The American Dream
by Hannah McCage
Behind the face of every stranger is a frightened child, lonely for the comfort of a womb to crawl into. Beneath the ocean of wrinkles drowning old men extend the warm tips of fingers reaching for the moon and the stars. For the heavens above.
These men and children are playful bandits of misery and love. They claim the streets are a warm bed, and a good night’s sleep is the dream of dead soldiers and the discipline of living mannequins.
I met a man of bones and shadow who sang with a broken tongue, about duty and trash, about youthful days chasing life by the tail and the head. Tunes of heartache, like a man feels in his feet after walking for miles just to feel the breeze. Songs of changing weather and anxiety from the thunder and clouds.
He sang to me slowly with a voice full of sorrow, nurturing each word as he spoke: “Garbage country. . . by God, the streets are gold. . . my pa taught me. . . where was I to go?”
He was such a sad and lovely man whose face I would never know. A lonely child, clinging to ragged clothes and newspaper blankets in the cold. Held up only by an old wooden cane and the songs he sang.
He was starving mad, hungry for the American Dream. The world was his friend and the world was his enemy.
The Borgia Apartment
by Pamela Chew
I have entered contemporary religious expression
On a cloudy Tuesday in October.
We are all pressed together,
But my eyes have space enough
To see Gaugin in wood.
I remember him in Brittany,
Having fanatic visions of nuns
Swirling in circles, preparing for flight.
And Matisse, this chasuble
Quietly sewn in red and yellow silk
Screams faith.
My fingers press the glass case
And form a cross on my reflection.
Black Leather
by Marc Cogman
She said her Perfect Man would have one,
an old leather jacket, worn ten years.
So I went out and bought you, on
Newbury Street, down at the punkrock end,
Where the skaters whizz by like stray bullets.
You fit snug at the shoulders, even then,
short-waisted, cut for the rough road.
A “motorcycle jacket” you’re often called,
the way the perforation along the square shoulders
suggests a venting-in of rushing wind.
I’ve never owned a motorcycle, not even a fast car.
Nevertheless, you cap off the cliché
I’m willing to be: boots and tattoos,
outlaw chic, armor-skin, wild animal hide.
I couldn’t afford you but I’m convinced
you’ve been worth it. Folks from every circle
have stopped to compliment your rugged beauty,
fashionistas and rockers, even the highway-worn
men at truck stops, nodding approval as they climb
back on their bikes to spray dust across the parking lots.
You were all I needed for warmth on lonely cross-
continental treks, all I needed for storage, walking
to cafés with pen and pad and cigarettes.
I know it was you that caught the eyes of girls
in dim saloons, you that made me seem darker,
brooding against the walls. And on dark, chilly nights
in Charlestown, you propped up my scowl and kept
muggers poised but reluctant, thinking
he’s not worth the trouble, don’t risk it.
These recent years, I like you best in L.A. winter,
the grey weeks near the turn of the year, the temperature
dipping into high forties by the beaches at night.
She found her man some time ago,
perfect to her I’m sure.
Their babe nearly crawls now.
But you and I remain, in the sensible apartment, in the four-door sedan.
Draped over a chair, in fading window light
you still have the rebel hunch, like ten years ago, like
you’re still as tough and wild as when we were new.
But scars have appeared: a red speck of oil paint dots your cuff,
some lost drop of blood, where I brushed an unfinished canvas.
And a handful of change, placed in your mutilated left pocket
would eventually lead me back from whence I came.
A Shelf of My Grandmother’s Books
by T. Allen Culpepper
She had collected the Harvard Classics too,
in their dark green faux-leather covers, but I
have chosen the other set, from a publisher called Black’s,
bound in red cloth embossed with black and gold,
Smythe-sewn spine, small print, and rough-cut pages,
because the editors’ quirky choices—
they sometimes get it right, as with Shakespeare,
Hawthorne and Ibsen, Byron, Dostoevsky—
but Bret Harte? And who the hell is Haggard?
But the randomness reminds me of her,
who without discrimination read
voraciously—romances, mysteries,
biographies, how-to books, the Bible—
often three books, or four, simultaneously.
Intelligent but from hard times, she’d never
been to college, though she dreamed of it,
wanted to write, took a correspondence
course in writing children’s stories, assignments
picked out on a little Olivetti,
sent in by mail, and then her anxious wait
for the reader’s letters, her certificate.
She and I sometimes got on, sometimes
not so much; she made the move “back home”
when I was an independent teen,
not wanting all the attention she longed to give me.
Only later did I want to hear
her stories, and by then, it was hard—
her hearing had been badly damaged when she
worked on radios during the war, and a plane
took off unexpectedly when she
had forgotten her ear protection,
and her deafness grew worse and worse with age;
much later, an accident injured her eyes, and then
she become displaced in time, unsure
if she was speaking to me or to my father.
And then I felt remorse for my behavior,
regretful about what I might have learned.
Often I suspect that my love of books
comes from her, so upon her death,
the remembrance that I wanted was
a set of books reflective of the desire
for education that she always harbored.
Despite our conflicts and her flaws, despite
how she become impossible near the end,
I loved her, and I know she helped shape
the career path that I would take.
Perhaps her influence primed me as a poet.
The Long Goodbye
by Nina Smith
The crackling fire had dwindled, leaving a bed of glowing embers and a few wispy trails of smoke snaking up the chimney on that cold November night in 1950. Sleepy sentence fragments and occasional chuckles had replaced the boisterous laughter and animated conversation of earlier in the evening.
“We’d better head for home,” said Jo Bolding, our neighbor. “It’s getting late.”
As she yawned, stretching her arms high into the air, her husband Floyd rose from his chair and began putting on his coat. The Boldings, our closest neighbors, lived within walking distance of our house and often spent cold winter evenings with our family sitting in front of the fireplace, eating popcorn and telling stories.
Before the door closed behind them, Mama grabbed a broom and started sweeping.
“You girls, pick up these newspapers,” she said as she tipped a cane-bottomed chair backward to retrieve wayward popcorn flakes from underneath. “And then you need to get ready for bed.”
“Don’t put those in the fireplace,” Dad said, watching me pick up the newspapers we’d folded into cone-shaped containers to hold our individual servings of popcorn. “They might catch the chimney on fire.” Wadding up the butter-stained papers, I headed toward the wastebasket in the kitchen. Heaven knew I didn’t want to catch the chimney on fire. I’d only seen it happen a couple of times and it terrified me. The accumulation of creosote in the flue ignited, sending a column of flames up and out the chimney with a deafening roar. Mama extinguished it by pouring a pan of water on the burning logs in the firebox, creating a cloud of steam.
It was past our usual bedtime—10:30 or later—and we’d made our final preparations for the night. We washed, dried, and put away supper dishes. Mama made sure the cat was outside. Dad banked the fire for the night and we three girls had donned our nightclothes and settled into bed when the phone rang three long rings—the coded signal indicating that this particular call on our party line was meant for the Lowery household. Again, three longs rings.
“Who could be calling this time of night?” Jerry said, rushing through our bedroom buttoning his jeans. Barefooted and with his shirt slung over his shoulder, he hurried toward the dining room, a look of concern on his face.
“Hello,” Dad said into the mouthpiece of the wooden wall-mounted telephone. “Yes. What? What did you say?” A long, long pause. “Nan!” he roared.
Mama rushed from the kitchen into the dining room where she met Dad stumbling toward the kitchen. “War Department…about Ted,” he said, choking on the words. “He’s…he’s missing.” Dad rushed out the kitchen door into the backyard and our mother, sobbing, ran toward their bedroom. Frightened and confused, my siblings and I just stood there, waiting.
“I’m gonna go talk to Dad,” Jerry said, going out the kitchen door. After what seemed a long time, Jerry came back in and said Dad was lying on the ground, hugging himself and crying.
“Mama?” I said through the closed bedroom door. “Mama, are you okay?”
She didn’t answer. It was as if their grief was too consuming to include us. I stood outside their pain not knowing what to do or say—frightened envisioning my dad, whom I’d never seen cry, lay on the ground in the backyard wailing in misery as my mother, behind her closed bedroom door, was crying without pause. Having never lost a close family member, I didn’t know how to act or feel. I’d been to numerous funerals for acquaintances in the community, but death had never taken someone I loved. And now, judging by my parents’ reactions, I feared our oldest brother Ted might be dead. After awhile, not knowing anything else to do, the four of us went to bed, leaving our parents to their grief.
