, or climb the maple in our front yard, pulling off the brown seed pouches and letting them propel to the ground. My favorite chore, if it could even be called that, was walking to Bruner’s Grocery. We lived in a small neighborhood that rested in between a city and a town, and Bruner’s was the closest place in walking distance to get groceries. Bruner’s was the love child of a large grocery store and a convenience store without the gas, and was probably the size of the produce section of most any grocery chain. The isles were narrow and the shelves were overcrowded with necessities. The floor had black-and-white-checked linoleum with occasional squares peeling up at the corners, or missing altogether. What I liked most about it was the butcher section in the back, because of all the meat they had displayed behind the glass window. I would tell the large man in his red-splattered, white apron that I needed a pound of lunchmeat, and he’d slice it right there in front of me. He’d weigh it and wrap it in white paper, write a price on it with a black grease pencil, and hand it to me, smiling the whole time.
Sally worked the solitary register. She was a very nice lady, probably in her forties, with sandy brown hair that was always pulled back. Her face looked older than I thought she was, and her lips were hugged with wrinkles. Mom said that was from her regular cigarette breaks. Sally was infatuated with Tom Walker, my favorite policeman. It was a usual scene to see him leaning near the entrance and talking to her. They weren’t dating, but they should have been. She’d tell me to have a good day, and he’d tell me not to talk to strangers, as I’d leave with my cold treasure. On the walk home, I would hum my favorite tunes, inventory the various litter in the ditches, and rub the thick, greasy numbers on the package of meat until my fingertips were black.
The trek to Bruner’s was about a mile and a half, round trip. From our house the road made an S, curving around a row of houses and hay fields. It was shorter to walk across the fields than stay on the road, but I had quit doing that after I stepped on a snake. Around the last curve of the hayfield, another section of houses began as the road straightened. A quarter mile up was a left turn, and then it was another quarter mile to Bruner’s. There was a short cut, but I didn’t take that very often. Immediately past the hayfields was a dirt road behind the last row of houses that went directly to the back of Bruner’s. It was easier to walk. However, an old lady that took delight in yelling at young kids for no reason lived in the first house. I was afraid of her and avoided her at all costs.
Once, when I was twelve and bored, I volunteered to run to the store on an errand. Of course there was no actual running since I enjoyed time away from my younger brother and older sister (mostly my sister). Mom needed a pack of cigarettes, a pound of bologna, and a half-pound of cheese. There was no age limit for cigarettes back then; I bought Mom cigarettes all the time. Salem Lights, please. I jumped off the front cement steps, walked across the dry, brittle lawn, and continued down the gravel driveway on my journey, a crisp five-dollar bill in my right front pocket.
The black road was hot under my bare feet. I walked bare-foot most of the time in the sweltering Oklahoma summers, to keep cool. Today, the black tarry areas in the road were bubbling. I pressed my big toe into the bubble: it burst its black goo on my flesh. I felt no pain. After many years of walking, my feet were just so covered with calluses and thick skin that they weren’t sensitive anymore.
I could smell the essence of freshly cut hay permeate the air. My nostrils flared, and I could feel the delicate lining inside my nose burn. The fields were cut but not bundled yet. It looked like someone came along and flattened the hay. A black crow was in the left field pecking at something hidden from my view, squawking at his struggle. A tasty afternoon snack, I assumed. When I started to reach the end of the first curve, I heard a vehicle coming from behind, so I meandered to the left side of the road to let it pass. The old, red truck slowed as it approached me, and then came to a complete stop. It had a white camper that had faded paint and aluminum-foiled windows. An older man leaned out of his open window and looked at me strangely.
“Care for a ride, little missy?” he asked.
“No thanks,” I answered. “I enjoy walking.”
Cars didn’t travel this road often. I knew most of the neighbors and their vehicles, but this one was new to me.
“Are you sure? It’s awful hot out here.” The way he stared at me made me feel uncomfortable.
