Wonder
I see the heavens above me
And wonder not
How I will reach them
But rather
How they will reach out to me.
- R. David Fulcher
The Secret of Umbria
By Karin Ciholas
|
Carmela remembered lying
sprawled across the hard road, not
thinking about anything at first,
noticing that the stars seemed
brittle and bright, that her foot lay
twisted and weighed down by
something heavy, something that
didn't move. It took a full minute
for her to realize that it was Giorgio
and that he wasn't laughing any
more. Her voice stuck in her
throat, and she had no breath in
her, even for a prayer to the
Madonnina. When they told her at
the hospital that Giorgio was dead,
she looked away dry-eyed and said,
"I know."
Except she didn't really know then
what she knew now: that he was
never coming back, that the
monsters beneath her bed would
not let her sleep, that at fourteen
her life was broken, snapped in two
like a dead branch, that her friends
whispered behind her back that it
was her fault, that she brought bad
luck. In the middle of the night she
would get up and go to her window
and look out toward the illuminated
facade of San Pietro. She heard her
father snoring softly in the next
room. A stray cat whimpered
behind the Bambini di Gesu. The
frail clang of the bell from the
duomo answered. The familiar
sounds of the night could not drown
out the noises in her head that kept
coming closer and closer until she
strangled on her own breath.
Images as smoky and jittery as old
movies kept rewinding in her head:
the disco near Narni, Giorgio'sleather jacket cool against her
cheek, his explosive motorino, the
pulsing cataclysms of engine and
music and desire until -- until all fell
silent, suddenly silent, except for
the high-pitched squeal of the
moped wheel spinning upside down
through the night air. She clapped
her hands over her mouth and sent
a silent scream out into the
Umbrian night.
In the morning the normal
activities of the household made her
cringe. Her father knocked his
spoon against the rim of his cup in a
rhythmic chime, while her mother
plucked chickens in the courtyard,
muttering her rosary to feathers
instead of beads. Her brother
clumped down the stairs, stuffed a
hunk of bread in his pocket, and left
for work at the Banca Popolare,
whistling.
She limped to the door and called
after him. "How dare you at a time
like this?"
Federico stopped, turned around,
rolled his eyes heavenward, and
slowly unpursed his lips. He
smelled of too much after-shave,
and she guessed where he planned
to spend the evening.
"It's not been a week yet,
Federico."
"Si, Carmela Vittoria, ho capito."
He scratched behind his ear, turned
away, then waited to whistle until
he had entered the Via Monterone.
Carmela pointed an accusing
finger at the half-plucked, dangling
chicken. "All you think of is cooking
and eating." Her mother laid the yellow-
skinned chicken across her broad
lap and shook a finger at her
daughter. "Figlia mia, I understand
that you suffer, but--"
"No! You don't understand at
all."
"Si, mia cara, but life goes on.
The living must eat. Even you."
As if to underscore this truth,
her father slurped the last of his
caffelatte, put down his bowl with a
clatter, wiped the back of his hand
through his mustache, and scraped
his stool across the tile floor.
"Basta!" he said. Agostino
Federico Palmucci was a man of few
words. When he had picked her up
at the hospital, he had said one
sentence to her on the way home:
"This should teach you a lesson."
As the hour and minute of the
accident of a week earlier crept
closer, Carmela said, "This time, a
week ago, I was a different person.
It hadn't happened yet. I was still
Carmela Vittoria Palmucci, a happy,
normal fourteen-year old girl with
her whole life ahead of her. And
now, just a week ago--" Everything
was measured in the perspective of
before and after. Two weeks ago.
A month ago. Two months ago. A
year ago. At her insistence,
Federico even postponed his
wedding to Emilia out of respect for
her year of mourning.
Carmela wore black like the
widow of the prime minister of
Italy. With style. With a certain
flair for drama. She seldom smiled.
She did not allow herself to forget,
even though it was more and more
difficult for her to remember the
soft beardless features of Ciorgio's
face. She knew they were different
from the frozen expression in thesolemn school picture Giorgio's
family had placed on their family
tomb. Every week she went on a
pilgrimage to his grave.
On the first anniversary of his
death she carried an armful of
hothouse roses to the cemetery --
solemnly -- like a bride walking
down the long aisle in the duomo.
She was so absorbed by the image
of herself dressed in black, clutching
the fragrant roses to her chest, that
she did not see Giorgio's family
hovering around the large white
marble stone until she came around
the bend in the pathway. His
mother was leaning over vases of
fresh flowers to plant her lips
against her son's face while the rest
of the family stood limply aside,
defeated by emotion, silent in the
contemplation of the worn, tear-
stained face that trembled against
the cold glass over Giorgio's fading
photograph. Carmela edged back
into the shadow of the Carducci
family mausoleum and waited, her
heart pounding. A wave of nausea
mounted in her throat at the
thought of lips other than her own
pressed against her sacred shrine.
Giorgio's mother could not begin to
comprehend the depth of her
bereavement or sorrow. She could
not even imagine it. How could she
know who Giorgio really was? Who
he had been?
When Giorgio's family finally left,
crunching down the gravel pathway,
chattering loudly about the
upcoming festa and the evening
game of briscola at the taverna,
Carmela resumed her ritual
procession, wiped Giorgio's
smudged face with her sleeve, and
prayed fervently to the Madonna.
Her prayers remained litanies ofphrases learned and mastered
before she was ten. "Santa Maria,
madre di Dio..." The words moved
her lips while she thought about
Giorgio's probing hands on her
body, the soft thrust of his tongue
in her mouth, the engorged fullness
of her body in response to his.
Then she leaned forward and kissed
his face, resting her breasts against
the cool marble of his stone.
"I thought you would be here."
Giorgio's mother stood like a dark
cloud between her and the sun.
"Always I hear that you come here.
You took him away from me.
Everybody says it was your fault.
And now you come here and throw
yourself on his grave. He does not
belong to you. He belongs to God.
Did he tell you he was going to be a
priest? No, I bet he didn't. He told
us at Easter two weeks before you
went off down to that horrible disco
in Narni. He was going to tell you
that night."
"You don't know what happened
that night," was all she could think
to say.
The day before her brother's
wedding, Carmela's mother took
her gently but firmly by the
shoulders and steered her to the
kitchen table. "You make the
tagliatelle."
"But, Mamma, you make them
better."
"As a gift for your brother."
So Carmela spent hours in the
kitchen with her mother preparing
for the wedding banquet to be held
in a friend's taverna: dredging the
table with flour, kneading just the
right amount of water and oil and
egg into elastic dough, pressing the
pasta into a thin crust with a marble
rolling pin, cutting long even strips,and hanging them in rows near the
window to dry in the warm breeze.
This required considerable skill,
tactile knowledge of texture and
control of the knife, but no real
concentration, no mental
absorption. Her mind was free to
wander over a hundred pathways,
up and down steep cobbled alleys
like the tortuous streets of Spoleto,
where houses slanted and
embraced each other, leaning under
the weight of layers and centuries
of stone. No matter where her
journey began, it always ended in
the same place, the only place in
town where walkways were set at
right angles to each other, where
the walls stood perpendicular and
straight, where the homes of the
inhabitants remained in perfect
geometric order and peace: the
cimitero urbano.
Each little strip of pasta became
a slice of time -- days, months, and
years piling up beyond the horizon
of her youth, little segments of
existence stretched out to dry up,
unseasoned by hope. She heard
Emilia in the courtyard laughing
with Federico and tried to shut out
Emilia's endless chatter about
lipstick and children, ribbons and
priests, taxes and the length of
Aunt Rosina's nose.
That evening Federico's co-
workers and Emilia's schoolmates
gathered on the nearby piazza and
danced until the accordion player
was too drunk to play anything but
a simple lilting chorus. Toward
midnight someone watered down
the heavy Trebbiano wine without
anyone noticing. From her window,
Carmela heard the hoarse shouts,
annoying refrains, and off-key
serenades and tried to shut herears. When her brother and Emilia
finally returned to cuddle in the cool
courtyard, she took up her father's
flashlight and waited in the upstairs
alcove until their panting embraces
reached a fever pitch. Then she
pointed the light like a weapon, and
Emilia screamed.
Federico lunged backward with a
grunt. "Carmela, is that you?"
“Si.”
"Udio! How dare you! Che
pazzia!"
The next morning Carmela's
mother was peeling onions for the
sauce when Carmela descended the
stairs for her morning caffe.
"Buon di, Mamma."
"Non va bene, figlia mia, what
you do. For one year we have
tolerated your behavior. No more.
When your brother returns, you
must ask him to forgive you."
"Forgive me?" She pulled her
dark hair straight back from her
face and cupped the steaming bowl
of coffee-tinted milk in both hands.
"Why should I ask him to forgive
me? Did he tell you what he and
Emilia were doing?"
"Santo cielo! Today is their
wedding day. So? They waited
because of you. Out of respect for
your feelings. And you have no
respect for them. It is enough.
Basta! I have my hands full with
preparations. I need your help.
But first you must promise."
"Promise what?"
"You will wear your blue dress.
You will put your grieving for that
boy aside and celebrate with your
brother and Emilia."
Carmela sipped her caffelatte and
did not answer.
"It is not fair, Carmela, what you
do.""Not fair! Federico lost nothing.
For me it is not fair."
Her mother put down the knife
and wiped her face with the corner
of her apron and patted a strand of
black hair back into place. Deep-
set dark brown eyes, teary from
onion fumes, probed her daughter's
face, but then, slowly, sternly she
shook her head and sighed. "You
will not spoil your brother's
wedding. Papa says you need a
real spanking. I say you are too old
for that. But you must go see Suor
Angela at the convent. Perhaps she
will talk some sense into you."
"Sister Angela? She is---"
"She is very wise."
"How can she--"
"You go!" She picked up the knife
again. "Then you must help with
the crostini, the sauce, the
stringozzi, the chickens, the---"
"Si, Mamma." Carmela knew the
look, the stance, the tone you did
not argue with.
In the convent courtyard Carmela
sat rigid in a rattan chair covered
with flowery cushions and kept her
eyes lowered to the terra-cotta
floor. She almost smiled when she
saw that Sister Angela was wearing
sneakers underneath her habit.
She thought that Sister Angela
must be every bit as old as her
grandmother. Probably older. Her
face looked like a walnut where
someone had drawn a thin line for a
mouth and punched two little holes
for eyes. What would she know
about disco dancing, bucking
mopeds, long winding roads, the
tickle of pine needles on her back
while stretched out on the forest
floor? What would she know about
the smell of gasoline mixed with
pine resin and the flavor of cheapwine on Giorgio's breath? What
would she know about the monsters
underneath her bed? She puckered
her eyebrows and braced herself for
the pious litany of advice that
seemed as inevitable as the glare of
the sun in her eyes. But Sister
Angela sat low in her chair, kept
rearranging the cushions, and said
nothing.
Carmela decided that two could
play the same game. She did not
open her mouth.
After five minutes Sister Angela
glanced at her watch and frowned.
"Look, Carmelina, you sit in silence
a long time. I do not have all day.
In fact, right now, I'm missing my
favorite telenovela. So--"
Scornfully incredulous, Carmela
laughed. "You watch soap operas
like all the others? You? I come
here for advice, and you complain
that I'm keeping you from your TV!"
"So you did come for advice? I
wasn't sure."
"Well, no. It wasn't my idea.
Why would I need your advice?"
"Then I will leave you to
meditate on your own. The
weather is splendid for your
brother's wedding. A perfect day!
Please give him my best wishes."
Sister Angela clasped both arms of
the chair and hoisted herself erect
in painful, slow motion. "Ciao,
Carmelina."