Early the next morning, Mama’s voice, heavy with sorrow, penetrated the wall separating their sleeping porch from our bedroom.
“Nina, go take Ted’s picture off the piano,” she said. The awfulness of what had happened the night before washed over me as I came awake.
“No, leave it there,” Dad said. “We have to learn to live with it.”
A heavy cloud of anguish hung over our family in the days and weeks that followed. Every time the phone rang, my heart pounded praying it might be good news, yet fearful it might be a message that would end our hopes for a happy ending.
In school, I often fantasized that Ted was going to walk through our classroom door, tall and handsome in his uniform, with a big grin on his face. He’d wrap me in his arms and tell me that the army had made a big mistake and everything was going to be just fine. Then Mama and Dad wouldn’t be sad anymore.
After a few months my parents learned that one of the radio stations planned to announce the names of army personnel who had been taken prisoner by the North Koreans. Dad bought new batteries for the radio, and at the designated time my parents stationed themselves near the radio in the dining room. This happened on several occasions with family and friends joining them. Walter and Dessa Shoemake, Jo and Floyd Bolding, and Inez Campbell and her mother Florence sat with the family on a regular basis.
The announcer read the names in alphabetical order. As he neared the L’s, the adults shushed us children and all movement and chatter stopped as we waited to hear his name: Lowery, Theodore. But we never did.
As time passed, my hopes gradually faded and I learned to live with the never-ending hollowness in my life. After a period of three years—the length of time established by army policies and procedures—the War Department officially changed Ted’s status from MIA (Missing In Action) to KIA (Killed In Action).
My mother waited and prayed for a conclusive confirmation of what had happened to her oldest son, but she died thirteen years later in 1963 without any further information. My dad lived with the unresolved mystery forty-six years, until his death in 1996 at ninety-two years of age.
My youngest sister Jonann had always had a special bond with Ted. In 1996, with many of her family responsibilities waning, she launched a concentrated effort to learn as much as she could about Ted’s army life and subsequent death. She got in touch with the Department of the Army and after completing the required paperwork, gained access to Ted’s records. In the process, the Pentagon’s Office of Repatriation and Family Affairs assigned Linda Henry to be Jonann’s contact person. One of the missions of that department was to recover, identify and return remains of army personnel to their families. Jonann and sometimes other siblings attended meetings conducted by the Repatriation Department to keep family members informed of their progress. She attended meetings in Washington D.C., Dallas, Ft. Hood in Texas, Oklahoma City, and Tulsa.
Through chance meetings and other contacts, Jonann discovered that Ted’s Company held annual reunions and we went to two of those in Branson, Missouri. In talking with the men who had served with Ted, we learned many details of what army life had been like for him before and during his time in Korea.
We also learned the truth of what happened that day in November.
The First Sergeant of Ted’s Company took my brother Jerry aside and told him things he didn’t tell Jonann or me. He told him that in late October the Eighth Cavalry Regiment had advanced to within thirty-five miles of the Chinese border—their purpose being to relieve the ROK elements of the I Corps in the area. With much of the North Korean Army destroyed, the war seemed to be nearing a conclusion. In their march toward the north, Ted, who was the unit’s mapmaker and usually worked in Headquarters, had been assigned to drive a jeep with a major as his passenger.
On the morning of November first, the Second Battalion clashed with soldiers clearly identified as Chinese Communist Forces and when dusk fell that evening, enemy soldiers were on three sides of the Eighth Cavalry—the north, west, and south. At 11:45 p.m., the U.S. Commanders issued orders to evacuate and at that time the Headquarters portions of the First, Second, and Third Battalions began to move out.
By the next morning, Ted’s Company was running low on ammunition and rations were scarce. With pancake mix the only food they had left, the First Sergeant told the cook to cook every damned bit of it and they ate pancakes all day long. During the day, from atop two separate hills, they heard the sound of two Chinese buglers, one standing on each hill, bugling hour after hour.
With the entire area swarming with Chinese Communist Forces and with bridges destroyed and all roads blocked, retreating in vehicles became impossible. The officers in charge instructed their soldiers it was every man for himself, and that they were on their own in trying to escape. Finding themselves against impossible odds, the men with Ted decided to wait until dark and try to walk out.
With darkness came the enemy. Wearing tennis shoes to silence their movements, Chinese soldiers infiltrated Ted’s Company and engaged in hand-to-hand combat. “They absolutely slaughtered us,” Ted’s First Sergeant told Jerry. “Only a few of us got out.”
A small number of soldiers found themselves at the bottom of a deep ravine and amidst the blinding glare of intermittent flares and with gunshots coming from every direction, a soldier crawled up the bank to the top of the ravine “to assess the situation and look for a possible way out,” the First Sergeant said.
Within seconds of reaching the summit, the soldier dropped and rolled to the bottom of the ravine where fellow soldiers turned him over. “Who is it?” someone asked.
“Lowery,” another answered. My brother had been shot in the forehead.
“Thank God he was killed instantly,” the First Sergeant told Jerry. “You wouldn’t have wanted a loved one to be taken prisoner by the Chinese Communists.” He said Ted was an excellent soldier and a good man; our family should be proud of him.
Over the years, magazines and newspapers published articles about American soldiers still being held captive by the Chinese government. And even though I knew the improbability of Ted being one of the prisoners, the articles had served to keep alive a faint glimmer of hope. But now, with the telling of the events of November 2, 1950, by Ted’s First Sergeant, I accepted the final truth and was left with only memories, a soft mourning and a quiet peace.
One night about three years ago, while working on a genealogy project on my computer, I Googled “Theodore Emmett Lowery” and a website established by The Korean War Project popped up. There I found two letters in the “Remembrances” section posted by a retired army man named Carlis Huggins. The letters were testimonials of his friendship with an army roommate and buddy he’d had while stationed in Japan fifty years earlier.
MY NAME IS CARLIS I. HUGGINS, I WAS ASSIGHED TO HQ CO, 2d BN, 8th CAV REGT, 1ST CAV DIV IN TOKYO JAPAN FROM NOV 1948 TO APR 1950. THEODORE LOWERY WAS MY BEST FRIEND. WE WORKED IN S-2 DIV OF THE 8TH REGT IN THE PLANS AND OPERATIONS. THEO WAS OUR DRAFTSMAN AND I WAS ASST OPN . WE WORKED WITH MAPS, OVERLAYS AND TRAINING AIDS. I THOUGHT HE WAS FROM BRIARTOWN, OKLA. I DID WRITE TO HIS MOM ABOUT 50 YRS AGO. WOULD LIKE TO HEAR FROM ANY OF HIS FAMILY. I SERVED IN THE REGULAR ARMY FOR 20 YRS AND RETIRED 31 MAY 1969. I LIVE IN MORROW, GEORGIA NOW AND MY ADDRESS IS 6116 LANDOVER CIRCLE, MORROW, GA 30260, TEL # 770-206-0516 IF ANYONE WOULD LIKE, PLEASE CONTACT ME. I ALSO WAS BORN IN 1928, WE WERE THE SAME AGE, I HAVE A COUPLE OF PIC OF THEO AND WOULD SHARE THEM WITH THE FAMILY.
HELLO DEAR FAMILY OF THEO E LOWERY, I SERVED WITY THEO FOR 18 MONTHS IN TOKYO JAPAN. WE WERE ASSIGHED TO THE SAME OFFICE AND SLEPT IN THE SAME ROOM. WE WENT OUT ON THE TOWN TOGETHER AND I CONSIDER THEO ONE OF THE BEST FRIENDS THAT I HAVE EVER HAD, BORROW NONE, HE WAS ONE OF THE NICEST PERSON THAT I HAVE EVER MET AND IT BROKE MY HEARD WHEN I HEARD THAT HE WAS KILLED IN KOREA BACK IN 1950 OR 1951L WOULD LIKE TO HEAR FROM HIS FAMILY. I DO KNOW THAT HE HAD A SWEET MOTHER AS SHE WROTE ME A LETTER ABOUT 50 YRS AGO TELLING ME OF THEO,S DEATH. HOPE I HEAR FROM SOMEONE.
Being too late at night to call an older man a time zone away, I repressed my excitement and resigned myself to wait until the next day to telephone. When morning arrived and, without any idea of what the outcome of the call might be, I braced myself and dialed Carlis’s phone number. As soon as he realized the meaning of the call and that I was one of Ted’s sisters, he became excited and emotional. I heard tears in his voice.