“Yeah, I’m sure.” My voice cracked a little bit.
“You don’t sound too sure.”
“No, I am. I’m okay, thanks.” I tripped over my words.
He slowly started to drive away. I could see him staring at my reflection in his oversized mirror. He drove so slowly, I could have easily caught up with him. I moved to the middle of the road so that he couldn’t see me anymore, and he sped up. Rust clung to the edges of the camper. The windows of the door were also lined with aluminum. Dangling below the door were some rusty stairs that were folded up and hung with a black, rubber bungee cord. He drove around the next curve and out of view.
Warm air entered my lungs; it seemed so fresh, like I had been holding my breath for some time. The sun was stinging my skin and moisture beaded on my forehead. A droplet traveled beside my left eye and slid down my left cheek, leaving a clean trail on my dusty skin, and then dangled from my chin for a moment before diving onto my red t-shirt. I lifted my shoulder and wiped my sleeve against my face to dry it. I slowed my pace and started around the next curve.
The red truck was barely visible over the smashed hay, coming around the other end of the curve, headed back my way. I moved to the right side of the road this time and looked away, hoping he wouldn’t stop again. Why is he coming back? What does he want from me? He drove on the wrong side of the road to get closer, coming to a complete stop when he was almost next to me.
“Are you sure you don’t need a ride? I really don’t mind. I could use the company.”
“I’m sure I don’t need one, thanks anyway.” I stepped a little more to the right, off the road a little bit to get far enough away from his truck. The ditch gravel was sharper than that of my driveway and sliced through my thick-skinned heels, but I wasn’t about to step closer to him.
“Aw, come on. I won’t bite.” He stared at me as he put the truck in reverse to keep up with me. “That’s a nice haircut.”
“It’s called a pixie.” Why am I talking to him? I scolded myself.
“A pixie, huh. That’s like a fairy, ain’t it, flying around with wings and givin’ wishes with a wand.”
“Something like that. It’s just short for the summer.” Look forward. Keep walking.
He kept staring as he backed up. I hunched my shoulders forward, trying to hide my small bosoms with my loose shirt, but I couldn’t hide them completely. He noticed and stared at my chest. For the first time since I started getting breasts, I was ashamed of them and wished they weren’t there. “I really do like to walk.” Please go away!
“But it’s real hot out here. I have some ice water and can take you anywhere you need to go.” He leered. I could see him looking at my legs and began wishing that I hadn’t worn shorts.
“No, really, I’m fine. I don’t need a ride. I’m almost there.” I tried to be convincing.
“Well, where are you going?” He stopped and moved the gear lever to the right.
”My grandma’s house,” I lied. “She lives right there.” I pointed across the field to old lady Crawford’s house, hoping he believed me and would leave.
“Well, if you’re sure, little lady,” he said to my back as I was passing by him.
“I’m sure. I’m almost there.”
He started driving away, slowly, and I could feel his eyes on me. I knew he was staring at me through his mirror. I wanted to take off running, but it was so hot that I knew it was a bad idea. Besides, he was leaving.
I couldn’t hear the truck anymore, and my heart no longer felt as though it were ten times normal size. A metallic flavor invaded my mouth, and I licked my dry lips. I felt tears forming in my eyes and blinked them away. I wanted to turn around and go home, but that was the direction he had driven, and I was afraid that if he saw me coming the other way, he might think I changed my mind and come after me. Taking a deep breath, I continued my journey, feeling violated even though I was untouched.
The blacktop was beginning to get hotter so I picked up my pace a little, wincing at the tenderness that remained on my now-sensitive heels. There was no breeze at all. The tornados that traveled through northeastern Oklahoma in the springtime sucked up all the loose air and left a summer of dry, sultry stillness. Hot, dry air was very difficult to breathe, even without exertion.