"Is that all you have to say to
me? Mamma will ask--"
"As you say, mia Carmelina, you
do not need my advice. Remain
true to Giorgio's memory. Don't
even think of other boys. Of
course, you must go to your
brother's wedding, but that does
not mean that you must dance, or
sing, or amuse yourself.""But--"
"That's my advice. Stay in
mourning. Black makes you look
older than you are. After the
wedding come back and tell me how
it went."
"Si, Suor Angela, but--"
"Va bene!" Sister Angela smiled,
and her eyes disappeared into
creases of skin. "Come tomorrow,
but not at this hour. Capito?"
Between hanging strings of
braided onions and garlic, Carmela
chopped parsley and chives with
sudden fury and crammed them
into the hollows of chickens she had
gutted with uncharacteristic zeal.
One took on the shape of Giorgio's
mother. Another was Emilia. One
scrawny chicken neck reminded her
of Sister Angela. Emilia was
walking around the kitchen, giving
orders about the dishes without
lifting a finger except to dip hers
into the tomato sauce to comment
on the fact that her grandmother
would have used more basil.
“Ask her to come and bring the
basil." Carmela said and she caught
a glimpse of her mother's twisted
smile of surprise.
"She sent silver wedding presents
from Milano."
"Silver won't fill the stomach
when you're hungry. Federico will
want more on his table than silver."
Carmela cut down three garlic bulbs
and began to peel the cloves and
crush them to pulp for bruschetta.
She pointed the knife in Emilia's
direction. "If this isn't enough for
you, you can cut down more and fix
them. But the little bride won't
want her fingers smelling of garlic
on her wedding night, will she?"
"Carmela!"
She scraped the garlic into a bowlfull of virgin olive oil. Then she
dumped heavy loaves of unsalted
Umbrian bread onto the table and
began to cut thick slabs and dip
them in the garlic-rich oil and place
them on a large metal sheet in the
oven. Suddenly she was mad at
Giorgio as well. For dying. For
leaving her. She pounded her fist
into the heel and noticed that her
mother and Emilia were looking at
her strangely.
"What is it? Don't you want
bruschetta?" Carmela brandished
the knife.
Her mother kept staring at her.
"So, you went to see Sister Angela.
What did she say?"
Carmela didn't answer, but
shoved Emilia aside so she could
check on the bruschetta in the
oven.
"Eh, brutta! What's gotten into
you?" Emilia swung around and
flung her arms in the air.
"Nothing."
Carmela scoured the oak table
top with lemon juice and wiped it
dry. Then, dipping her hand into
the tin by the stone sink, she
dredged flour over the seasoned
wood to start a new batch of
tagliatelle, but Emilia's face was
puffing up like stuffed cappelletti
that were about to explode, and
Carmela ducked too late as a fistful
of flour landed in her hair and sifted
down the front of her black dress.
"You act like you are preparing
food for a wake not a wedding!"
Carmela sputtered and sneezed.
"Perhaps I am."
"Look at you now." Emilia
pointed an accusing finger. "You
are as old as Sister Angela in your
heart, and some day you will look
like her! You already do in all thatblack."
Carmela lunged for the bread
knife, and her mother grabbed her
wrist and held it until the knife
clattered to the floor. "Basta,
Carmela! Basta, Emilia! The
bruschette are burning! Out of the
kitchen, both of you!" And she
shoved them out the door with a
flapping apron in a cloud of garlic-
flavored smoke.
Carmela ran until she was out of
breath and slumped over in a ditch
above the Strada di Monteluco. She
could hear the rush of traffic on the
S.S. 3 below. Beyond the walls of
San Pietro the red-roofed houses
huddled together like pieces of a
grand jigsaw puzzle. Cypresses
stood sentinel near honey-colored
stucco walls that glowed with a light
of their own in the bright afternoon
sun. She could see the chapel
tower by the convent where Sister
Angela was probably in the middle
of her riposo. Sister Angela! She
would never look like her. Never!
Violently she shook her hair until
she managed to envelop herself in a
little cloud of white dust and
therefore didn't see two boys
lumbering up the road pushing their
bikes until they were right in front
of her. She guessed they were
about her age, but they called her
"Signora!" and asked her if she
needed help. She shook her head
so that the flour dust flew, and the
boys exchanged a knowing look and
trudged even faster up the road
toward Monteluco.
"Santa Maria, madre di Dio," she
muttered and poked her fists into
her eyes until the garlic on her
fingers caused her eyes to sting.
She clambered up the
embankment, tears streaming downher face, and ran after the boys
who were now distant specks beside
the road with their bicycles blinking
silver in the sunlight. She shouted
at them, clutching at the weeds
beside the ditch, then stumbled into
a field ablaze with poppies. With
bees swarming above her head and
cars zooming by on the highway
below, she cried and smeared her
face with dirt until she thought the
buzzing bees were like a thousand
Vespas carrying Giorgio to his
death.
He was the one who had wanted
to go to Narni. On the way back he
stopped in the forest and drank a
whole bottle of Chianti he had
swiped from a stand outside
Spoleto. Then afterwards, as
though he were telling a grand joke,
he told her that his mother wanted
him to become a priest. She
remembered making the sign of the
cross when he laughed. He scoffed
at her, called her superstitious, and,
in an act of bravado -- it was the
last thing she remembered him
doing before they sputtered off
toward the highway -- he ripped the
plastic crucifix from his motorino,
threw it on the ground, and ran
over it, crushing it to pieces.
When she finally got up, the sun
was low in the west. She knew she
had missed Emilia's grand entrance
in clouds of white lace at the
duomo. She had probably missed
the toasts and picture-taking
sessions as well. Suddenly she felt
cold, a cold much deeper than the
one caused by the disappearing
sun, and shuddering panic gripped
her when she heard the two-tone
whine of the carabinieri's siren on
the highway below.
Tragic accident on the S.S. 3.She could see the headlines.
Fifteen-year old girl throws herself
on the Via Flaminia on the day of
her brother's wedding. She
imagined a photograph of herself
dressed in white like a bride lying in
tragic glory in a satin-tufted coffin.
At San Pietro she stopped in and
gazed at the red velvet drapes that
cast a glow like blood over the
marble floor. She could not pray.
Instead she dipped a corner of her
dress in holy water and wiped her
face. In the uneven glass of a
framed announcement of social
services for the district she could
vaguely see the outline of her face.
Her hair was still tinged with white,
like an old woman's. She looked up
at a large wooden crucifix where an
anemic Christ stretched out his
arms, his head tilted to one side, his
eyes fixed in a blank stare on the
opposite wall, oblivious to all
suffering but his own.
Slowly, with deliberate care, as
though she were older than Sister
Angela, she made her way down
the uneven steps, across the busy
highway toward home.
Signora Vitelli, a neighbor three
houses down, draped her massive
bosom over her window sill to lean
out far enough to yell at her. "Your
father has carabinieri looking for
you all the way to Eggi, Rubbiano,
and Monteluco! They're all at the
taverna by now. Your mother is a
saint to put up with you. You'd
better get cleaned up and get over
there. Your Papa, he say: 'non ho
piu una figlia. Not since that
accident.' Mamma mia, I would not
walk in your shoes today."
Early the next morning Carmela
was the first one up. She put on
old jeans she hadn't worn in morethan a year and a crumpled T-shirt
that proclaimed Sono Pazzi Questi
Romani in bright blue letters and
ran to find Sister Angela without
stopping to drink her caffelatte.
She found her in the little herb
garden at the south end of the
convent.
"You are wrong, Sister Angela.
Wrong!"
In tiny, mincing movements,
Sister Angela gentled the sun-baked
soil around spindly herbs with a
long-handled hoe.
"Did you hear me? You are
wrong. I cannot wear black the rest
of my life like you. I'm only fifteen.
I don't care what you say. I don't
care what the priest says. I don't
care what the Pope says. Do you
hear me? I don't care!"
"You don't care so much that you
are crying?"
"I'm not crying.”
"You are still grieving because
you are sorry for yourself." "That's
not true."
"But then grief is mostly selfish."
Sister Angela set the hoe on the
ground and hoisted a bright blue
watering can to her hip and held it
with both hands, trembling a little,
as a fine silver thread of water
spiraled down over emerging basil.
Carmela stepped away from the
little trickle of water that puddled
on the ground and turned the
thirsty earth to a rich, dark umber.
"Did you see what I have on?”
"I see." Sister Angela lowered
the watering can to the ground.
"Well?"
Sister Angela studied her fading
jeans and assertive T-shirt.
"Out of one uniform into
another."
“What?""You now look like most of the
teenagers in Umbria. In Italy.
Maybe in the world. Is that what
you want?"
"Yes!"
"How was the wedding?"
"I didn't go."
"You didn't go!"
"I went on a walk."
"And your Papa and Mamma,
Federico--?"
"Papa had the police looking for
me. I went to the taverna. Late. I
wore the bright blue dress Mamma
bought for me and I danced with
Renzo, Federico's friend. But first
Papa was so mad he crushed a
glass in his hand, and they had to
call a doctor. After the doctor
stitched him up, he went around the
room telling everyone that he didn't
have a daughter anymore. Then he
introduced me as the daughter he
no longer had! It was frightening at
first. But Renzo started laughing,
and then everyone laughed, even
Federico. But--"
"But?"
"Not Papa. If you want me to go
to confession, I won't." "What do
you have to confess?"
"Nothing, except that I used holy
water to wash my face."
Sister Angela moved to the next
plot of herbs and poked at tufts of
leaves with her sneaker but did not
water them. Carmela went to fetch
the watering can, but Sister Angela
stopped her. "No, Carmelina, not
these. These are my favorite, but
no water."
"Why not?"
"They like dry and rocky soil. If
they don't have to fight against the
hard clay to bloom, they grow long
stems without taste. Without
struggle there is no flavor. That isthe secret of Umbria."
Carmela gazed down at the
tender new leaves of tarragon and
thyme and frowned. "When you
were fifteen, did you want to
become a nun?"
"No."
"Why did you--?"
"It is not an interesting story.
My mother died when I was a baby.
My father left when I was six. The
sisters here took me in. I've lived
here since I was six years old. At
your age I wanted to run away with
a boy to America, but I didn't."
"Why didn't you?"
The set of her wrinkles shifted
upward as she smiled. "No one told
me I couldn't go, I guess. And
then, he ran away with somebody
else."
"Another girl?"
"Yes."
"Did you hate him?"
"Yes, for a long time."
"And you stayed here? You
never tried to leave?" Carmela
looked at the worn face in front of
her and couldn't imagine Sister
Angela with a boyfriend. It was
even harder to imagine that she
had ever been young.
Sister Angela's hoe caught and
severed a long, leafy stem, and a
powerfully pungent scent burst into
the clear morning air. "No, I
stayed. I could never leave Umbria.
This is my home. Here, smell the
hyssop. All the freshness of spring
is in its leaves. The harsher the
winter, the stronger the aroma in
the spring."
Carmela held the sprig under her
nose. "Giorgio's Mamma said he
wanted to become a priest, but I
never told her what happened that
night. Giorgio laughed at the ideaof becoming a priest. He cursed
God. And I -- I didn't stop him."
"Carmelina, you are not to blame
for what happened to Giorgio."
"But, Sister Angela, he did
worse."
"You think that the accident was
a punishment from God?"
"Yes."
"My dear Carmelina, God does
not need to punish us. We do it
well enough ourselves."
"But--"
"But what?"
"But Giorgio is damned forever."
"Is that truly what is bothering
you? A young boy full of life defies
his mother, curses God, and you
think God reaches down a finger
from heaven and topples his
moped? No, my Carmelina, God
has better things to do."
"You don't think God--?"
"Ah, God is used to us. Most of
his saints were rebels at one time
or another. I would not worry
about Giorgio. I would worry about
the living not the dead."
Carmela pinched off a tiny
tongue-shaped leaf of winter savory
and placed it in her mouth. It
tasted mildly hot, peppery.
"Too young to have much flavor.