It was a heartwarming experience, finding someone halfway across the country that, having known my brother five decades earlier, still remembered and loved him. Jerry, Jonann and I still talk with Carlis occasionally and exchange pictures and stories about our families.
In 1999, Linda Henry (the family’s contact person in the Pentagon) notified Jonann that she and one of Ted’s nieces needed to submit blood samples to be processed for DNA matching by a laboratory in Hawaii on remains being recovered from North Korea. Jonann and my daughter Lori had blood drawn, packed it on dry ice and mailed it next day delivery to the correct address. Four months later, in April 2000, Jonann received a call from Ms. Henry saying they had results associated with Ted. She couldn’t explain any further what that meant, and said we would have to wait for more conclusive testing.
That phone call happened almost fourteen years ago.
As of today, we are still waiting.
Room Five-O-Four
by Mason Powell
I had never seen pillars of marble so large and robust in my life. They traveled upwards into the night sky and stopped. There, the building grew taller, maybe to more than one hundred floors. I surely hadn’t ever stayed in a hotel this elegant. The doorman got the door then the bellboy got my bags and a man with a disingenuous smile greeted me. His eyes raked my figure. I found this funny considering he was the man behind the counter. The reservations were in order and I was handed my key.
“We wish you a marvelous stay, Mr. Regal!”
Green marble, black marble, and other minerals I was uneducated of painted the lobby’s floor and walls. Frescos embellished the ceiling. Persian rugs and ancient eastern sculptures surrounded a large fountain in the center. Inside the elevator was a highly polished chrome surface where no fingerprints could be found. Room five-o-four lay between five-o-two and five-o-six. I paused at my door and looked down at my key; “504” was engraved neatly in the brass with a red tassel flowing off the end of a skeleton key. I didn’t know hotels still used those. I turned the key and cracked my door when I heard a sound. It was the echoes of a party: people laughing, glasses clinking, and classical music blended together. In this moment, I wanted to turn and leave, but this was my room and it was my right to stay.
I opened the door the rest of the way and saw confetti falling on women and men dressed in ball gowns and tuxedos. They were moving with the music and the three-piece band in the corner looked pompous. My bags were already inside the doorway. The room itself, despite the unexpected party, was elegant, and even from the fifth floor the view was glowing. I wanted to make them all leave. They were accustomed to this lifestyle. I had made it this far by hard work alone. I began to walk towards them when a hand firmly grabbed my shoulder.
“Regal, my boy. I’m glad you made it alright. I was beginning to fret you had lost your way here. Did you bring a tuxedo, like I asked?”
The voice was familiar, and when I turned to look I recognized him as the man who had hired me. He had interviewed me and accepted my internship at his company. He had paid for this room, and these were probably his guests. He had told me after the interview that I reminded him of himself—that I had what it took to rise to the top. I was to start my internship next week and to take up residency in this very room tonight.
“Yes, sir. It’s in my bag.”
“Good,” he said. “Change into the tuxedo in your room, then come and find me.”
At this I was perplexed. I had no idea what was happening, but I did as he said. I went into my room (that was thankfully empty) and changed into my tuxedo. Upon reentry, I felt out of place; we were all dressed the same but I hadn’t been to a formal since prom, which was around two years ago. Everyone was drinking and I was three months away from legal age. I saw Mr. Henry through the cracks between dancers and weaved my way to him.
“I’ve been waiting for someone like you to come along for quite awhile now,” he said, shaking my hand firmly. “Someone who I know I can trust, deep down. Someone I can believe in and help, as I was helped.” He leaned in close to me. “We both know you aren’t like the people gathered here. They’re here because they knew that so-and-so was coming as well. They looked forward to making an appearance and show off their tailored clothes and gorgeous fiancées. Some are here because of who their parents are. But you’re here because I believe in you. You’re here with the knowledge that you can surpass all of them. In time, that is.”
My hand was still tightly clasped in Mr. Henry’s. He spoke in a stately manner, as if he meditated on the words before he spoke. I could tell they came naturally to him and flowed off the tongue after years of practice. I was speechless. I felt honored and humbled, yet still angry that these people were here in my room.
“Thank you, sir,” I said. “I didn’t expect to attend a party tonight. What is the occasion?”
“You’re the occasion, Regal. Every time I welcome someone new to the company I enjoy celebrating their arrival.”
“It’s an honor, sir.”
“Please, call me Henry. We all go by our last names. It’s only a formality. Have some champagne, Regal. It’s all for you.”
This night was full of first-time experiences. Henry handed me a glass of champagne and I took a sip of that bitter stuff. Then a man I had never seen before approached me.
“Hello, Regal,” he said. “I’m Baxter. Are you enjoying your studies at Dartmouth?”
“The semester just came to a close when I got hired by Henry. Overall classes have been enjoyable but a little too easy.”
“Not all are as bright as you, Regal.”
“What is it, Baxter, that brings you here tonight?”
“I was invited here at the request of Henry.”
“And how, Baxter, did you know I was attending Dartmouth?”
“It’s in your file, Regal. This party is for you. Would it not be rude if I didn’t know you and attended your very party?”
“Well, there is some sense in that Baxter,” I said. “Please excuse me.”
I turned away and closed my eyes. It all felt so fake. It was fake. These people were here to see me and I knew no one but Henry. It felt like an experiment, like Henry was testing my wit and composure by exposing me to this dim lifestyle. I had to remain calm. Looking around me, I noticed that everyone held a glass of champagne. Maybe that would do the trick. A butler-esque looking man stood behind a bar pouring drinks. I approached him.
“What’ll it be, Regal?” he asked.
“I’ll take a glass of champagne.”
“The‘62 or the ‘65?”
“I’ll have the ’62,” I said.
He handed me the glass and gave me the same smile the man at the front desk had given me earlier. A woman approached me and asked to dance, which felt kind of backwards. I said yes, and she swooped me to the middle of the room where we began to waltz. We were unnaturally close and she was strikingly beautiful. She stared into my eyes and didn’t say a word. Her expression looked aroused and I felt awkward. She whispered into my ear that I looked handsome and she, too, knew my name. I whispered to her that she looked heavenly, trying to sound corny. She seemed to take it as the greatest compliment ever given and she pulled me tighter.
The song ended. I thanked her for the dance, then approached the bar for more ’62.
With champagne in hand, I turned and examined every face in the room. They took peeks at me and when we met eyes, they smiled. The only person seated in the room was a girl, probably nearing my own age. She was staring at the floor. I felt my heart sink when she looked up at me and gave no smile. She was more beautiful than the dancer—perhaps the prettiest girl there. After one more ’62 I made my way to her.
“What’s your name?” she said in a snappy tone. “Regal?”
“Yes, it is, and what might—”
“Are you enjoying your party? It’s been in the works for weeks. Now you’re here in the spotlight.”
“I didn’t expect it at all. What is your name—”
“You don’t seem to belong here,” she said, once again she cutting me short, “and I don’t wish to be here.”
“Well, this is my loft,” I said. “So I’d say I belong. If you’re not enjoying yourself, why not leave?”
“I’m not allowed to go. Not yet.”
Mr. Henry’s booming voice cut in. “Regal, is the ’62 to your liking? It’s from my personal collection.”
“It’s very good, Henry. I’ve never had champagne quite like it.”
“Is that so? I saw that you shared a dance with Miss Young; she’s taken quite a liking to you. She also has recently modeled for Herman Boyeur’s new fashion line.”
“She is very gorgeous, sir. . . I mean, Henry.”
“There are plenty to choose from Regal. Remember, they’re all here for you.”
I smiled at this thought. For the first time that night I felt comfortable in my new home. I looked around and felt dignified. I remembered the sad girl and knew I had to cheer her up. It was my party and she was my guest. Behind me, her chair was empty. I searched the dancers and she was not there either. The discomfort came back to me and I got more ’62.
More people approached me and they all knew my story. Everything in my interview and a little more was on the table. I learned of different countesses, actors, businessmen, and financers, some present, some not. The last names became a blur and the ’62 lightened my mood. More dances were shared, and the women’s faces looked better and better. In the back of my mind the sad girl and her lonely expression was all I could think of. What did she mean in saying couldn’t leave? I went to my lavatory for the first time and it was as big as my old apartment was. Then back into my bedroom and there I found her.
She was lying on my bed, naked and asleep. I couldn’t believe my eyes. It was as if an angel, at God’s own request, was lying there on my bed. I shut the door behind me and the echo of the party stopped. This woke her from her sleep and she looked up at me calmly. I knew that my guests would miss me if I was gone too long, but this room was mine. I remembered what Henry had said in a fatherly manner: They’re all here for you.