Some crows were fighting in the field behind me. It reminded me of my sister and me. Lena was older than me, and for as long as I remembered we were fighting. She was very bossy and would bark orders at me. If I didn’t do what she wanted, she would grab my arm. Not my arm—my bicep. She would plant her nails on each side of my bicep and squeeze. It always stopped me in my tracks and left me in tears. It was one of the most painful things I’d ever felt. Mom told me that one day, when we were very young, my aunt Marla came by to visit and saw me and my sister sitting in the front yard, yelling at each other at the top of our lungs. Marla asked what was going on, because we were normally quiet. My mom simply replied, “Tina finally learned how to talk back.” I wished Lena were here with me now. I’d rather have argued with her than see that man again. I reached my hand in my pocket and crumbled the five-dollar bill in my palm, holding tight to it, my comforting connection to Mom.
Unfortunately, focusing on my thoughts, I hadn’t realized that there was the hum of an engine approaching from behind. Maybe it wasn’t him. My chest throbbed painfully with the drumming of my adrenaline pulse. The red truck slowed down next to me and my throat hurt as a lump of fear grasped to my vocal cords.
“Hey pretty lady,” he said, as though he met me for the first time.
I opened my mouth but said nothing. I just looked at him. His hair was mostly brown with hints of gray around the temples, and he had a bushy mustache that was in dire need of a trim. He was wearing a striped shirt with the sleeves cut off at the shoulder. The arm that was hanging out the window had a tattoo of a pair of dice on it with the ones facing forward.
“Snake eyes,” he hissed, noticing my direction of attention. I was startled; I hadn’t realized that I had stopped walking and began again. He grabbed my arm and pulled me close.
“Go away,” I commanded as I pulled loose, a red handprint on my arm.
“Aw, come on,” he insisted. “I know yer hot.”
I ignored him and kept walking.
“Yer sweatin’ awful bad. Hop in and I’ll getcha there faster.”
“I said no! Leave me alone!” My voice came back strong and confident.
The truck inched forward little by little, keeping even with my stride. “You sure? I don’t mind givin’ ya a lift.” He smiled.
“Go on now!” I demanded. I could feel my face getting hot, but not from the sun.
He slowly pulled forward, hesitated, and drove away from me. Looking at his license plate as he passed, I invisibly wrote his plate number on my left hand with my right forefinger: LRRH81.
I saw him turning left into a driveway up the road and picked up my pace. I turned left at the end of the field, before the first house, the home of the lady I feared less than the truck at this moment. I was certain he wasn’t able to see the direction of my escape from his angle, so I tried to walk as fast as possible. The freshly cut hay scratched the delicate flesh on my ankles and calves leaving thin, red lines and small, swollen welts.
I ducked behind a thick row of trees and bushes. Hidden now from the road, I waited, panting and sweating, hoping he really hadn’t seen where I went. After a long moment, I wondered if he actually had turned around at all. The muscles of my small thighs pulsated from squatting for so long. I heard the engine and leaned further in the bush. I looked through a gap and saw the devil truck slowly drive by, oblivious of my location. Thank God! I sat still for a few moments before daring to move and then craned my neck as I leaned into the shaking bush.
Just when I thought I was in the clear, old lady Crawford yelled in my direction from her vegetable garden.
“Look now!” She squawked as she threw a rock my direction. “What are you doing? Get out of my yard you little mutt!”
I slowly stood up, leaned around the bush, and looked toward the road. I took a few steps. When I stepped forward, a blackberry limb from my shelter pulled and snagged the back of my shirt leaving a tiny hole. The dirt was soothing and soft on my aching feet, covering my hay scratches and gravel cuts. I stood still a moment longer until I knew he was completely out of sight before stepping free from my camouflage.
“I told you. Get out!” She marched my direction, grabbed a rake that was leaning against the fence, and swung it over the top as though she had a goal of decapitation.
I looked at her. I wanted to say something, to run, but all I could do was look. I started to walk into the clearing between the bushes and the dirt road when I heard the unmistakable sound of that engine. I was only halfway across the opening, and froze in fear as I slowly turned toward the road. From her vantage point, Mrs. Crawford could see the truck before me. She looked that direction, then at me. I could see her face shift from crinkled anger to staring concern as she looked at the truck again.