You see these dried twigs from the
winter? The new leaf grows from
the same roots as the old, but the
old is gone. Still the flavor depends
on the old root." She picked up a
handful of coarse dirt and crumbled
it through her fingers. "I do not
remember my father very well. I
was very young when he left. But
one thing I remember. We were
out in the garden in the spring, and
he picked up some dirt and said
that we can never forget our roots,
and he asked me if I knew whyUmbrians do not put salt in their
bread. When I shook my head, he
said, 'Because we are the salt of the
earth.'"
"Mamma says you must make
bruschetta with Umbrian bread."
"She knows it is the only one that
tastes right. Do you know why we
don't put salt in our bread?"
"No."
"Because long ago all of Umbria
refused to pay the salt tax. We
rebelled against the Pope. To this
day we do not put salt in our bread.
But we add the salt through our
tears."
The morning sun was a shifting
dazzle behind scruffy pines and
stately cypresses. Above them the
sky arched into purple infinity, and
Carmela lowered her eyes, blinded
by the sheer intensity of light.
The crushed leaf tasted bitter on
her tongue.
4
David's Harp (Samuel I 16:14 -
16.23)
I am not King or ruler, yet sometimes
I can understand the pain of Saul
when he felt God had turned away.
Like a child I see demons in the night.
Shadows grow and the mind torments
itself
not letting go of fear.
The windows are barred, the doors
bolted
and still some relentless raven circles
over my bed foretelling danger.
And bad deeds are done in the dark.
If I could speak the common
language.
I would call forth David, in Aramaic,
Beseech him to play for me.
Please, come, over here,
near the side of the bed that feels
coldest.
To you, no shadow could he larger
than Goliath.
But if you place your hand on my
chest,
feel how fast the heart beats, afraid.
And God, like the safety of morning,
feels so far away. Therefore, I kneel
and wait
for your melody to lullaby me whole
again,
And I reclaim myself breath by breath,
close my eyes, listen and know;
under your fingers the harp strings
vibrate,
shimmer alive like corn silk in the
arriving dawn.
-Yvonne Patrick
Nick Bury Knocks
By Joseph A. McCullough V
|
In the old chair in the corner,
Allison Hess quietly rocked herself
as tears rolled down her cheeks.
Richard, her husband, paced back
and forth across the room his eyes
occasionally glancing over to her.
"Would you please get a hold of
yourself," said Richard, anger
slipping into his voice.
Allison's tear filled eyes looked
up at him, "Our son is dying!"
Richard stopped pacing and
stared down at his young wife.
"Our son is not dying. He's
going to be fine, and the last thing
he needs is his mother crying over
him day and night convincing him
he's going to die."
"But he has the plague!"
"Of course he has the plague,
but..."
A knock on the front door
interrupted the sentence. Allison
began to get up, but her husband
motioned for her to remain in the
chair.
"What could anyone want
tonight?" said Richard. "The sun is
down, rain is falling, and our son is
sick. Does no one have any
respect?"
Then Richard sighed, and the
anger seemed to leave him. With a
small frown, he moved over to the
door and pulled it open.
Upon his porch stood a stoop
shouldered man with a long pale
face, and scraggly grey hair that
hung just past his shoulders. He
was dressed in a simple brown tunic
with black pants, and brown leather
boots that folded over just beforereaching his knees. From under the
brim of a black slouch hat, a pale
green eye looked out. A black
patch covered the space where his
left eye should have been. The
man carried an old rusty shovel that
lay across his right shoulder.
“I just wanted to let you know
I'm here, Mr. Hess, " said the
newcomer in a throaty whisper.
"Who are you?" asked Richard,
annoyance evident in his voice.
"I'm Nick --- Bury..." returned
the pale man. The statement
ended in a slight chuckle that
quickly turned into a cough.
Richard, momentarily frozen by
the stranger's appearance and
manner, could not get another word
out before Nick stepped off the
porch and began to walk around the
house. Richard ran back into the
living room and looked out a
window into the small clearing
behind the house. Distracted by
the newcomer, he failed to notice
that his wife had left the room.
As Richard watched, the pale
man came around the house and
walked to the edge of the clearing
that bordered on a deep woods. A
light rain still fell. Nick stopped for
a moment and looked around.
Then, drawing four wooden stakes
from his belt, he carefully placed
them in the ground so as to form a
rectangle approximately three feet
wide and six feet long. Richard's
eyes grew wide as he realized the
old man's purpose. He looked on in
shock, anger, and horror as Nick
sunk his shovel into the soft earthand began to dig.
For a moment, Richard stood
with his mouth hanging open and
his head leaning against the
window. Not only could he not
believe the audacity of the
cadaverous man in his backyard,
but, he was also stunned by how
fast the hole seemed to grow under
Nick Bury's shovel.
Richard snapped out of his
trance and ran upstairs. He ran
past his son's room and would have
kept going had he not seen Allison
sitting quietly by the bed. Their son
was asleep.
"Allison! Do you know what that
man is doing in our backyard!"
Richard's voice held more
exasperation than true anger.
Allison looked at him with eyes
red from crying.
"He's digging a grave! Our son's
not even dead, and he's digging a
grave."
"Why don't you just let him do
it," replied his wife, "likely as not
we'll need it before the night is
through."
"What!" Richard cried in pure
amazement. "Don't you have any
faith? I've prayed, and I know that
God will not let my son die."
Allison looked at her husband,
shook her head, and frowned.
Richard sighed and walked
across the hall to his own bedroom.
Allison stepped into the small
hallway. She could hear her
husband tossing things about in
their bedroom. A moment later, he
reemerged with a short sword, still
sharp despite its age.
Richard gave his wife a smile,
and touched the side of her face.
"I'm not going to hurt
him. I'm just going to scare himoff. I'll be right back."
Richard gave his wife a quick
hug and walked down the stairs.
Allison stood for a moment ringing
her hands together and then went
back into the room with her son.
Richard stepped out of the back
door of his house and into the small
clearing. He could see Nick
standing in the grave that was
already four or five feet deep.
Occasional drops of rain hit
Richard's face as, with a scowl, he
marched over to the grave. Nick
stopped his digging and peered up
with his green eye at the man who
loomed above.
"You are a human vulture!" cried
Richard,
"I'm just...doing my job." Nick
grinned.
"If anyone digs a grave for my
son it will be me!"
"I doubt that very much," again
Nick chuckled and coughed.
Richard could not believe the
arrogance of the old man. He
raised his sword to threaten the
grave digger, but, as he did so, the
wet dirt on the edge of the grave
gave way. Richard fell into the
grave; the sword fell beneath him.
Up in her son's room, Allison
heard a knock on the back door.
She ignored it as she held her son's
hand. A moment later the knock
came again. Allison hated to leave
her son alone in what could be his
last moments, so again she ignored
it. When the knock came a third
time, she decided she must go
answer. She hurried down the
stairs and opened the door.
Nick Bury stood on the back step
with his shovel over his left
shoulder. In his right hand he held
a short sword and a belt with amoney pouch.
"Your husband's possessions
ma'am," said Nick in his throaty
whisper, "I took the liberty of
removing a silver for my services."
Nick grinned, and stared at the
woman with his green eye. Nick
handed the items to Allison who
was too shocked to speak. Nick
noticed the tears on her cheek.
"Cheer up ma'am, you won't be
needing my services again for a
some time."
Nick turned and walked across
the clearing. From her position on
the door step, Allison heard a soft
chuckle as the man walked past a
newly filled grave and disappeared
into the woods.
4
Mercy for Davy
By Debra A. Kemp
|
“Enid?" The man stepped into
the kitchen yard and stood inside,
near the middens. His cap doffed.
"'Tis Olwen. I think you best
come."
"What of Olwen, Brynn?" Enid
said, straightening from the tub she
had been hunched over for the last
hour. She wiped her hands on her
skirt.
He shrugged. "Some accident."
Curious, the women around me
stopped working. Julia cast a
concern-laden glance about her. It
was mirrored by the rest of us.
"Is she hurt? Who is with her?"
Brynn's hands shook and he did
not meet Enid's gaze.
"Davy's with her. Enid . . . Ah,
Jesu, but why did this fall to me?"
he said, crossing himself. "I am
truly sorry, Enid. Your little one,
your Olwen, is dead."
I could not see Enid's face but
she held her back arrow-straight as
she walked from the yard with
Brynn.
Dead?
Olwen?
But that cannot be.
Mere hours ago I had saved her
from Prince Agravain's belt.
My companions and I followed,
paying no heed to Brisen's shouted
threats. Olwen was one of our own.
As we crossed the dunn's
courtyard, our band was joined by
curious servants and other slaves
swelling our ranks, so that by the
time we merged with the on-lookersalready at the well, we were a force
not to be taken lightly.
The crowd parted to reveal
Dafydd sitting cross-legged on the
well's step, with Olwen in his arms.
He rocked as though coaxing her to
sleep, his eyes red and swollen.
Her battered face told her painful
story.
Why? What could a child of six
summers have done to deserve
such a cruel fate?
Without a word, Dafydd raised
Olwen to the outstretched arms of
her mother.
"What rot is this?" The overseer
chose that moment to push through
the crowd. Cursing, he grabbed at
Olwen's body, causing her to tumble
from Dafydd's grasp.
Servant and slave alike released
a gasp at such disregard for the
dead.
Dafydd blanched.
Enid reached for her child,
sobbing.
The overseer blocked her way.
"If you please, Master. My child
-- Let me hold my child," Enid said,
her voice eerily calm and strong.
"Silence, woman. Another word
and you'll be at the post with your
gown around your waist."
Dafydd, bless him, had gathered
Olwen into his lap again. He
smoothed her clothes and her hair
as best he could with his hands. If
he was aware of my presence, he
did not show it. All his attention
was fixed on the child he cradledwith such love.
Yes, a man can be tender. At
least a boy named Dafydd could. I
admired my brother's infinite store
of compassion. And I felt shamed
for the accusations and anger I had
thoughtlessly flung at him at
cockcrow.
I took a step backwards and
bumped into Padrig.
We stood shoulder to shoulder in
silence, the scene before us of far
more import than our differences of
last night.
The overseer had turned his
attention to my brother. He
grasped Dafydd's collar and hauled
him to his feet.
"The truth, boy. Now."
Dafydd never loosened his hold
on Olwen. No matter what it might
cost him, he would not let her fall
again.
"I know not how it happened,
Master. I found her thus."
"Found her? Where?"
"Here, at the well, Master."
"What, pray, were you doing at
the well? Aren't you supposed to
be shovelling shit?"
"Yes, Master. I was, Master. I
was given a command to fetch
water."
"By who?"
Incredibly, the overseer seemed
not to believe my brother.
When had Dafydd ever lied?
"A stable-hand, Master. I do not
know his name, but I can point him
out."
"Never mind. For now. Go on."
"There is not much else, Master.
She was lying there on the step
when I got here." He nodded,
indicating the stains of blood on the
stone. "I thought at first that she
was badly hurt and needed help. But when I drew nigh, I saw that
she . . . That she was . . . dead."
The overseer released Dafydd.
"This is beyond my ken," he
said, scratching his crotch. "I can
not pass judgment on a death.
Someone fetch Prince Agravain. Or
Prince Modred."
I felt Padrig's hand on my
shoulder.
"I am certain your brother will
be well, Lin. But you might be wise
to keep as far back as possible."
I shrugged his hand away. "I
cannot abandon him, Padrig. He
would never leave me. They cannot
think Dafydd guilty of this. 'Tis
mad. Someone has to make them
believe he is innocent."
"They make the rules here.
They can believe what they want."
Aye, but--
"Donall, come take this." The
overseer pointed to Olwen, still
nestled at Dafydd's breast.
Enid fell to her knees and
clutched the overseer's trews.
Tears streaked her face.