She was different from the rest and that’s what drew me to her. I wanted to make her happy. She smiled at me. I blushed. Like a pillar of red granite I stood there. She was too heavenly to defile and it seemed too good to be true but her veracity was present in that room. She laughed, probably at my expression and gestured me forward. I sat on the edge of the bed and she wrapped her arms around me. Chills were sent through my blood and every hair stood on its roots. Then a knock at my door came and my stomach lunged. I leapt from her grasp.
“One minute, sir. . . madam. . .whoever!” I choked on my words. “I’ll be out in a moment’s notice!” She laughed even harder at this event, and I shushed her.
“Why are you in here?” I whispered.
“You’re the famous Regal. I want to get to know you better.”
“Like this? This is not appropriate!”
“I’m sorry to disappoint you,” she said sadly, pulling the covers over her head.
“No. No. I want to get to know you too, just not like this. Not now, at my own party.”
No reply came from beneath the sheets so I pulled them off of her.
“What’s your name, girl?”
She looked up at me. “I’m known by several different names,” she said. “But my father calls me Miss Henry.”
Phantasmagoria
by Brianna Sanow
Rain is sliding down the window pane in a thick layer, as though someone is aiming a garden hose directly at it. I’m sitting at the kitchen table slowly and carefully enjoying the bowl of cereal set before me. Wilson sits across from me, staring at a newspaper dated two days ago. He’s not so much staring at it as he is looking straight through it, into something inside his own mind.
I enjoy myself more every day living in this house. Nothing ever happens, which is precisely why I like it. Usually things turn from dismal to worse until I’m moved somewhere else. And the cycle keeps repeating itself. I hold on to the thought that maybe this time it’s different, that maybe I found where I belong, at least as much as a person like me can belong somewhere. At this point I’ve learned not to think too optimistically so as to save myself from inevitable disappointment, but for now I can’t stop myself from hoping.
Wilson is probably in his early thirties, although he carries himself as someone much older. He has a plain yet handsome face, noticeably strong hands, and the posture of a man who has given up. Although I’m not positive yet what he’s given up on, it seems it may be the pursuit of having a happy life.
“I’m sorry to bring you into this,” Wilson says. “I’m a mess.”
I put the spoon I’m holding down into my bowl, slightly surprised by the unusual discharge of words. I’ve been here for four weeks and have had close to no conversation with the man who has taken me in.
“This is the happiest home I’ve ever lived in,” I tell him. For reasons I can’t grasp, an expression forms on his face as though what I have said makes him very sad, but he gives me a lingering look, as though he thinks he might understand.
Wilson sighs, grabbing his face with his veiny hands. “My wife died six months ago,” he says, struggling to get the words out, as though maybe he’d never spoken them before. “She was never able to have her own children. We’d made plans long ago to be foster parents, to adopt eventually, but then…she wasn’t able to.”
“I’m very sorry,” I tell him, and I mean it. I hate the word “sorry,” really. How is it that the same word that is an appropriate response for accidentally bumping into someone or interrupting them mid-sentence is also a valid reply to a disclosure of deep grief? I hope the sincerity shows through in my voice. I’m unsure of what else I can say.
Sometimes when terrible things happen to people it makes them calloused and they don’t care when they see other people in pain anymore. My biggest fear is that I might one day become one of those people, so when someone tells me something really sad or fucked up that’s happened to them, I try to focus on it for as long as possible and imagine what they might be feeling. My psychologist tells me I shouldn’t do this. She says it’s not healthy to assume other people’s problems as my own, and that instead I should strive to cheer someone up if they’re feeling sad. Even though she endured years of college to earn the entitlement of being a professional giver of life advice, I’m not convinced Dr. Alma always knows what she’s talking about. After all, ministers don’t tell jokes during funeral services; they deliver eulogies and say a lot of sad shit that makes everyone listening cry even harder.
My cereal is getting soggy so I start spooning it into my mouth again, all the while trying to guess what it might feel like to have the person you love the most die. I’ve never known anyone who died. Not really. My dad died when I was an infant, but mostly that just makes it seem like I never had a dad at all. He shot himself in the head while sitting on a couch in the living room of the house where I spent the first thirteen years of my life. The only reason I know how he died is because once I read my file when Dr. Alma had to step out of her office during one of our sessions to calm down a patient who’d shown up in hysterics. I guess I was in a crib just a few feet away from the couch when it happened. Sometimes I like to imagine that right before he did it, he picked me up in his arms and held me for a final goodbye.
Wilson has gone back to staring through Tuesday’s paper and my cereal is gone now. I’m still hungry and I’d like another bowl, but one thing I’ve learned is to never ask for more than I need to. I don’t think Wilson is in this for the money; it’s a meager compensation, anyway. It’s really just enough to cover the added expense of having someone living in your house, but some people will give you almost nothing so they can make a little profit from the system. I guess Wilson sees me staring at my bowl because he asks me if I’m still hungry. In the back of my mind I wonder if this is some sort of test, to see if I’m going to be greedy or not, but I decide to be honest and tell him yes. Wilson takes my bowl and fills it to the brim with cereal and milk. “You should always eat as much as you like,” he tells me. Then he dismisses himself to his bedroom.
It’s summertime, so I don’t have to go to school. Wilson has a very irregular work schedule; there doesn’t seem to be any pattern to it, but he always lets me know when he’s going out or leaves me a note if I’m asleep. There really isn’t much to do to entertain myself. He doesn’t have many books and the TV only gets five channels, but he does have a lot of pictures. Normally I would feel bad going through someone’s life like that, but he has them inside albums that are placed on top of the coffee table for anyone to browse through. Mostly they are filled with photos of him and his wife. She was very beautiful with espresso brown hair and light blue eyes trimmed in green. I can’t help but notice that in all of the pictures they look so absolutely in love and yet so miserable at the same time. I wonder how that feels, to be in love but not be happy.
Tonight Wilson is sprawled out on the couch, a half-empty bottle of whisky on the coffee table in front of him. He is talking to the TV while an overly made-up woman with piss-blonde-colored hair encourages the viewers to order some revolutionary set of Tupperware. I feel uncomfortable for the first time since moving in. Of course he has every right to drink in his house if he wants to, it’s just that for me no good has ever come from being around inebriated men. When I was twelve, my mother started renting me out for the night to her male “friends.” She would invite guys over who would be anticipating a drug-infused fuck from her, but instead she’d get them loaded and offer them her daughter for a price. So as to hold onto some shred of faith in humanity, I would try to convince myself that they wouldn’t be doing it if they weren’t completely out of their minds on heroin and booze, and that if they remembered it, they regretted it the day after.
I retreat to my bedroom for an hour and then decide I’ll go check on him. Wilson is passed out now with the TV still going. I turn it off and grab a blanket from a nearby chair to cover him up with. He latches onto it in his sleep and mutters, “I love you, Lara,” under his breath while he slumbers. Even in a drunken sleep his dead wife is all that’s on his mind. I’ve decided now that Wilson is harmless.
Last week he came home one night with his arms full of bulging paper grocery bags. He asked me if I enjoy cooking and I told him it’s something I’ve always wanted to learn. Tonight is the sixth night in a row we’re attempting to learn together.
“I think you can flip the bacon now,” he tells me. I do and find that I’ve cooked the underside to a black crisp.
“Just the way I like it,” he tells me with not a hint of sarcasm in his voice. The crunching sound of our teeth biting into the sandwiches fills the otherwise quiet kitchen.
“How did your wife die?” I ask him without thinking at all.
Wilson stops mid-bite, a dot of mayo on the side of his upper lip. He is looking at me as though I might be the first person who ever asked him this.
“A drug overdose,” he tells me. “Lara was an addict.” He wipes his mouth with a napkin. “Sometimes I think I may be the only person in the world who’s never done a drug in their life and yet married an addict.”
Wilson has opened up to me. Admittedly, I’ve somewhat forced him to. But he could have lied instead. I’ve never really opened myself up to anyone. Lord knows Dr. Alma has tried a thousand times to get me to share about my “abuse,” as she refers to the events of my life, but I guess I never had any interest divulging my thoughts to a woman the state has appointed to give a damn about me.
“Do you think a person dying is about the same as being abandoned?” I ask him.
He chooses his words carefully. “I think maybe with death there can be more closure,” he tells me. “And possibly less anger.”
“But Lara didn’t have to die. She could have stopped abusing drugs.”