“Go now!” She insisted. “Run! Go!”
I turned and looked down the dirt road to the back of Bruner’s, about three blocks away, filled my lungs with hot air, and then sprinted down the dirt road. Even though I was shaded by trees, the air was hot and humid, yet mildly comforting. I could still hear the truck and figured he could see me between the houses.
A man was in his backyard showering his garden at the back fence with a hose. He raised the hose above the fence line, and allowed a misty breeze to caress my skin. It was more refreshing than a glass of iced cold lemonade. Dogs were barking in nearby yards and everything seemed normal. The hum of Bruner’s air conditioner drowned out the noise from the truck’s engine and knew that everything was going to be okay.
I rounded the side of Bruner’s and could see a vision of encouragement, a black and white car with Twin Cities Patrol in large, gold-edged letters down the side. The blue, yellow, and red light rack sat like a crown atop my prince. Tom was visiting Sally. I looked up the road and saw the red truck with a white camper turn the corner, coming down the hill. I shook my head and moved toward the door. Too late dummy! Tom opened the door for me and took a step outside, looking around. The truck slowed down, and the man looked at us.
“Is that the man?” Tom asked, to my surprise.
“Yes,” I sputtered. How did he know?
I stuck out my tongue, and Tom glared a warning at the man. “Mrs. Crawford called,” he said. “She said a little urchin was in trouble. I figured it was you, when I saw you hop around the corner.”
I looked up at him and smiled. I turned inside, and walked to the back of the store with confident steps; the cool linoleum was refreshing on my wounded feet. “One pound of bologna and a half-pound of American cheese, please.” I said, my hand squeezing tight to the crumpled five-dollar bill.
What If?
by Kerith Johnson
I've come to the edge
of the path I've been walking
A canyon stretches below
cutting off my way.
But you're calling me to follow, onto better things
But I cannot cross it,
I cannot even try.
The rocks below are sharp
The other side too far
The distance is too wide
And the hope in me is fading
And I hear your voice behind me, asking me to follow
but the rocks below are sharp
and the distance is too wide.
And yet your still small voice, with gentleness continues
Calling me forward, asking me to jump...
But what if I fall
and am lost amongst the darkness?
What if I am bruised
and crushed upon the rocks?
What if I am weak,
too weak to cross the distance?
What if I'm too small
too small to even try?
And what if you allow me
to try and then to fail?
And what if you're unable
to aid in what you ask?
What if I'm abandoned
to learn this way alone?
What if I am crushed
just to see if I would follow?
Yet still I hear your still small voice, asking me in turn-
But what if…
What if you soar?
What if your feet leave the ground,
and your heart leaves the ground,
and your hands lose control.
and you actually jump?
What if your mind leaves the doubt,
and your spirit believes,
and you find yourself in my hands.
What if you soar?
“There is a Fountain”/Crocuses
by Mark Hall
“There is a fountain…”
These words open a lovely old hymn of restoration and hope. Winters have always been for me a season both hated and loved; loved for the way I hated them, and conversely, hated for the way I loved them. In its ragged, biting coldness, I am wounded afresh, and in turn, magnificently mended and healed for another season ahead. In these days, I make what I can of the meager daylight hours, and the better temperatures of days above forty degrees to get out of my home, and wander my land. There has always been a holy sense of connectedness for me to my mere four acres here in Oklahoma, and I never cease discovering wonders that would make a National Geographic crew green with envy. This is also the time to check fluid levels, air tires and start things, drag extension cords, air hoses and battery chargers out, and grease stuff on warmer days. I leave my house, armed with my large Stanley, full of coffee, creamer, and a “wee dram” of good Irish whisky, in a backpack along with some other goodies, and my two-meter radio. Like most mechanical things, I tend to need a judicious application of “antifreeze” to get underway, when cold. Layered not only for warmth but also for padding, lest my pudgy self decides to take a tumble, I take up a driftwood walking staff and, looking like a camouflaged old wizard, start my noble odyssey. There isn’t anything that escapes my attention. The birds are making a merry racket, and the big fox squirrels are running from tree to tree, when they’re not leaping limb from limb. A Springfield .40 S&W is staying a nice, toasty 98.6 degrees in a chest pocket, in case of surprises. But I don’t think there will be any. Nonetheless, as the Beatles would have it: “Happiness is a warm gun.” I heartily concur.