"See, Master?" she said. "I beg.
What harm in letting me hold my
child one last time before you take
her from me?"
The overseer kicked at Enid and
a warrior stepped from the crowd.
Niall, my former escort.
"Allow me," he said, yanking the
woman to her feet and pinioning
her arms.
The two men laughed at her
struggles.
It was clear, we would not be
permitted to mourn Olwen's
passing. She was merely cumal.
She had no value.
I shivered from the strong wind
gusting from the north. The sky
had darkened since I had stood inthe kitchen yard, babbling rot about
my own lack of value, Enid
embracing me. It seemed a
lifetime ago.
Someone behind me shouted for
us to make way for the prince.
The crowd parted and I saw the
crop of dark hair.
Of course it would be him.
Prince Modred strode into the
clearing, steeped in arrogant
authority. Performing a duty for
Mummy. He surveyed the situation
with a glance at Dafydd and the
overseer. I could not see the
prince's face, but he must have
been surprised to discover that I
was not directly involved.
"What is she worked up over,"
the prince asked Niall, sounding
annoyed.
"Hell if I know, my lord."
"Well, woman. What is it?
Speak."
Like commanding a dog. I
half-expected him to snap his
fingers.
And Enid obeyed.
"If you please, young Master.
Your Highness. My child has been
killed. Show us your mercy in
finding the fiend. At least, be
merciful to a grieving mother and
permit me to hold my Olwen and
bid her farewell."
"Your Olwen? I think not. You
and the brat belong to my mother.
Besides, there is no time for your
sentimental foolishness. The whelp
is of no concern to me. You should
be tending your duties, not wasting
my time."
Enid bucked against the warrior
restraining her.
"Bitch," she screamed, casting
her gaze beyond the prince to the
palace looming over us all. "I'vegiven both of my daughters to the
bitch Queen of Orkney. Both of my
daughters, gone. May the Queen's
next lover have leprosy."
Thunder grumbled as though in
agreement.
The prince held his fists clenched
throughout. His lips drew tight
across his teeth. An arm rose, as
though to strike, then fell to his
side.
"Sell the hysterical creature, she
has wasted too much of my time,"
he said.
Niall began to obey, but before
he could make more than a few
steps, Custennin burst from the
midst of the throng, and flung
himself at the warrior dragging his
wife away.
Shouting curses, he wrestled
Niall to the ground. In the initial
impact, Enid was thrown against the
well.
Before any of the other soldiers
could react, I heard the sickening
crunch of bones breaking. Then
Niall moved no longer.
Not even winded, Custennin
glowered at Prince Modred.
"You're next, boy," he said,
pushing to his feet.
The prince fingered one of his
rings, as though untouched by the
threat. But surely he must sense
his danger. Though no scrawny
boy, the prince would be no match
for Custennin's passion-fueled
advantage.
Enid clutched her husband's leg.
"How touching," the prince said.
A wave of his hand and guards
dragged the couple apart. Two held
their swords at Custennin's throat.
Another soldier knelt over Niall
and listened at the fallen man's
chest. "My lord," he said, standing.
"Niall's dead. His neck is broke.
That slave murdered him. We all
saw it." He stood at attention.
"The Queen's warriors plead for
justice."
"Aye!"
Justice? Oh, the world had gone
mad. And I could merely stand on
the fringe, watching the madness
unfold. The soldiers demanded
justice, while the slaves could not
even beg a crumb of mercy or
compassion for our loss. We would
most likely never know the truth of
Olwen's death. But I could guess.
"Hold the slave, I shall deal with
him directly. Donall, dispose of --
this, it will be starting to stink
soon." He pointed at Olwen.
Dafydd was still clearly shocked
by the recent events, so the one
named Donall had no difficulty
retrieving Olwen. The man had
little regard, and much distaste for
his charge. He handled her more
like a sack of grain than a child
recently gone from the world.
It was too much. I could remain
silent no longer. I--
"No," Dafydd said leaping to his
feet. He grabbed at Donall's tunic,
defiance burned in the normally
calm eyes. His sudden cry took
everyone by surprise. "You cannot
just toss her away like you did my
mother. Olwen might have been
destined for the collar, but she was
a child of flesh and blood. Not
waste. Let us bury her properly.
Had you been decent about it in the
first place, your warrior would still
be alive."
The crowd agreed.
The overseer restrained Dafydd
in the next instant, binding his
hands at his back."So. You are like her," the
prince said to my brother.
A cold numbness settled around
my heart. Dafydd, be careful. He
is dangerous.
I felt Padrig's hand on my
shoulder, and this time allowed it to
remain.
"Take the woman to the town
slave pen. She has proved to be
more trouble than she is worth. I
want her gone."
The warrior who had taken
Niall's place made short work of his
task. One blow to Enid's head and
she crumpled. He carried her away.
Prince Modred whirled to face
Custennin.
"You killed one of my mother's
warriors. Do you realize the
penalty for that?"
Although at sword-point,
Custennin tossed strands of hair
from his face with the shake of his
head.
"Who will pay for the death of
my daughter, you heartless son of
a whore? An innocent boy? I care
not one whit for your mother's
warrior."
"Spoken like a condemned
man." The prince waved a jewelled
hand. "Hang him."
"No," I whispered.
Padrig drew closer.
Again, I did not stop him. I
dared not glance his way for fear he
would see my helplessness.
The man who had once fought
with the Pendragon did not resist
when the guards moved. His face
plainly showed his sorrow as he
gazed at the remains of his
daughter, slung in Donall's arms.
As they led him by my brother,
he said, "Many thanks for minding
Olwen for us, son."Dafydd nodded.
What a calm dignity Custennin
possessed. Here was a man worthy
of the Pendragon. I felt honoured
that our life paths had crossed.
They took him to the top of the
defence wall, where his hands were
bound and a noose slipped around
his neck. The other end of the rope
was secured to a stone that would
serve as cross-beam.
How efficient the Irish were at
dispensing their brand of justice.
They heaved our companion over
the side.
The crowd gasped.
Dafydd swayed in his place on
the well step, then he sank to his
knees, his chin drooping to his chest
when Custennin's body finally came
to rest.
My own legs wobbled and I felt
an urge to vomit.
Padrig and others crossed
themselves.
When would this sordid, wicked
day end?
Prince Modred allowed several
moments to pass, for the example
to drive its way into our souls.
Dafydd needed me more than
ever now. I swallowed my vomit,
willed my legs to bear my weight.
The prince no doubt saved my
brother for last, to prolong the
sport. For the first time since
arriving, he scanned the throng.
I made things easy for him by
stepping forward.
"I am here, prince."
He smirked. But I noticed a
weariness in the blue eyes
regarding me, as though the
intensity of the last few moments
had been more than he, or his
mother, had anticipated.
How had the situation gotten outof control as it had? The death
count was rising rapidly. To what
purpose?
A grieving mother denied access
to her child's body because the
masters needed to exert their
power over others? How senseless.
And the prince had Dafydd and
me by the short hairs. Exactly as
he wanted. He stood poised to
destroy us both.
"Now to attend what I was
summoned for in the first place.
Then, perhaps we can get on with
more important matters." He
glanced at the stone-grey sky.
"Before the rain. What is this one
accused of?"
"Destruction of the Queen's
property, my lord. I found him with
the girl in his arms. He said she
was already dead."
"You do not believe him?"
"What's to believe, lord? He's
but a slave. I thought it best to
send for you, my lord."
"Indeed."
I watched, helpless, as the
prince circled my kneeling brother;
like the carrion birds already
hovering over Custennin's body,
assessing him. Prince Modred
stopped and cupped Dafydd's chin,
tilting his face up and studied it.
"Mercy for Davy."
I could not see the man who
spoke.
"Mercy for Davy."
This time from a woman.
Mercy for Davy, the words came
from every direction of the
gathering. Men. Women. I heard
Padrig, Julia, Rhys. It soon became
a chant, taken up by dozens of
voices at once.
I could not resist my own smug
grin at the prince. A singlemis-step and he would incite a riot.
And I had done nothing to spark it.
I'd had no need.
Mercy for Davy, I mouthed.
"Ach, this one is too pathetic to
be a murderer," he said. "The
slave-girl's death was an accident.
Flog the miserable creature for his
outburst, and whatever other faults
he might have."
My brother was led to the
whipping post and everyone
followed. We would play out the
drama to its end. Even the prince
was a puppet to the events now.
He had as little control of the
situation as I did.
Preferring to be back in the
guard room, I again positioned
myself where the prince could see
me. Where I could watch my
brother's ordeal.
The prince took his time testing
the whip, plainly enjoying the
moment, as Dafydd was prepared.
I am a stone, without emotion, I
told myself.
The prince ran his fingers over
Dafydd's bare back.
"How long have you been here,
slave?"
"I was born here, Master."
"Born here? And your back has
never been touched by the whip?
How extraordinary."
The whip whistled and left a
straight crimson line from Dafydd's
shoulders to his waist. His body
stiffened at the impact, but
incredibly he made no sound.
Stop trying to be like me,
Dafydd.
"Brave, boy. But for how long?"
The prince taunted.
What would the others think
of me if I did not do for my brother
what I did for myself? What I haddone for Olwen.
There are only two men who
matter here.
Aye. And I will help my brother.
How, if you are beaten as well?
Time to choose.
A painful choice. My brother or
my pride.
I held my tongue.
Dafydd's silence did not hold
beyond the first strokes. Quite
soon his pain took over.
To the prince's pleasure. At that
point he let the overseer finish, but
he remained on the platform,
watching me struggle with my pride
and my heart.
I felt more exposed than when I
was shackled to the post myself,
stripped to the waist. I could never
hide how I cared for my brother
from the prince, or from anyone.
But I could control my actions. I
would witness my brother's scars as
he did mine. I would hold the score
in my heart.
At last the prince's blood-lust
was slaked and he signalled a halt
to the assault on my brother. He
jumped from the platform to stand
directly before me.
"Now his back is no longer
perfect. It is scarred like yours.
Next time, I might not have such
mercy. There are always slavers in
town wanting strong backs for the
tin mines of Dumnonia. Or the salt
mines of the midlands."
When he was gone, I scrambled
onto the platform and knelt at
Dafydd's side.
I bit my lips to silence my gasp
when I saw his wounds at such
close quarters. No wonder he was
always so cross with me after my
own encounters with the prince.
My brother moaned at my slighttouch to his cheek.
"It is only me, Dafydd," I
whispered.
4
The Orange
By Don Stockard
|
The prisoners marched in a ragged
line through the blowing snow -- black,
amorphous ghosts in a murky white
hell. The men were exhausted from a
day of hard labor and staggered
forward with their heads down. The
guards were little better. They walked
with their hands buried in the
greatcoats and chins on their chests.
Only their uniforms and rifles
distinguished them from the prisoners.
The sun had long since set, terminating
the brief arctic day, and a morose
semidarkness weighed heavily on the
plain as though it, rather than ancient
tectonic forces, had flattened the land.
A prisoner slowed, lagging behind the
group.
"Close the gap!" the nearest guard
snarled.
The prisoner did not increase his
pace.
"Move, damn it!" The guard
reluctantly took his hands out of his
pockets and raised his rifle.
Another prisoner dropped back
beside the straggler. "Come on, Peter,"
the second prisoner said, putting an
arm around the first. "We're almost
there, Pick it up."
Peter stared vacantly at the second
prisoner. "I can't, Ivan. I--”
"Yes, you can." Ivan increased his
pace, hauling Peter with him. Ivan was
much larger and younger than Peter.
And although Ivan was tired himself, he
had no difficulty dragging his
companion forward. He was surprised,
in fact, how light Peter was.
The guard tucked his rifle under his
arm and returned his hands to hispockets. Ivan had been right: they
were not far from the compound which
was home to the prisoners. Once
inside the gate, the prisoners formed a
line and the sergeant called roll. Ivan
stood next to Peter, propping him up.