“Well, yes,” he says. He’s silent for a moment. “And I’m constantly angry with her for that. But it’s easier to be upset with myself, because I could have stopped her. And I should have. I didn’t, though, and now she’s gone. Sometimes I can’t wrap my head around the fact that she’ll never walk through the front door again, and that it’s partially because of me.”
I digest what he’s said along with the blackened bacon in my stomach. In some ways, Wilson is the most confusing person I have ever known. Maybe it’s that he’s the first true man I’ve come across in the sense that he so readily accepts the blame for his choices, or maybe there is a feeling of obligation that comes with sharing pain. Whatever it is, I want him to know about the things I’ve kept from Dr. Alma, the things that I’ve buried so deeply within myself that they are hidden away in the marrow of my bones, invisible from the outside but always present in my blood.
“I know more about you than you know about me,” I tell him. “That doesn’t seem right, to have a stranger living in your home.”
Wilson smiles a contemplative sort of smile. “I don’t think we’re strangers. And anyways you have the right to your privacy. For me, it helps to have someone who listens.”
That is enough for him to gain my trust entirely. I begin speaking and continue until there is nothing left undisclosed. He is the priest and the kitchen my confessional, a thick curtain of hurt enclosed around us. I admit not my own transgressions but rather the errors of those who have wronged me. The chipped linoleum tile floor becomes holy ground and I can feel myself ascending, rising out of the valleys of my past. Wilson takes my hand and squeezes.
As I drift into sleep that night I can still feel the warmth of his strong hand on mine.
The edges of summer are furling now, rolling in to their end. I sit on the couch reading an informational packet from the new school I’ll be attending in a couple weeks. I hear Wilson at the door now, fumbling to find the right key.
“Goddamn frosting,” I hear him mumble under his breath. Quickly I open the door, revealing a flustered Wilson balancing in his hand a richly frosted cake, glowing with the light of seventeen dripping candles. “Maybe I should have waited to light them,” he says.
“Oh, wow,” I say in a hushed voice. The last birthday cake I’ve been given had only five candles on it. He begins to sing to me in a showtuney voice and I laugh until I cry. “You’d better make a wish,” he tells me, and I think to myself that I wish I could have those years back, those missing candles. Instead I plead to the birthday gods that Wilson will give me a cake glowing with eighteen flames.
It’s three in the morning and I am awakened by voices wafting from the living room, Wilson’s and a woman’s. I roll over in bed to face the other direction, figuring it’s none of my business. I try to think of anything besides the low hum of conversation creeping in from under my door as I count the seconds like sheep in my head. 1,387, 1,388, 1,389… Curiosity has gotten the better of me and I silently make my way out of my room and down the hall.
“I wish I could make more sense right now,” the woman says. “It’s like I’m on fire, like my whole body is…Oh god I’m sorry, I think I’m gonna throw up again.”
As I make my way into the living room, I watch as a woman with her back to me vomits into a bucket she grabs off of the coffee table, next to several open photo albums strewn across it. Wilson pulls back her chocolaty brown hair with one hand, stroking her blanketed back with his other.
“I think we have some nausea medicine in the cabinet,” I announce as the woman heaves another round of puke into the pail.
Wilson looks up at me with a shameful expression of guilt worn on his face.
“Ezra, I didn’t realize you were awake,” he says. He looks down with nothing else to say. I grab some paper towels from the kitchen and walk back to the couch, handing them to the woman who sets the bucket back on the table. As she turns to look at me am I am met with the face of a ghost, a phantasm.
“Thank you,” the gaunt woman tells me weakly, wiping the edges of her mouth.
“It’s Lara,” I say to myself.
I look again to Wilson, his head still bowed. He says nothing.
“I wish you didn’t have to meet me like this,” Lara says.
I take this as my cue to leave. I walk out the front door, barefoot and still wearing pajamas. The air outside is thick and muggy and clouds my already confused thoughts. My pace quickens from a brisk walk to an outright sprint. I can’t remember the last time I’ve moved so fast. Have I ever really run from anything at all? My whole life I’ve been a human ball, bounced from place to place, hurtled through situations by the force of other people. I run faster. Sharp chunks of gravel and broken fragments of glass cut into my feet as they pound onto the pavement with the full force of my weight, and I think to myself that it is glorious. It is fucking glorious just to feel and to know for maybe the first time in my life fully what it is that I am feeling: hurt. It rips through me like a dull knife jaggedly slicing through a hunk of meat. It is real because I allow it to be.
I find myself in a park a few blocks away from the house. Breathlessly I collapse onto a bench. Flying bugs swarm around the loudly buzzing streetlight across from me, the only sound that I can hear. I think to myself that maybe I’ll just keep running. Run until I turn eighteen years old and I’m free to bounce where I please, off the court and into my own game.
Soon I hear footsteps approaching. I don’t even have to look to know that it is Wilson. He sits down beside me without a word.
“You’re an illusionist,” I tell him. “You made me believe in a false reality.”
“I was only ever trying to fool myself. It was easier to believe my wife was dead than that she chose a damned drug over me.” Wilson shifts his weight and stares down the path.
“If anything, I can relate to you more now. I know what it’s like to be second place, or no place at all. Only thing is, no one’s ever coming back for me.”
“I understand you might never have shared the things that you did with me if you had known the truth.” Wilson pinches the spot between his eyes with his fingers. “I don’t know what kind of person does that, lies about someone they love dying. I felt ashamed that she left me. Unlovable. Like I must really have some serious character flaws for my wife to enjoy getting high more than she enjoyed my company.”
“I’m not one to hold grudges, Wilson. If I did, by now they’d outweigh my own strength by far.”
“And that’s good, Ezra. Really, that’s the way to be a lot of the time. But I want you to be upset with me. I want proof that you still feel something when someone does you wrong. Because if you’ve lost that reaction entirely, you’ll spend the rest of your life letting people walk all over you.”
I try to summon a feeling, an indication that I can acknowledge the good from the bad. People are just so gray. The black, the white. Trying to separate the positive from the negative.
“I was feeling,” I tell him. “When I ran out of the house. I felt betrayed and hurt. And you did that to me.”
“I’m very, very sorry Ezra.”
“No, I mean, you made me feel something,” I say slowly, reaching out for truth in my words as I speak them. “Maybe it was fabricated but we shared things with one another. You are maybe the first person to treat me with respect without making me a charity case and that has opened me up. Being exposed to pain is going to be a part of that.”
Wilson and I sit side by side on the bench lost in our own thoughts for a while. I don’t know how much time has passed but it’s still completely black outside. I focus on the ground, staring at a small flower struggling to grow through a crack in the pavement.
“Is she staying?” I finally ask him.
He nods his head, the shadow of it cast from the streetlight ebbing and rising on the pavement. “She says she is.”
“Does that mean I’ll have to go?”
Wilson turns his face from me toward the path down the park. I already know the answer to my question. I look into the direction he is gazing. Past the light from the lamp there is only complete nothingness. A questionable sea of darkness I cannot perceive.
I don’t know what lies beyond, but there must be something.
Outdrawn
by John Gabriel
The needle traced the grooves and rode up and down with the slight warp of the vinyl. First, the motion produced no sound, then the hissing and popping began. He had hoped the flaws wouldn’t be so conspicuous. For him, the imperfections were comforting, often more so than the music itself. Suddenly he felt exposed. But being embarrassed of something that gave him such pleasure made him feel younger. At least there was that.
He looked over at his guest, who was fiddling with some knickknack on the shelf, maybe not even aware of the sounds. They’d agreed to play each other one song, so technically her part of the bargain started when the actual music did. And he was afraid now. He had debated playing something she might know: Johnny Cash, or maybe the Ramones. He reasoned that she would just have more excuses to find flaws in the medium if it was something she had heard before. So why not choose his favorite, something he chanced that she didn’t know.
The vocals were muffled below the static, but they were still audible. I could say it’s over now / That I was glad to see you go. She smiled and he could breathe again; not that he hung so much on her appreciation of the song, but he didn’t look forward to having his justification fall on deaf ears. He didn’t even know how he was going to handle this contest if there was no clear winner. He had learned. It had taken a very long time, but he knew that being right wasn’t always what it was cracked up to be, especially about something as trivial as music, something that ultimately came down to taste.