Retrieving a small note pad and pen I make notes in transit. I’m still in “Low 1” range, moving with all the grace and speed of a Tattooine Sandcrawler in Star Wars. I take notes that ramble like leaves caught in an eddy of wind between fence and outbuilding. No one reads them but me, so form ain’t so critical, and spelling ins’t eether. There are a bunch of things I’ll be doing over the next few weeks. My little Ford tractor, which I dubbed “The Mechanical Jackass,” starts after a dose of ether, and after a few sooty backfires from the tailpipe, he’s up and clearing his lungs. Tires are OK. My school bus? Nope. “Wide Wanda” isn’t going to say squat. The battery charger is connected to both cord and battery, and all fluid levels are OK. I’ll be back to crank her up later. I shut off the tractor and continue southward toward the property line, and the end of my little Shire.
Crossing my pasture, and looking at fence lines, I startle a couple of rabbits, who waste no time making their exit. They have nothing to fear, though. I have some of their domesticated cousins in my freezer.
The patch where I planted corn waits for me to dig it up. Further back, I notice two trees that I knew would succumb to the winter and die. Taking out a roll of florescent plastic tape, I tie pieces of it around the trunks of trees and brush I will have to take down. I follow a stream that crosses my property and find the tracks of raccoon, possum, and coyote. After crossing the stream, I find turkey tracks, and I’m happy. They are making a comeback, and I hope they stay.
Following the fence line once again, I come back out into an open area of grass, now brown and beaten down by the winter. This is near the end of my property, and I have a two-passenger ladder tree stand in a large tree nearby. Testing its metal, then testing my mettle, I gingerly climb up into the stand to survey my kingdom, as the sun deems to grace me with a bit of a ray through the soft down of cloud cover.
Pouring myself a cup of coffee, I take out my radio and call to a local repeater, to see how many other liars like me are awake and on the air at 6:30 a.m. on a Saturday morning. I hear the repeater identify its callsign in Morse code, followed by continued silence. I respond, in case someone is reaching for their coffee pot and turning their radio on, with “Kilo Echo Five Lima India Bravo, monitoring,” and then I leave the sleeping world to its own devices. I love how quiet this “office” is.
While in my perch, I sketch out how I will prepare a food plot for deer. My trail cameras have been recording movement for several months now, and the thought of having a nice little place where I can hunt appeals to me. I never hunt public land, for good reason. I’m really allergic to lead in flying form. Finding a hunting lease I can afford has been an impossible dream. After two cups of coffee, I am actually a bit more flexible, and I descend from my perch a bit more gracefully than I ascended. Following the fence line back to my shop and barn, I notice wisps of fur in the barbwire here and there. All deer-colored, of course. Then I see something that makes me grind to a halt: In the brown, dry grass, ahead of me, little dark green spears are pushing defiantly upward toward the hard, gray sky. Several more clumps are nearby, and in spite of remnants of snow, they too have defied the resistance of the cold, hard earth, in a paean of praise and honor to One Who defines all things, times and seasons. I know that I will return here over the next few days, when more of their plucky little kin will make their presence known to winter, and will offer a burst of color to make it ashamed—whites pure as the light of the sun, yellow as beautiful as its warming rays, and the deepest purples to attest that even the night can’t keep the day and hope of spring away. The little crocuses, tiny witnesses to the Resurrection Hope and the coming of spring, in the earth, and in the human heart.