Other work parties were arriving and
soon the entire labor battalion was
accounted for. The guards unlocked
the shacks and the prisoners poured
gratefully into the relative shelter of the
flimsy huts.
"Come on, old man," Ivan said, as
he lowered Peter onto his bunk. "At
least get out of your work clothes.
You'll feel better."
Peter shook his head. "Too tired."
"Here." Ivan pulled off Peter's thick
coat. "Now let me get your boots."
Peter offered no resistance and Ivan
soon had Peter's outer layers of
clothing off. Ivan stared at the other
prisoner for a few moments, as though
looking at a stranger. Peter had always
been a small wiry man. But his
strength had faded and there remained
little more than skin and bones. Peter's
eyes were sunken and his cheek had
collapsed, leaving a pitiful, painted
skull. Ivan shook his head slowly and
took Peter's coat and his own to the
pegs by the door.
"What's wrong with the old man?"
Stephen, a slight man with faded red
hair, asked as Peter hung up the
jackets.
"Worn out. The winter's too much
for him."
Stephen spit out a harsh laugh.
"So? What makes him different from
the rest of us?""He's old. He feels it more."
"You should have let the guard
shoot him. It would have been a
kindness; besides, why do you care?"
Ivan shrugged. "He's always been
kind to me. When I first came, he
taught me how to survive. Without his
help I would have been dead long ago."
There was an earnest, childlike
expression on Ivan's face.
"And you're grateful for that?
Anything that prolongs life in this hell is
cruelty -- the most inhumane cruelty."
"What's done is done. I can't help
but feel sorry for him."
"He'll be gone by morning."
Stephen stretched and yawned. "One
more down. Tonight him, tomorrow me
and then you. Who gives a damn?"
Without replying, Ivan returned to
Peter's bunk and sat down. None of
the other prisoners paid any attention
to old man's plight. Peter opened his
eyes and smiled faintly when he saw
Ivan's broad face.
"How do you feel?" Ivan asked.
Peter did not reply and Ivan laid his
hand on the other's forehead. It felt
warm.
"Fever," Peter said, without waiting
for Ivan to comment.
"You do feel a bit warm. But I
wouldn't --"
"What difference does it make?"
Peter interrupted him. "There's nothing
to be done about it." He sighed and
looked up at Ivan, his eyes bright.
"I've had it. I can't take another day
out there. The body reaches a point
where it can't go on."
"Maybe you'll feel better in the
morning," Ivan said, trying
unsuccessfully to put a note of
conviction in his voice.
Peter smiled feebly. "Yes. I'll feel
much better. I won't notice any pain of
cold. It'll be over ... yes, it'll be over."Ivan did not respond. He knew
Peter was right. Death was common in
the camp. It was as commonplace as
going to the bathroom or eating;
nevertheless, the prospect of Peter's
death saddened Ivan. For he was a
simple peasant, with strong
attachments to his family and his land.
And when, for reasons Ivan did not
understand, the government had taken
him from his land and family, he had
silently grieved. Of all that he had lost,
he missed, most of all, his father, a
man of quiet courage, who had faced
adversity with calmness and
determination. Ivan had found the
same qualities in Peter. And, over
time, Peter had become a father to the
young peasant lad.
"You know what I miss most of all?"
Peter asked. Ivan shook his head.
"An orange."
"Orange?" Of all the things that
Peter might have said, this was among
the least expected.
Peter chuckled. "Yes, an orange.
Oranges were always a favorite of
mine. My mother used to peel them for
me when I was a child. And it was
under an orange tree --" a ragged
cough interrupted his description "--
that I proposed to my wife."
Peter paused and Ivan stared at
him, waiting for him to continue.
"It isn't just the taste that I like, but
it's also the color and the texture of the
skin -- rough and smooth at the same
time. I would have liked to see an
orange again before I die." He closed
his eyes, smiling. "But the world of
oranges is far away ... far away." His
breathing slowed to the cadence of
sleep and Ivan sat beside his friend for
a few more moments and then stood
up quietly.
"Where you going?" Stephen asked
as Ivan opened the door."To get an orange."
Stephen frowned. "Are you crazy or
something?"
If Ivan replied, it was lost in the
howling wind as he stepped outside.
Ivan leaned into the wind and blowing
snow and marched resolutely to the
guardhouse.
Six guards in all were in the cabin.
Four were engaged in a card game,
while the other two watched. They
looked up in surprise as Ivan entered.
"What are you doing here?" the
sergeant demanded, scowling at the
prisoner. "You're supposed to be in
your shack."
"I need an orange," Ivan said,
expressionlessly.
The sergeant frowned as several of
the guards laughed. "What the hell are
you talking about?"
"An orange." Ivan's face was blank
and his voice even.
"Look. You're not even supposed to
be in here. If the lieutenant happened
by, I'd have to shoot you. Now get
your ass out of here."
"I need an orange."
The sergeant stood up, slamming
his cards onto the table. "Damn it--”
"How much is it worth to you?"
Basil, a young heavyset guard, asked
the prisoner.
Ivan shrugged. "I have nothing --"
"Cigarettes?" Basil smiled thinly.
Ivan nodded. "Yes, I have
cigarettes."
"I just got a package from home
and there happens to be an orange in
it." Basil leaned back in his chair,
grinning. "You can have it. In
exchange I want your cigarette ration
for a year." The officers and sergeants
skimmed off a good portion of each
prisoner's allotment. But an ordinary
guard received no cut.
"A year?" Ivan asked in disbelief."That's right." Basil reached into his
satchel and pulled out an orange. He
tossed it into the air and caught it.
"One year."
Ivan stared at the orange. It was a
large navel orange with a thick, rugged
peel and a vivid orange color. The
guard tossed it into the air again. It
spun lazily through the air, as though
mocking Ivan, and then smacked into
Basil's hand. Ivan thought of Peter
lying in his bunk, sleeping fitfully.
"Okay," he said finally. "One year."
"You all witness it?" Basil looked at
the other guards, who nodded in
assent.
Ivan held out his hand.
Basil shook his head. "Not so fast.
You got your cigarette ration yesterday.
Let's have it."
Ivan hesitated.
"You want the orange?" Basil tossed
it into the air again.
Ivan took the pack out of his
pocket. He carefully husbanded his
cigarettes, allowing himself one every
other day. He regretted today had not
been a cigarette day. He handed them
to Basil. The guard took the pack and
counted the cigarettes.
"Okay." Basil tossed the orange to
Ivan.
"Now get out of here," the sergeant
said.
Ivan quickly ducked out the door
into the blowing snow.
"What the hell do you suppose the
stupid bastard wants with an orange?"
Basil asked. "Especially to the tune of
a year's worth of cigarettes."
"Who knows." The sergeant sat
down and picked up his cards. "Whose
bid?"
Ivan, clutching the orange, hurried
through the storm to his hut and burst
into the room. The other men in the
hut looked dully at Ivan as he strode toPeter's bunk. Satisfied the older man
was still breathing, Ivan poked him
gently.
Peter opened his eyes and looked at
Ivan in surprise. After a few moments
he smiled in recognition.
"Here." Ivan thrust the orange into
Peter's hands.
Peter looked at the orange in shock.
"Where ... an orange ... but how--”
"It doesn't matter," Ivan said.
Tears welled up in Peter's eyes.
"Thank you," he said. "I-I never
thought--”
"That's okay." Ivan cut him off.
Expressions of emotion were alien to
the harsh world of the camp and he felt
uncomfortable in their presence. "Do
you want me to peel it for you?"
Peter shook his head. "No. That's
all right."
Ivan nodded.
Peter closed his eyes. For the rest
of the night he lay on his back smiling
contentedly, turning the orange over
and over in his hands. Ivan sat silently
on the edge of the bed. Shortly after
midnight, Peter trembled slightly and
then lay immobile. Ivan stared at him
for a moment to be sure his breath was
indeed stilled and then pulled the
blanket over Peter's face. He crossed
himself slowly and lay down in his own
bunk, waiting for morning.
"Time to get up!" the guard shouted
as he pushed open the door.
"One gone," Ivan said softly,
referring to Peter.
The guard swore, left, and returned
several minutes later with the sergeant
and two other guards.
"Which one?" the sergeant asked,
his pencil poised over his clipboard.
Ivan nodded toward Peter.
"Bag him up." The sergeant made a
check on the list.
A guard jerked the blanket off ofPeter. "Hey," he said. "An orange."
"Well I'll be damned," another guard
said.
"It's not going to do him any good,"
the first said, reaching for the orange,
which was locked tightly in Peter's cold
hands.
"No!" Ivan screamed, grabbing the
guard before he could take the orange.
"It's his! Leave it alone!"
"Get the hell off me!" the guard
shouted in terror. Ivan was
considerably larger than the guard and
there was a wild look of fury in the
prisoner's eyes.
"Damn it!"
"Grab him!"
The sergeant and the other guards
dragged Ivan off. The other prisoners
flattened against the wall. They knew
any hint of aiding Ivan would bring dire
consequences.
"It's his!" Ivan roared.
"Hold him!" The sergeant ran to the
door and shouted. Several more
guards rushed in.
"There!" The sergeant pointed at
Ivan, who was still struggling.
They soon had the prisoner pinned
to the floor. "Settle down, you
bastard!" The sergeant slapped Ivan
across the face several times with the
barrel of his pistol.
Ivan, blood oozing from a corner of
his mouth, ceased struggling and glared
at the guards.
"Bag the body up," the sergeant
said, nodding toward Peter.
Two of the guards hurried to obey
and soon had Peter, still grasping the
orange, in the bag.
"Okay," the sergeant said. "Get
them both out of here."
Once outside, those carrying the
remains of Peter hurried toward a pit
on the edge of camp where the bodies
of dead prisoners lay frozen until theground thawed enough to allow them to
be easily covered. The other guards
led Ivan toward the small hut that was
used as a jail. Ivan watched the guards
carrying the body of Peter and began to
laugh. It was a rich, rumbling laugh
that came from deep in his chest.
Exchanging a nervous glance, his
guards pushed Ivan toward the jail.
4
Yekaterinburg, 1918
The Death of Alexei Romanov
An ordinary house with white siding, a shingled roof and a side
door
is our home this summer.
The side door has become familiar to me, the way side doors do
when you have lived in a house for a time and you are thirteen
years old.
It leads to the basement.
We can reach the basement from inside the house as well, and
that's what we do to take our family photograph.
My father wants the photograph.
It will show that we are ordinary and happy in our house with
white wood siding.
We listen to his wishes.
The basement is a drab place for a photograph, but my sisters are
lovely in white dresses.
They have sloping petal faces,
Eyes dewy and drooping.
They are beige and saffron roses in lovely dresses and my mother
gathers them to her.
I stand behind, younger, yet taller.
I hold myself apart, because small wounds make me bleed.
The photographers adjust our pose.
The angles must be precise, my father will insist.
"Tatania, bend, lean Maria, yes, smile Anastasia."
"And Alex, do not stand far apart, although I know that small wounds make you bleed."
He is done now, and the photographers level their aim.
My father cries out.
The too-lonq cameras crack.
I fall, too.
This camera insult is hardly necessary,
since always even the smallest wounds have made me bleed.
My sisters do not fall.
They have sewn diamonds into their underclothing
and the bullets cannot go through. ( continued on next page )
The photographers must therefore come from behind their cameras
with sleek and sharp blades
to open their petal throats.