For another moment, he enjoyed watching as she continued to smile. I could hate you for the way I’m feeling / My lips could tell a lie, but my heart would know. Beyond the archaic medium and the lack of quality, he had second-guessed this song because of the lyrics, though he was sure they hadn’t reached the “encoded messages in songs” part of their relationship yet. They had only been talking a few weeks; in fact, this was her first time over to his apartment. Still, he knew he would read far too much into whatever she chose, when it was her turn. For the moment, however, he was delighted at her apparent enjoyment.
She spoke, but quietly enough that it was evident she was trying to be respectful.
“I know this song, you know?”
“Oh yeah?” he said. “Dad or ex-boyfriend?”
“You’re funny. . . which would make you more uncomfortable?” She laughed. He honestly didn’t know which would. “Actually, neither,” she said. “It’s in Cars.”
“The…cartoon?” The urge to fly into an overly dramatic rant about the sacredness of music and the vapidity of children’s movies began to boil in him. He had never seen the movie, but he was sure it was terrible and he would have likely walked out in protest at the inclusion of this song. But he had to ignore that for right now. He didn’t want to scare her off. This might still be salvageable.
“Hmm, never seen it,” he said.
“It’s all right. This part is pretty sad. But now I have an idea of what to play for you.” She smiled coyly, as though she had thought of the perfect song, a song that fifty years from now would be “their song,” or would at least fix this fiasco despite her obliviousness to it. For the moment though, she sat and listened to his song to be polite.
He honestly didn’t care about the song she had chosen. He began to realize this had been a mistake. He could win any contest about whose song was better, and it wouldn’t even be a challenge; he had on his side truth, history, and people smarter than both of them. But at what cost? Was she worth it? He still barely knew her. He was no longer enjoying this experiment, and he considered turning off the music, but that would show his hand. She would surely realize he was pouting, then.
It’s a sin to make me cry...make me cry…make me cry…make me cry. Now he had an excuse to turn it off. His prayer had been answered, but it the form of another nail in the coffin of his argument for vinyl. She shrugged her shoulders, not quite sure if she should state the obvious, so she didn’t. The words repeated over and over as he moved toward the turntable.
“I’ll take this off,” he said. “You can put yours on.”
She was already at the computer. The glow from the screen lit up the small, dark room. Her fingers typed, then typed some more.
“I can’t ever remember how to spell it,” she said.
That was a dead giveaway. He knew what she had chosen. He hoped he was wrong, but the signs were all there.
“Oh man, so many versions. I think this is the one.”
He didn’t even need to hear the music. The only question he had was whether she would click on the one he wanted. He doubted it. She clicked the mouse, then came over and sat next to him as the unmistakable piano chords began.
“This is from Shrek,” she whispered. “It’s my—”
“This is not the version from Shrek.”
He stood up, crossed the room and opened the door. “I’m sorry,” he said. “This is just. . . Just please go.”
“What?” she said. “I’m sorry. Do you know this song? Is it sentimental somehow? I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry,” he said. “You’re great. Go be great.”
He shut the door behind her. Then he walked back across the room and dropped onto the couch, face in his hands. Realizing the music was still playing, he smiled as he listened.
All I ever learned from love / Was how to shoot at someone who outdrew ya.
The Dead of Winter
by Christopher Walder
I was headed home from work, my head reeling from the day’s events that had transpired. The cold winter sun hovered in the empty pale sky as I paced to my vehicle. My boss’s unsympathetic words continued to ring in my ears: “Connor, we’re going to have to let you go.” Over the last year, my hours had been gradually cut due to the state of the economy and outsourcing of the company. They had been getting rid of all employees with seniority, or those who were on the brink of getting their pension. I happened to be one of those people. I had been with the company since I was eighteen years old, and I was only a couple of years away from receiving an annuity. Now at forty, I was being forced to start over.
The engine of my ninety-six Ford Explorer droned down the deserted stretch of highway as I thought about what I was going to tell my wife, Monica. Staring through the grimy windshield at endless frozen barren fields, I tried to find anything to keep my mind occupied. Reaching into the pocket of my denim shirt, I grabbed my soft pack of Marlboro 100’s and brass Zippo, pulled out a cigarette and placed it between my lips, and with one flick of my wrist lit the stogie. Ronsonol and the stale stench of smoke wafted throughout the vehicle, as good ol’ Johnny Cash’s voice kept me company. With every puff of my cancer stick, I found myself becoming more relaxed. Although my body was becoming comfortable, my mind was uneasy. Thoughts stuttered through my mind as they choked on the smoke.
I couldn’t help but think about the house and my children. My home was on the verge of foreclosure, since we were behind on payments, and with Christmas just around the corner I wondered what Monica and I were going to do for our children—and whether or not we would have a home to celebrate it in. My thoughts became more frantic. I lit up one smoke after another, hoping it would asphyxiate them.
After an hour drive and ten cigarettes, I found myself less than a few minutes from home. The thick haze of smoke burned my eyes as I turned into the driveway. The force of the turn jerked the death stick from my mouth and sent it tumbling down the front of my shirt. With every bump of the cherry, fiery rain sprayed across my jeans and poured onto the cracked leather seats. Eventually the dense vermillion ember became wedged underneath my crotch and foam cushion. My eyes darted from the windshield to the worn seat, while I desperately fumbled to find it.
In my momentary lapse of judgment my foot slipped off the brake and slammed onto the accelerator. The engine roared and was immediately followed by a sickening thud and plastic shattering, as the SUV abruptly jolted. Without hesitation I stomped on the brake and the tires skidded across the gravel, bringing the vehicle to a sudden halt. Uncertain of what had just happened, I scowled over my shoulder to see what I had hit, but dust and smoke consumed the weathered SUV, making it impossible to see.
My frustration hit its flashpoint and turned to anger. In a fit of rage I flung the door open. “Goddamn kids better not have left their bikes in the driveway,” I grumbled. “How many times do I have to tell them?”
The loose gravel crunched beneath my work boots as I made my way to the front of the vehicle to assess the damage. When I arrived, a gulf of frigid air lifted the veil of darkness that surrounded the Explorer. Chunks of gravel pierced my hands and knees as I got down on all four to search for what I had struck. Expecting to find a bike wedged in the undercarriage, I was shocked when I found nothing. Hesitantly I began to back up, when I noticed the broken headlight on the passenger side. Slowly I inched forward until I noticed something hanging from the single shard of plastic. There, swaying on the jagged sliver was a piece of pink fatty flesh with stray blonde hairs thrashing in the wind.
I reluctantly peered around the side of the vehicle. My heart crept into my throat. Goosebumps crawled up my flesh, causing every hair on my body to stand on end. Fear overtook me; I was afraid of what I would see. Then I noticed her mangled body lying motionless on the cold winter ground. It was my oldest girl, Katrina.
My heart pounded as I raced over to her nine-year-old body. Memories flooded my mind like the tears in my eyes. I thought about how Monica and I adopted Kat, when she was just a year old. She had perfect blonde hair and big brown eyes, and the first time I held her I felt what unconditional love was. Although we didn’t share the same blood, she was my precious baby girl. Now as I cradled Kat’s limp body, her once vibrant eyes remained shut and scuffled beneath her eyelids. Her golden hair appeared maroon in the fading sunlight. Tread marks were visible across her distended belly. I knew what I had to do. I had to get her to the nearest hospital two hours away.
I rushed to the hatch of my SUV, flung it open, and urgently searched for the winter emergency kit. Probing through the debris of crumpled cigarette packs and empty pop bottles, I eventually spotted the red duffle bag. Hastily I hurled the contents of the bag toward the passenger seat. Clothes, water bottles, and flares rained throughout the vehicle until I found a blanket to wrap her fragile body.
The beating of my heart brutally pounded against my sternum with every weary step I took towards Kat. Her body remained motionless. Every breath she drew became more desperate. The crevasses of my face became a riverbed for salted shame as I knelt by her side and began bandaging her tiny frame with the soft blanket. She remained still like a newborn while I carried her to the hatch of the beat-up Explorer and gently placed her in the bed of the vehicle. Before I snapped the door shut, I bent over and softly kissed her forehead.
Adrenaline coursed through my veins as I hopped into the driver’s seat. The ignition whined and squealed with every torque of the key. Frustration mounted my shoulders. “Goddammit! Start!” I slammed my fist into the steering wheel. “Please!”
Just as I said it, the engine turned over and began to sputter and whine. Placing my hand on the gear shift I threw it into drive. I made a U-turn, tires slipping on the loose gravel. A cloud of dust lingered in the rearview mirror as I headed down the rural roads.
A seemingly never-ending barbed-wire fence raced alongside my SUV. I only had mile markers and memories to help pass the time. With every second that passed, my eyes became fixed on the Timex clock in the center of the dash. The faded green numbers seemed to hesitate to change. I had to force myself to keep my eyes on the two-lane road ahead of me; the silence was driving me mad.
Amid the quietness came a sudden noise.
What is that?
Thump. . . thump.
I checked each of my side mirrors and only smooth asphalt was rapidly rushing by. Thump, thump, thump. Do I have a flat? My foot eased on the brake and I merged onto the dirt shoulder.
When I exited the vehicle, I immediately checked the tires on the driver’s side, only to see they were full. As I made my way to the passenger side, I noticed the noise again, but more rapid and frequent. THUMPTHUMPTHUMPTHUMP. The Explorer began to severely shake, and I darted to the hatch. I slowly reached for the handle and twisted it. The door gradually opened and unveiled Kat’s body shaking uncontrollably, while coffee-ground colored foam spilled from her mouth. I became frozen in fear.
As I stood there in horror, the vibration of my cell phone startled me. I ripped it from my pocket. “Monica” flashed across the screen. I quickly placed the phone back in my pocket and slammed the hatch shut. Within a matter of seconds, my phone buzzed again. This time I decided to listen to the voicemail.
“Connor,” she said with worry in her voice. “There’s a severe winter warning going on and—well I just wanted to let you know. Jack and Layla haven’t seen Kat, since they went over to play with the neighbors. I know—how she likes to go exploring, but—but I’m just worried.” The phone trembled in my palm. I debated what to do. I couldn’t bring myself to call her back and confess, so I got back into the vehicle and headed toward the hospital.
With the accelerator mashed to the floor, the Explorer screamed down the highway into the waning daylight. After a few miles of desolated land, there stood a lonely sign with bold white letters: “Angel Falls National Park – 10 Miles.” As we approached the exit, Kat started to regain consciousness. Whimpers and cries of agony filled the vehicle and began permanently etching themselves into my mind. Her screams pierced my eardrums. Ten feet from the exit I pulled over to the shoulder. I needed out of the vehicle immediately.
The cold air burned my lungs as I clasped my hands together and pleaded for an answer to what I should do. I knew it was more than an hour to get to the hospital. With my prayers unanswered, I found myself at the back of the vehicle examining Kat’s condition. As I looked at her beautiful face, she opened her eyes and stared into my soul. She attempted to speak and couldn’t, but her eyes spoke for her. They begged for mercy as I shut the hatch.
My hand traced the steel exterior of the SUV. Every dent, paint chip, and piece of rust marked my time around the vehicle, until I found myself hunched over in the driver’s seat. Tears began to free-fall from my eyes. I became overwhelmed and found myself lying over the center console weeping uncontrollably on the passenger seat. Reluctantly I raised my head, when out of the corner of my eye I noticed a dull black case among the mound of clothes I had hurled to the front of the vehicle earlier. I snatched it up and unzipped the bulky case. The contents were rapidly revealed as the Smith and Wesson .38 special flopped onto the passenger seat. My eyes ascended from the wooden grips of the weapon to the rearview mirror. As I watched her labored breathing, my only option became more evident.
The Unwritten Rules
by Sarah Wagner
Ever since she could communicate, even before she could first walk and talk, the whole extended family had known that Anne was terrified of bugs. And just as every insect was attracted to her, she was just as equally repelled by them. She was also much attuned to the mystical power of language. She had such a literal grasp of expressions, she missed the most obvious plays on words. Jokes and mere folklore phrases brought her instantly to tears. One minute she was playing happily with her stuffed animals and the next she overheard her grandmother mutter that she was “coming apart at the seams.” This scared the child as her vivid imagination took off and she visualized her grandmother fragmenting into chunks, an arm, a leg, a breast, right before her eyes. She would then examine her stuffed toys warily, searching for rips or any other signs of weakness. Even though she had a healthy respect for Patsy Cline, she dreaded hearing “I Fall to Pieces” on the radio. She just didn’t get the irony. She hadn’t yet learned to read between the lines. Still, Anne understood the sanctity of words.
Once, her mother had sent her into a panic that had taken her weeks to recover from. She’d been playing in her mother’s room as her mother was readying herself for the evening. Anne loved these moments. She loved watching her mother applying her makeup or fixing her luxurious mane of auburn hair. Her mother often sang Billie Holiday or Etta James as she busied herself in front of her mirror. That night she was preparing to attend a play. As she pulled on her pantyhose, Anne’s mother noticed a tiny run that ended in a small hole on the back of her left thigh. Flesh was bulging through it neatly in an almost perfectly round lump.
“Look, Anne!” her mother exclaimed in mock horror. “A tumor!”
And then her mother laughed and smiled.
Anne didn’t know exactly what a tumor was, but she knew it was something bad, almost certainly lethal. Hadn’t Uncle Ray died of a tumor only three months ago? Anne was frantic and refused to be mollified. She sobbed for hours. Her mother apologized profusely, but the child’s sense of trust was injured. She loved her mother more than anything, but this one act had left her mistrustful. She had an extremely sensitive nature.
It wasn’t that Anne was a “girly-girl” or a baby, although she was known to be somewhat squeamish. Blood didn’t overly frighten her, for instance. Neither did mud and dirt. She didn’t like wearing dresses and on more than one occasion she’d come home late from school, her dress torn and wet, her shoes abandoned behind on the banks of her favorite creek. She loathed having her aunts braid her long hair. In fact, once she had cut off one of her braids in protest. She’d done it at nursery school with those impossibly dull, round-ended scissors. She had suffered the humility of going through the rest of the morning with only one braid. Her mother had never gotten to the truth of how a four-year-old had managed to get hold of such a dangerous weapon. And although the details weren’t clear to her, Anne realized that on some level, she had won. After that incident, she’d been allowed to have short hair. In most instances, she was the personification of a tomboy.
She spent the summer days at her grandparents’ home and often ran wild with a pack of cousins. Every spare moment was spent outside the big ramshackle house. The whole gang was tanned brown by mid-June. Their bare feet were toughened from prowling the streets of Lawton and the soles of those feet were stained purple from the plump droppings of the mulberry bushes that lined their grandmother’s alley. The throng of children also roamed the neighborhood’s drainage ditches and vacant buildings. Anne was as keen as anyone during these escapades. She loved adventures. Rats didn’t scare her and neither did Old Rand, the grumpy, elderly widower, who lived at the end of her grandparents’ street. But mention any sort of bug and Anne was likely to run home screaming in a fit of hysteria.
Her cousins teased her without mercy and dared her into the most outlandish situations. They were older, of course, and had the wisdom.
“Anne, ring Mr. Rand’s doorbell!”
“Anne, come into the crawl space. There’s a ghost down here!”
Out of a sense of decency she ignored Mr. Rand and merely watched from the safety of the front porch. She hid in the shadows and spied as her cousin Henry, who was eleven and the bravest yet most rakish of the bunch, placed a paper sack on Old Rand’s front stoop and then lit it. Henry rang the bell before proceeding to run like a prairie fire. Mr. Rand hadn’t been home that afternoon. No one got the switch. The crawl space however, was another matter; it was a double-dare. Actually, she’d liked the crawl space, at first. There was something secret about it. It was quiet and warm there, the earth smelled fresh and clean and she’d felt safe, until a cousin had pointed out all of the spiders and worms. That revelation had sent her caterwauling into the house like a cat in heat.
Her grandparents owned a shiny, new Chevrolet Impala four door, light blue with a white roof. Her grandmother had won it in a lottery the previous year and kept it parked out behind the shed, in the alley. It was often left unlocked and the children would play in it, although they’d been warned not to with the threat of the switch.
“Hey, Anne. Push in that knob. See the red glow? Dare you to touch it with your finger!”
She had fallen for that twice. She just couldn’t resist it. It burned her finger both times, leaving a nasty blister. One would think she’d remember. Where was the justice in this world? Still, despite her fears of bugs and words, she would usually rise to a dare. When she finally broke down and cried and the adults found out the cause, someone else almost always received the punishment. Maybe that was justice.