-By Karen Chaffee
The Waterbed
By Bruce Stevens
|
Just after midnight Myrna was
bolted awake by a tickling sensation
under her body as if something was
alive inside the waterbed. Though it
was an obviously unsubstantiated
supposition, she still reacted
instinctively, jumping up to a sitting
position, gasping for breath. Ordinarily
a nervous person, just the thought of
being in the close proximity of a
disgusting cockroach or water bug, or
worse, a repulsive mouse would be
enough to have her leaping ten feet
into the air. But with consciousness
came reality. After forcefully calming
her manic lungs, she turned to her
husband whom she figured just had
played one of his stupid pranks on her.
She whispered in his ear, “You're not
funny, Lou.” Lying on his fat belly like
a beached walrus, with his jaw hanging
open snoring, Myrna accepted he was
out cold. She fell back on her pillow,
now assuming a weird nightmare had
awakened her, which she blamed on
the earlier and far more ghastly
nightmare at her senile parents' home.
Loud and senseless he-did-that-and-
she-did-that complaints, rivaled only by
the usual threats of divorce after fifty-
one years of marriage, pummeled her
brain for nearly three hours, churning
up dreadful emotions. Seconds after
gulping down a horrible dinner, she
threw on her coat, and escaped the
nuthouse to forestall an imminent
nervous breakdown.
Myrna closed her eyes, hoping to fall
back to sleep quickly. But a moment
later she felt that same sensation
again.And again!
For an instant it intrigued her, but
after feeling a long slinky body rub
up against the back of her thigh, she
tensed. Logically, she knew fish
didn't exist in the waterbed -- yet,
something far more enormous than a
bedbug was alive beneath her. And
it certainly wasn't her imagination,
though she knew the mind was
capable of playing some crazy tricks
on its unsuspecting self (besides the
psychology courses she took in
college, she was on the couch for
years in psychoanalysis). She
thought of waking Lou, but he'd only
start screaming at her.
Ignoring the strange phenomenon
for over an hour, she eventually
drifted off to sleep. It was not a
peaceful sleep.
Figure
Graphic file number 0 named a_dic045.wmf with height 13 p and width 62 p Left aligned
In the morning Myrna was
desperate to tell Lou about her
midnight madness, but she knew
what to expect from him -- a
belittling curl of his upper lip -- a
crude joke at her expense, and so
she kept quiet.
That evening during dinner Myrna
cinched her lips tightly about the
sensations she felt in the bed, and
instead talked incessantly about
meaningless topics. Lou thought she
was acting oddly. After dinner she
called her best friend on the
telephone and told her everything.
Her friend suggested she be
examined for a possible overactive
thyroid.
After Lou retired early, and was
snoring loudly, Myrna came into bed,
hoping that what had occurred last
night was some sort of temporary
aberration in her psyche. She laughed
at the notion of fish in a waterbed to
quell her nerves.
Around one in the morning a long
slithery body moved beneath her neck
and wrenched her awake. Another
something moved beneath her legs. A
third at her feet. She leaped up into a
sitting position, gulping in disbelief.
Now she was crazed!
Though her rational mind writhed in
confusion, Myrna forced it to analyze
and make sense of what was
happening. She quickly made a mental
list of plausible reasons for these
implausible sensations. The top of the
list was madness. And why not? she
thought. One look at her family and
nothing more need be said. Second
place, was her warped imagination,
which she craftily used to entertain and
teach the kindergarten children. It was
not uncommon for that to be out of
control, especially when emotional.
Third place, LSD flashbacks. But from
the seventies? She doubted that.
Fourth place, the house was haunted.
The house could be haunted? The
other possibilities were too ghastly to
contemplate. A brain tumor!
Alzheimer's!
The last possibility stood apart.
What if there were fish in the mattress?
It was not in her nature to dismiss all
paranormal events that defied logic as
trickery. She believed in astrology.
And miracles. And aliens living as
humans somewhere on the planet. And
God and even evil spirits. And if all
those were true -- why not fish in a
waterbed?
When a school of small fish passedbeneath her, Myrna could no longer
hold her feelings at bay. She shook
Lou's shoulder. “Lou, wake up.”
Lou stirred. “Is it time to get up
already?”
“No. It's one in the morning.”
“Are you ill?”
“I don't know.”
“If you want to fool around, I'm
very tired. I don't think I can get it
up.” He moaned. “Let's wait 'til
Sunday.”
“Lou, something is in the bed.”
Lou could not imagine what she
was talking about, but that was not
unusual as she rarely exercised a
logical mind. “Do you want me to
get a gun and shoot it?”
“This is no time for jokes.” Myrna
flinched when a long sharp fin
scraped her ass. “There! Did you
feel that?”
“The only thing I'm feeling is
exhaustion.” He refused to open his
eyes.
“Please don't laugh. I really mean
it. But I think there are fish in the
waterbed.”
Lou snickered from under the
covers. “Myrna, you're having a
nightmare. Go back to sleep. By
morning, hopefully, we'll both forget
this unfortunate conversation ever
occurred.”
Using her scolding teacher's voice:
“I'm serious. There are fish
swimming in the bed. Schools of
them. Don't you feel them?”
Lou could not believe he was
having this incredulous conversation.
“All I feel are your could toes on my
thigh.”
“It's not funny. This is the second
night.” She sniffed. “I think I can
even smell them.”
Lou sat up, brushing away the few
gray hairs left on his head from hiseyes. He spoke firmly. “There are no
fish in the waterbed. There are
marbles loose in your mind. That's for
sure. But no fish. Now go to bed.”
“Then what am I feeling beneath
me? Answer me that smarty puss!”
“Nothing! Nothing at all!” he
shouted. She had a way of driving him
crazy. “Look Myrna, fish live in the
ocean. In a lake. In a fish tank. Not
in a bed! I'm certain you learned that
in school.”
Myrna flinched. “Oh, my God! That
was a big one. You had to feel that. It
was swimming right toward you.”
“Myrna, you are out of your MIND!”
“If you loved me, you'd believe me.”
“Myrna, I love you! I love you! But
fish living in a waterbed is as real as
Flipper, Charlie the Tuna, and the Little
Mermaid!”
Myrna felt the whipping motion of
sharp fins. “Well, start believing
because they're in the mattress.” She
shrugged.
Lou jumped out of bed. “Okay!
Okay! You win! Get out of bed! Get
out of bed NOW!”
More mad than terrified Myrna
gladly got out of bed and turned on the
light. “Now you'll see I'm telling you
the truth.” She watched nervously as
Lou pulled away the comforter. “Be
careful! Don't get bitten.”
Lou pulled away the sheet.
Myrna envisioned a family portrait
above their waterbed -- teeming with
marine life, in an exhibit at Ripley's
Believe It or Not.
Lou pulled away the mattress cover,
revealing the clear plastic skin. “Okay,
Myrna, do you see any fish? Do you
see even the teeniest minnow? Do
you?”
Myrna looked carefully. There were
no fish in the clear water. Not one.
She expelled a chest full of dead air. Of course there are no fish in the
mattress! her mother's nasty voice
shouted in her ear. Fish don't live in
a mattress -- moron. Now you've
made an utter fool of yourself. A
grown woman -- a teacher of children
acting like a lunatic! Weeping, Myrna
put back all the covers, crawled into
bed, and turned off the light. “I'm
sorry, dear. I don't know what's
wrong with me. I was so sure.”
Lou kissed her forehead. “Even
though you're nuts, I still love you.”
He was asleep in two seconds.
Myrna lied in bed. Wide awake.
Her mood was plunging toward the
depths as the fish swam beneath her.
The following morning Myrna
made emergency appointments with
a neurologist and her internist. A
week later, after extensive and
thorough tests: an M.R.I., blood
work, and an EEG, both doctors
informed her that all of the test
results were negative. They strongly
suggested a psychiatrist.
Figure
Graphic file number 0 named a_dic045.wmf with height 13 p and width 62 p Left aligned
Myrna refused to believe that she
was crazy. Logic told her that the
fish must have hid when Lou pulled
away the covers and that's why they
didn't see them. The following day,
during her prep period in school, she
went up to the library, thinking that if
she learned more about fish, and
found tangible proof that they could
not live in a mattress, maybe, just
maybe the sensations would
disappear. She sat in the corner and
delved into the books; some of them
were actually fascinating. In
comparing size and fish behavior she
imagined the little fish were likely
spearing or kellies. Slightly larger
fish herring or sea bass. Even larger
ones mackerel or blues. And the
biggest tuna or cod. After reading
about marine environments she
conjectured that if the plastic mattress
were air soluble, and if the big fish
were eating the little ones for food --
then, fish could thrive in the mattress
as they do in the ocean. The issues of
salinity, ammonia and nitrite levels
were obviously being maintained at
their safe levels by the miraculous
qualities of the bed -- maybe not as
great a miracle as the parting of the
Red Sea, but a miracle none the less.
Myrna had a wonderful idea. She
would call someone in the religious
community who dealt with miracles and
have them investigate. Suddenly,
sanity wrestled her craziness into
submission. What am I doing? There
can't be any fish in the waterbed! Fish
don't live in a bed! Stop being crazy!
Tears welled in her eyes. She pushed
away the books, and ran out of the
library.
Figure
Graphic file number 0 named a_dic045.wmf with height 13 p and width 62 p Left aligned
Myrna called her old psychiatrist,
Dr. Bigalow, and was given an
emergency appointment. Weeks of
insomnia and mental stress were
debilitating her, she was nearing a
breakdown. While lying on the couch,
choking with anxiety, she told him
everything.
Dr. Bigalow listed to her emotional
disorder for six sessions before he
offered his interpretation. “Myrna, I
believe that you are suffering from
classic penis envy. The long fish
obviously represent a penis. On the
one hand I believe that you wish to
have a penis rather than a vagina -- a
penis in your bed is synonymous withhaving a penis in your body. As
you've told me, you've always
believed that your father has loved
your brother more than you. And
you've believed he has profound
contempt for women. So -- in your
fantasies, if you were a boy than you
could have your father's love. But --
on the other hand you fear the penis
-- not only because your father was
overbearing and brutal, but because
having a penis would intensify your
perverse sexual fantasies toward
your mother.” Dr. Bigalow felt there
was no greater healing tool than an
interpretation of unconscious conflict.
Myrna stared at the ceiling and
thought for a moment. “So, what
you're saying Dr. Bigalow, is the
tormenting fish are a hysterical
symptom. By having fish in my bed,
I believe I have the power equal to
men....I have my father's love....Yet
-- by not having the penis actually
attached to me, I preserve my
female identity.”
“Precisely.”
Myrna was a good patient.
Figure
Graphic file number 0 named a_dic045.wmf with height 13 p and width 62 p Left aligned
That night Myrna laid in the dark.
Wide awake. Her breathing was
labored and shallow. Overpowering
and unbearable anxiety racked her
tender organs. Excruciatingly painful
diarrhea curdled in her colon and
forced her to the toilet every half
hour. She could not be more
depressed as the fish swam beneath
her. If not for her belief in Dr.
Bigalow's curative abilities, she might
have acted on her emerging suicidal
thoughts.
Figure
Graphic file number 0 named a_dic045.wmf with height 13 p and width 62 p Left aligned
After hearing the stubborn nature of
the symptom at the next session Dr.
Bigalow offered an additional
interpretation to extricate the
unconscious conflict and give her peace
of mind. “Myrna, making changes in
one's life is like a ship leaving port. Not
until all the lines are released can the
ship sail into the sunset.”
Frigid tears streamed down feverish
cheeks as Myrna listened to Dr.
Bigalow's words.
“Myrna, perhaps the fish represent
your mother. So often you have
described her as an aggressive,
narcissistic bitch, who always rubs you
the wrong way. It is obvious you need
to address your hatred toward your
mother, if you wish to be free of this
symptom.” He smiled warmly, hoping
to give her the secure feeling he was
on her side and that they were fighting
the demons together.
Myrna didn't think she hated her
mother, but maybe she did? Maybe
she hated her mother as she now hated
herself?
Figure
Graphic file number 0 named a_dic045.wmf with height 13 p and width 62 p Left aligned
Despite the Freudian explanations
by Dr. Bigalow at each subsequent
session, the fish still persecuted Myrna.
Every night. All night! And although
the eminent psychiatrist had faith that
one day she would conquer her
emotional conflicts, he prescribed
Prozac as an adjunct to treatment and
as a preventative to a short term
hospital stay, which appeared
imminent.
Watching his wife sink into a morbid
depression upset Lou, and he felt guilty
that he was unable to help her. In the
past weeks he really tried to be
sensitive to her emotional needs, but
his nerves were frayed for lack of sleepand from her unrelenting crazy
gibberish. Tonight, he intended to go
to bed early. He had an important
business meeting first thing in the
morning and he didn't want to look
like a cadaver lying on a mortician's
table. As he went to give Myrna a
kiss good night, he noticed this weird
smirk on her face. “Okay, what are
you plotting?”
“Why do you say that?” She
played stupid.
“Because I know you too well.”
He scowled. “You better not be
thinking of doing something to this
bed.”
“Now why would I want to do
that?” she said flippantly as if she
were not listening only to an inner
voice. A wide devilish grin stretched
freakishly across her face. “This is
such a lovely bed.”
“Myrna, I'm telling you straight
out, I'm not going to let you throw
out a perfectly good bed because
you're delusional.”
Giggling wryly. Ignoring his
pathetic tantrum. “You know, it's all
becoming clear now.” Myrna's terror
had obliterated the fine line between
truth and paranoia.
“What is?” He was crazed
thinking he'd have to stay home and
stand guard over the bed.
“I know and you know there are
fish in this bed -- don't you?” she
said with an accusatory tone, her
eyes glazed as if demonically
possessed.
“Myrna, there are no fish in the
bed. How many times do I have to
prove that to you? It's just your silly
imagination. It's like a snowball
rolling down a hill. You have to stop
it before it destroys you.”
“The only things that are getting
bigger are the fish and your lies.”
She glared slyly at him. “I finally
figured out how you get them to hide
just before you pull away the mattress
cover. You give them a signal. A
signal! I've been watching. I bet you
didn't know that...it's your right hand
that you smack against the bed two--”
“Hide! Where the hell would they
hide?” He shouted, stressed to the
breaking point.
“So! You admit they're there.”
“I do not,” he said sternly. “Myrna,
I'm calling Dr. Bigalow and telling him
he better increase the medication.”
“Fuck the medication! Give it to the
fish!” she barked loudly. “Do you want
to know how the fish got in the bed,
Lou? Well, I figured it out. Fish eggs.”
“Fish eggs!” Lou had to finally
admit to himself that Myrna was
suffering from some kind of psychotic
dementia. She should be locked away.
“Fish eggs. Yes. They're in the
water supply. I read that. They lay
dormant for years -- and they can
suddenly hatch. Then, they eat the
microorganisms. And the algae. And
grow. Bigger fish eat little fish. And
then they grow. And lay more eggs.
You see! God, there could be millions
in there!”
Pleading. “There are no fish in the
bed! No fish! Shall I prove it for the
fiftieth time! No fish EGGS! No
ALGAE!” He was now so crazed he
doubted he would ever fall asleep.
“You've heard about the man who
protests too much -- well, I know why
you've refused to acknowledge the fish.
We both know, don't we?” She
watched for a hint of truth in his eyes.
“You put the eggs there -- didn't you,
Lou? Yeah, I know your little scheme
now. I know what you've been doing.”
“What am I doing?” he smirked
stupidly.
“Where were you tonight?”“This is silly.”
“You've got something to hide?”
“I told you I had an office party.”
“Sure! Sure! And I have an Aunt
Tilly in Wisconsin!”
“You don't believe me?”
“Did your secretary go the party?
What's her name? Miss Tits? Or is it
Miss Spread Her Legs Wide? Or Miss
Blow Job Under The Desk?”
“Myrna, now you're really acting
crazy. You think there's something
fishy going on? Something smells
rotten in the state of Denmark?” He
laughed loud on purpose. Her
craziness was getting him mean.
“Well, if you don't stop this shit, I'm
going to pack up and move the hell
out of here. How do you like that!”
“It's what you've wanted for a
long time. Admit it. Then you can
marry that house wrecker.”
“I've had it! That's it!” Lou went
to stand up. “I'm packing and
getting the hell out of here!”
Just at that moment Myrna felt a
twenty foot long fish pass beneath
her, it's huge sharp fin scraping her
thighs. As far as she was concerned
it was that man-eating shark in the
movie Jaws, which was the most
terrifying film she had ever seen.
She went ballistic with terror.
Screaming. Leaping out of bed. “Get
out Lou! Save yourself! There's a
shark in the bed!”
“Myrna, I feel something. Oh
God! It's -- it's fucking huge! It's
coming through the mattress! Oh, no
there's a shark in the bed! A giant
white! It's biting me!” He tumbled
erratically under the covers as if he
were being eaten alive by a sea
monster. “Help! Help me!” He
made gurgling sounds. Then
screeched. Then collapsed as if
dead. Only his giggling suggested hewas still alive.
Myrna stood by the door, clutching
her hammering heart with her hand.
“You're a bastard! I want a new bed!
Do you hear me! I want a real bed! I
won't sleep in that evil thing another
night! It wants to destroy ME!” She
ran into her daughter's room, slammed
the door shut, and fell on the bed -- a
normal bed with a hard, solid mattress.
Fortunately, her daughter was away at
college and it could be her refuge. She
curled into a fetal position and rocked
gently until she fell asleep.
Figure
Graphic file number 0 named a_dic045.wmf with height 13 p and width 62 p Left aligned
Myrna was jolted awake from a
horrific nightmare that was accepted as
reality until she bolted up and had the
sun glaring in her eyes. If anything in
life would eventually cause a heart
attack it would have been that dream.
In a reflex action she checked all her
body parts to see if any were missing
as she recalled every vivid detail. In
the dream, feeling guilty about her
insensitive behavior toward Lou, she
saw herself leave her daughter's room
to go back to her own bedroom.
Ignoring her fears she lied next to him,
as her way of apologizing. But he was
not there. And she remembered
thinking that was strange. Suddenly, a
tightly packed school of fish moved
around beneath her. A moment later
the fish thrashed about as if they were
being attacked by a huge predator.
Terrified by the feeding frenzy, Myrna
leapt out of bed. But instead of
running away, she tore away the
covers, exposing the clear plastic
mattress. But this time the fish weren't
hiding. And she saw them all! Man-
eating sharks. Snarling barracudas.
Thousands of menacing piranha.
Sinister eels. All with cold, bloodthirstyexpressions. Gripped in assiduous
disbelief, she froze. Suddenly, a
great white shark leaped out of the
mattress, opened its huge gaping
mouth, and bit down on her shoulder
with its rows of glistening razor sharp
teeth. It dragged her into the
depths. She actually felt the chilling
sea water on her body, and the teeth
cutting through her flesh. Her
harrowing screams alerted her
consciousness that she could bear no
more.
Myrna awoke, drenched in
perspiration, and more determined
than ever to put an end to that
hideous mattress. Kill it dead.
Annihilate it with mortal wounds.
And with water draining from it --
good-bye fish! And good-bye to all
her troubles. It was something she
should have done after the first
week. The bed meant nothing to
her. It was just a relic from their
mindless youth. To hell with Lou's
bad back. Besides, it was his fault
she was having a nervous
breakdown.
Myrna looked at the clock and the
sunlight and saw she had nearly slept
half the day away. Fortunately, she
was on a school holiday. She
dressed quickly in old jeans and a tee
shirt, and went to her bedroom. The
bedroom was closed. She opened it
and peeked inside. Lou was gone.
That was good. She feared he might
stand guard over it.
After two cups of coffee and a half
a box of cookies, she grabbed a
paring knife from the kitchen, two
buckets from the garage, and a
wheel barrel. Then she went back
into the bedroom, feeling happier
than she had in weeks. What she
was going to do made complete
sense to her now that she was calm.
Fish or no fish didn't matter. That bed
was evil. Pure evil. And she was going
to send it back to hell. She figured it
wold take her a few hours to slowly let
out all the water without destroying the
house. If there were fish she would
haul them into the backyard and show
Lou the truth when he came home. If
not -- fuck it! Afterwards she would
slash the plastic mattress to shreds, so
it could never be used again, and then
put it out with the trash. After a
shower she would call one of those
mattress companies and have them
deliver a conventional bed by the
evening. To appease Lou, she would
make him his favorite meal, and give
him oral sex.
She pulled away the comforter.
Tore away the sheet.
Ripped off the mattress cover.
Her harrowing screams shattered
the quiet community.
The water was crimson!
In the bloody was a body. A human
skeleton. Most of the flesh eaten off
the bone.
Lou's chewed face showed all the
astonishment and horror of his last
moments alive.
4
I Hear the Subway Sing
By Richard D. Robbins
|
I stand waiting for the Number Six,
my feet touching the edge of the
platform, looking down into the dark
canyon where the tracks snake along
through the station. The tracks beckon
to me. A train roars by across the way,
going south. I hear the clacking of the
wheels on the rail junctions. I hear
them call to me, clackety-clack, touch
the track, clackety-clack, touch the
track, clackety-clack. The train
continues on its way. It is not my
train. Nevertheless, I look hard at the
beckoning track. I want to touch the
third rail, but I crush the thought. It is
so seductive though. To be one with
the power of electricity, to be one with
the third rail, would be exhilarating.
My train comes into the station. I pull
back from the edge of the platform, but
I stay close. The wind flows over me
as the train screams to a halt. The
smell of the electricity and the sound of
the doors opening excite me. I board
the train.
I head uptown on the Number Six
Local. I am early for my appointment
with the doctor. It is a cold day and
the subway car is cold. It's rush hour
and the subway is moderately crowded,
but it isn't too bad. Crowds cause me
to perspire even in the cold. I sit down
in the green-yellow plastic bench. The
bench has molded depressions for
people, but these are, in fact, too small
or too large. I stare across the aisle as
the train moves along. Clackety-clack.
I look at the advertisements, a frieze
along the wall. I can't read the ones in
Spanish or Korean. The bright electric
smell of the subway is what gets to me. I didn't put the fiberglass sheet under
my watch cap this morning. It is safely
folded in my pocket. I do not want the
doctor to know about it, and I know I
will have to take my hat off in her
office. I am without my fiberglass and
I am feeling vulnerable to the ambient
electricity. Of course, electricity used
to bother me more than it does now. I
think this is because I have absorbed
so much electricity. I store it, and I am
immune to it at the same time. The
doctor thinks the improvement she
perceives is due to the medications. I
think the medications help me store the
power of the electricity, but I don't
think I'll need them too much longer.
The doctor says I will. I don't think
about touching the third rail as much as
I used to. But I still want to touch the
rail and I am both frightened and
exhilarated by the power of the
electricity. I often want to scream.
I think about Dr. Lith. That's not
really her name, but it's a better name
than her own. If I use her real name,
she will know. I fear the electricity will
somehow tell her. I love Dr. Lith,
although I harbor resentful feelings.
How can I not harbor resentful feelings
toward she who probes my mind? I am
at once empowered and terrified by
what is there, in my mind, but it is my
mind after all. What gives her the
right?
Dr. Lith's office is fairly soothing. I
feel at home and I can barely hear the
electricity. At least it is not as loud as
in the subway. I think she has
fiberglass insulation in the walls of her
office, under her rosewood panelling. Iam sure the glass is applied against the
sheetrock. On top of the glass there is
plaster and then the panelling. I know
I cannot tell her this. If I do, I will
have to take the medications forever.