Southern lore was a part of the family tradition. She’d grown up hearing her relatives proclaim that the “Devil was beating his wife” every time the sun was shining while it rained. A few of these myths dealt with insects. Her grandfather often warned her not to let a dragonfly land on her hand. When she asked him why, she was informed that it would sew one’s fingers together. She was told that if she lied, the dragonfly would sew her mouth shut. The mental picture this tale evoked caused horrific nightmares in which she saw her face, wrapped in shadows. Only her lips stood out in these dreams, stitched crudely closed with a thick yarn-like web. No dragonflies were visible, but she knew they were there on the periphery of her vision. She could hear the frenetic buzzing drone of their wings. On more than one occasion, when she tried to wake up, she found herself frozen, unable to move, and had promptly wet the bed. Still, despite these prudish streaks, she was a tough little Okie girl. Red dirt ran in her veins. And with her summer tan, she was brown as a berry.
Some days she was the only child at the house. No cousins were around to chide her or dare her or even to look after her. These times she stayed in the yard. The promise of the ever-present switch kept her in line. Still, there were plenty of things to pique her imagination within the perimeters of the yard. There was the garden, with its lush rows of okra, beans, tomatoes and peppers. There was the Chevy. She often sat behind the steering wheel and pretended she was driving to all sorts of distant destinations. She could barely see over the dash. When she was alone, she never touched anything but the steering wheel itself. That was magic enough. And then there was the ancient cedar tree. The massive tree loomed up over the house. It was in the front yard and was considered a landmark of refuge. Anne had climbed this tree often enough, usually on a dare, but it was an old tree and when alone, she kept to the lower branches because even she could recognize the potential dangers of climbing up too high. Besides, the lower branches were worn smooth as a highly polished saddle. They held the safety and history of dozens of children’s experiences.
On this particular day, Anne was alone. She’d already made a tour of the garden. She was too anxious and suspicious to go into the crawl space. The car was locked up. She’d decided on the tree, though she made sure to stay within the boundaries of the lower boughs. She surveyed her surroundings from her perch in the tree. She looked out over the yard and could see a ways down the street. Mr. Rand’s doorway was just visible. There were no cars in his driveway. Nothing much seemed to be happening on the street. Everyone was indoors, seeking shelter from the oppressive midday humidity. She decided to concentrate on objects closer at hand. Grandmother had always advised her that one could see a lot more up close if one just took the time to look. Take time to enjoy the journey, she counseled, not just the destination.
Right as she pondered this thought she saw a praying mantis. It was maybe seven inches from her nose, less than a foot away at least. Its triangular head was cocked slightly sideways; its spiny front legs were bent in the typical pose that gave it its name. Its eyes immediately locked into hers as she assumed a position of genuflection. Of all the earth’s creatures, this one insect terrified her the most. The mantis was a predator, known for eating not just other insects, but small birds and animals as well as reptiles. What the hell did he have to pray for, she wondered? She froze for a moment in trepidation. She then attempted to back up, but discovered that her dress was caught on a twig from the tree branch beneath her. There were no cousins at hand to help her out of her predicament. She was overcome with blind fear as the praying mantis advanced. She felt herself slipping; her vision was blurry. It seemed just like the dream she’d had about the dragonfly. She was trapped and couldn’t move.
Please don’t let me wet myself, she thought as she looked around desperately for a second. What would happen? Would the mantis attack? Grandmother had always told her about the unwritten rules; make sure you have on clean underwear, just in case you’re in an accident. Was this one of those cases? Silently, she held tight to the branch as she watched the praying mantis’s march towards her. Maybe it would be better to just fall out of the tree. She felt a scream rising in her throat.
Suddenly a strange man approached her. He was coming up into the yard.
“Hey, little one,” he said. “What’s up? You stuck in that tree?”
Anne glanced quickly at the man before turning her attention back to the mantis; it had momentarily ceased its advance. Her bottom lip was starting to tremble. She felt the tears welling up in her big green eyes.
“What’s the matter, girl? Cat got your tongue? Here, I’ll help you down.” The stranger raised his arms up to Anne in a gesture of welcome.
Anne wasn’t sure what to do. She had been told time and again not to speak to strangers, especially men. She must never accept anything from an unfamiliar person and never get into a strange car. Every summer there was a tale or two about how some child had been discovered dead in a ditch. These children were typically girls, though not always. Usually unspeakable things had been done to their bodies; the news people speculated about mutilation and rape. Anne didn’t know what these things were but she could detect the shock and outrage in the newscasters’ voices.
For seconds she remained as still as a statue and then she began to shake in earnest as one fat tear slid down her right cheek. The praying mantis regarded her coldly as it resumed its approach. That settled things. She reached for the stranger and clung to his neck. He held her with one arm while he gently disentangled her dress with his free hand. Anne promptly burst into tears and turned her face into his shoulder. She held tightly to the man as she breathed in his scent. He smelled like sweat and smoke, mingled with fresh mown grass. He held her for a moment, stroking her hair, attempting to soothe her.
“There, there,” he murmured calmly as he knelt to set her down. “It’s okay now.”
Anne cried harder. She didn’t want to let go. Just as her feet hit the ground, she heard the sound of a screen door slam shut. She ceased crying abruptly.
“Lord, child! What’s going on here?” It was her grandmother.
“Just helping the little girl here, ma’am,” the stranger replied as he let go of Anne’s hand.
“Well, thank you kindly, then,” her grandmother answered, a little uncertainly. “Anne, come here,” she ordered sternly as she beckoned the child to the front steps.
Anne gazed up at the stranger’s face. Her own face looked back at her, reflecting out of his aviator sunglasses. He smiled and gave her a gentle encouraging push towards the porch. He turned away and started back to the street. Anne’s flood of tears suddenly returned as she ran to her grandmother.
She was questioned at length. What, exactly had occurred? Why was the man in the yard? Didn’t she know better than to talk to strangers? Had he done anything, touched her inappropriately? Why was there a tear in her dress? Why had she been up in that tree? Didn’t she know she could fall and break her neck? What did she have to say for herself? Anne continued to alternately sob and sniffle, but offered no clear explanation for the events that had unfolded in the yard.
“Oh, child,” the old woman scolded. “Sometimes I worry you kids will be the death of me. Sure you’ve got nothing to say? I’ll give you a good reason to cry. Now you go on and pick a switch and make it a good one!”
Anne wiped her tears and her snot away with the hem of her torn dress and began the descent into the yard. She had seen Henry dance to the tune of a switch many times. But her grandmother had only switched her twice, both times for leaving the yard without permission, and those times she had howled like a banshee, right in front of the neighbors and God and all. This time she wasn’t sure what her real transgression was. She hadn’t spoken to the man; she hadn’t even thanked him. And could she really cause her grandmother’s death? The burden of this idea was too much to fathom and she almost began to cry again as she bent to pick the switch from the Forsythia bush at the side of the house. She felt an overwhelming sense of injustice. She resolved not to cry through the remainder of this ordeal.
After selecting her switch, she returned slowly to where her grandmother waited at the top of the stairs. She moved with a dignified, stately grace as she mounted the steps and presented her trophy in silence. Seeing the stoicism in the girl’s eyes, the old woman was somewhat shaken. She administered the whipping in a half-hearted and resigned manner.
Anne stayed close to her grandmother all afternoon. That evening, when the cousins came over and her mother returned from work, Anne still remained on the porch. She listened as her grandmother relayed the afternoon incident to her mother, but again offered no comments.
“But who was the young man?” her mother asked.
“Likely just another soldier boy, waiting to get shipped off to die in Vietnam.” That was her grandmother’s reply.
The long summer day was coming to an end. The cicadas sang their frenzied paean of desire. The cousins raced about the yard. They were catching fireflies. Henry ran up, brandishing a jar that was already a third full.
“Look Anne, a lantern!” He set the jar next to her and ran off into the gathering darkness.
Anne leaned forward and examined Henry’s catch. The tiny insects crawled restlessly over one another, blinking and glowing, blinking and glowing. They were magical. Fireflies were the one kind of bug that didn’t frighten Anne. Her mother had told her they were fairies. Her grandmother said they were lost souls. Anne only knew they were alive. She again had that sense of injustice. She took the jar into the yard, opened it and began to empty the tiny fireflies out into the grass.
“Anne!” her mother called. “What are you doing? Those are Henry’s!”
“They ain’t Henry’s,” she announced in a tone of solemn finality. “They belong to the world.”
“You’re free,” she whispered, as she finished releasing the insects. At first they glowed in a mass, seething on the ground. Gradually, they dispersed out into the night.
Anne returned to the porch. As she approached her grandmother, her face broke into a radiant smile. It was the first time she’d smiled since she’d climbed the tree. Silently, her grandmother reached out her arms and took the girl onto her lap. Anne hugged her with the fierce force of joy. All was forgiven. She was loved. It was an unwritten rule.