She sits, her legs crossed
seductively, and pretends to be
objective toward me. I know she
struggles with her objectivity. The top
two buttons on her red silk blouse are
undone. Her grey skirt rides up a little
when she crosses her legs. She
pretends to adjust her skirt. She shifts
in her red leather armchair. I know she
is anxious. I know she struggles with
her thoughts about me. She smiles.
Her smile radiates from her and warns
me. Her eyes are flecked with gold. I
ask her, "Do you love me, Doctor?"
She says nothing. She looks at me,
her smile disappears. I am
momentarily paralysed, but I know the
truth. Even through the fiberglass
sheathed walls, I hear clackety-clack,
clackety-clack.
"Do you love me, Doctor?" I ask
again, sitting slightly forward in my
chair. I smell her perfume.
There is silence between us, except
for the snapping of the electricity in the
walls, which is, of course, attenuated
by the glass. She is very clever. I
smile.
"Why do you want to touch the third
rail, Sam?" Her voice is charming. She
shifts a little in her chair. She is very
sensual.
"It is the source of the power,
Doctor." I sit back in my chair, remove
my spectacles and pretend to clean
them with my tie.
"Oh?" she says.
“It is the source of my power."
"We talked about this, Sam . You
know this is delusional thinking," she
says. I know she is pretending to think
this is true. She knows power is all tooreal.
The clock next to her on the small
mahogany table suddenly spins.
"Time is up for today, Sam," she
says. She rises, slowly, slowly from her
chair, smoothing her skirt as she does
so. "I will see you next week."
"Yes, of course," I say. I am acutely
aware of her aura now. She is radiant.
I know that she steals some of my
electricity, my power. I am weak when
I leave her office.
I catch the downtown Number Six
Local. Clackety-clack, touch the track.
I find a seat on the blue-green bench.
Without warning, the train stops in the
middle of the tunnel, not at a station.
A crackling voice comes over the
loudspeaker saying we are stopped for
a "red signal" and will be moving in a
few minutes. Nobody seems to care.
It is then I notice the girl across the
aisle is looking at me. I guess I was
staring at her. Nobody looks at
anybody on a subway. Nobody makes
eye contact unless they mean it. I
think she must be from out of town.
And then, incredibly, she smiles at
me. A small, tentative smile. I smile
back at her. And then her smile seems
to explode into a beautiful epiphany.
Quickly she looks away, down into her
black nylon carry-all bag and takes out
a magazine. The train starts with
electrical suddenness. An old man with
a net shopping bag almost falls in the
aisle.
I can't help watching her now. She
is very beautiful. I wish I could paint
her portrait. Her face is open.
Prominent cheekbones, but not too thin
and sharp like those of the powerful
ladies on television. At some angles,
she is astonishing. At others just
attractive. The overall effect is
staggering. She wears a red silk
blouse, revealed by her open grey coat. The top two buttons of the blouse are
undone. Her grey skirt has a small slit.
She crosses her legs seductively. The
curve from upper thigh to shoe is
lyrical. I am spellbound. Her
resemblance to Dr. Lith is remarkable.
Then I am terribly embarrassed. I
am staring at her. She doesn't look up.
But I feel foolish. What am I doing? I
feel like I am invading her privacy.
I keep looking anyhow. I cannot
see her eyes, but I think they may be
flecked with gold. I look away,
pledging to myself not to look again.
But I do. The train pulls into my
station. I stand up to get off and notice
she is getting off at the same stop.
I deliberately get off first so that
perhaps I can break this spell, but find
myself slowing down as I walk down
the long platform toward the exit, in
order to let her pass me. She walks by
me and again she is beautiful.
I become greatly saddened as I
follow her toward the stairs which head
up to the street. She emerges onto the
street before me and turns right and so
do I. What coincidence that we are
both headed in the same direction.
Suddenly I am afraid that she will
notice me and think I am following her
and be frightened. I do not want to
frighten her.
She stops at a corner to cross Third
Avenue. I force myself to keep heading
north another block. I want so much to
stop on her corner and stand next to
her and maybe I will talk to her and
maybe she will have coffee with me.
I cross the avenue and walk north
on what I now think of as her side of
the street, looking in store windows. I
see her in a shoe store and then realize
it is a girl that only looks like her. I
wish I could know her and love her and
that she could love me. I realize that
this can never be. I am sad as Icontinue to walk. Clackety-clack,
clackety-clack.
I spend my week between visits
with Dr. Lith riding the subways. I feel
the power all the time. I want to be
near it. I ride to Staten Island, but I
cannot finish the trip. I have to change
to a ferry to go to Staten Island and
the water keeps me from the source of
my power. I wait on the South Ferry
subway station. There is a wonderful
curve at this station. I spend an hour
and a half watching, listening, savoring
the electrical smell of the trains as they
speed around this curve. The contacts
between the trains and the third rail
become separated for a second or two
at a time when the train turns the tight
curve. Sparks fly between the two,
spreading the wonderful ozone into the
air. I am exhilarated. If it were not for
the fiberglass, I know that I would
touch the rail. Clackety-clack, touch
the track. Clackety-clack, touch the
track.
It is Wednesday and I go to Dr.
Lith's office. My glass sheet is carefully
folded in my pocket. I am very happy
since I collected an enormous amount
of charge at the South Street Station.
I know that I will be sustained through
my visit with her by my stored power.
I sit smiling in her office. She is
particularly attractive today. She
wears black silk, clinging, clinging.
There is a single chain of white gold
around her throat. I can see the upper
part of the pendant on the chain. It is
black. It plunges downward, downward
between her breasts. The top two
buttons on her blouse are undone as
before. I try not to look at the
pendant, afraid of taking that path, but
it is impossible. She crosses her legs
as she opens her notebook. She looks
at me. I look away.
"You are perspiring. Is it too warmhere?" Her voice is laden with power
and I feel myself shrink from her. I
feel so much of my own power, yet I
have no power in her presence. I do
not answer.
She continues to look at me, her
face, lovely and perfect, cool and
distant, closed to me. It is too
disconcerting. I look away. I cannot
face her power. I am embarrassed to
even try, to be so weak.
The clock hands spin and the hour is
over. I am on the street in front of her
office. I walk toward the Downtown
Local. I am bereft. I sit in the seat's
depression, my head in my hands. I
stare at the floor. The train starts and
stops, starts and stops. Clackety-clack,
touch the track.
Then I smell her perfume. Just a
hint of course, and I look up and see
her standing over me, deftly holding
the strap over her head, reading a book
held in the other. She easily keeps her
balance as the train makes its lurching
way from stop to stop. How long has
she been there? I look up at her. She
is so close I could touch her. She
should not have to stand while I sit.
I stand and she smiles at me. My
heart pounds, sparking with the
electricity of the train. She takes my
seat. She is wearing black silk. I see
the single strand of white gold for only
an instant as she draws her coat
around herself.
"Thank you," she says. She speaks
to me. I am startled. I cannot believe
my fortune.
"I am Sam," I say. I immediately
regret telling her my name. I know it
will give her power over me.
"I am Lilly," she answers. Her voice
sparkles at me. I am forced to look
away from her. Clackety-clack, touch
the track.
"Do you hear that?" I ask."Yes." She smiles up at me. Her
coat separates at the throat and I see
the black pendant plunging, plunging. I
look up and away from her at the
window of the train where I see my
reflection in the blackness going by. I
see my frightened face. I smile at my
image and it smiles back. I am
reassured by the sight, and by the
surge of power as sparks fly from the
rail below the train. I am ecstatic. I
am not alone.
She looks up at me with a small
perfect smile. "Do you have your
fiberglass under your cap, Sam?"
I am only slightly surprised. She
hears the tracks talking, after all.
"Yes." My voice trembles.
She smiles at me again and reads
her magazine. The train stops at my
stop. She rises from her seat. "Please
walk with me," she says. Her voice
echoes in my mind.
"I will go with you." I am afraid.
We climb the stairs to the street. I
hear the train, Clackety-clack, touch
the track, as it leaves the station. I
know she does as well. She smiles at
me. I am also frightened. I am afraid
because I know that I am not alone, I
am not unique. I cannot afford to
share the power with her, and yet I feel
almost helpless. As she takes my arm
I smell the ozone generated by the
contact. I feel the electricity flow from
me to her. I feel dizzy.
She feels me waver. "Are you all
right?" Her voice is calm and strong.
"Yes," I say, my voice weak.
"Please do not touch me." I have to rid
myself of her. She is emptying me of
my power.
Suddenly, as if she reads my
thoughts, she disappears into the
crowd. I cannot see her. I am
relieved. I go back into the subway
and travel to South Station. I standthere for three hours to absorb enough
electricity to function. I do not wear
my fiberglass, even though I am afraid
that the rail will get me. Clackety-
clack, touch the track.
In the ensuing week, I take the
subway to Coney Island, Brooklyn
Heights, the Bronx, Queens. I make
the tour of New York City. In my
notebook, I carefully note my travels. I
have columns for Starting Point, Ending
Point, Intermediate Stops. I carefully
annotate the times for each of these
points, my estimate of the total voltage
and amperage to which I was exposed,
and the probable percentage of this
that I absorbed. I note in the
Comments column whether or not I
wore my fiberglass. I make the
following interesting observation
regarding fiberglass sheeting: Although
wearing it protects me to a certain
extent from the compulsion to touch
the third rail, it reduces my absorption
of power. I travel more often now
without the sheet in place, although it
is safe within my pocket. Most
important I make the observation that
the more power I absorb, the better I
fight the compulsion to touch the third
rail. I at once collect my power and
deprive the rail's ability to tempt me.
Clackety-clack, touch the track.
With the power comes insight. I see
it clearly now. Lilly and Dr. Lith
conspire to take my power from me. I
spend all my time collecting power at
great risk, only to have it drained by
them. I begin to think they are the
same person. This thought will not
leave me. It tortures me. I am
determined to test my proposition.
It is Wednesday and I take the
Number Six Train to my appointment
with Dr. Lith. I wear fiberglass under
my hat, as well as a cape of fiberglass
under my shirt. I am unable to absorbthe power of the third rail. I arrive at
her office in a weakened state. I sit in
my chair. She looks angrily at me. Her
eyes flash. Her cheeks are pale. A
hectic blush mars her cheeks.
"What have you done?" She
penetrates my mind with her glare.
"I am weak today." I can barely
talk.
"There is nothing here for us. You
must leave." She turns her head away
from me.
"Us?" I manage to whisper.
"Lilly and me, of course."
This lies between us, a black hole of
despair. My worst fears are true. I
must rid myself of them.
"Come with me to the subway,
Doctor. I will regain my power. I will
give it to you."
She arches an eyebrow, rises from
her chair and helps me to my feet.
Even now she takes what little I have.
She has to help me down the stairs to
the subway platform. I know what I
must do.
Lilly is on the platform, waiting for
us. Together, they hold me up. A train
rushes by in the wrong direction, on the
opposite track. Beautiful sparks fly
from the third rail. I feel the power
start to fill me. Clackety-clack, touch
the track. I pretend to be weak,
although this has strengthened me. I
will fling them onto the third rail. I look
to my left and then to my right. I see
with great clarity. I see a man in a
black suit standing at the end of the
platform. His face glows with power. I
see the glint of fiberglass peering out
from under his black fedora, Dr. Lith
and Lilly look in the same direction.
Suddenly, they push me into the
abyss in which the tracks lie. I reach
out, trying to break my fall. I grasp
the third rail. The surge of power is
overwhelming. I see them walk, arm inarm, toward the man in the fedora.
They are smiling.
Now I am part of the power, at one
with the lovely electric glow of life. I
am one with the lightning speed of the
flow. I ride the waves of electrons. I
am the ozone. I flow through the city
on copper wires. I see them with the
fedora man, I see them with the
others.
Now I am safe.
4
Brussels, Vienna, Sofia, Rome
By Cathleen Chance Vecchiato
|
Nothing in her husband's childhood
bedroom had been replaced since the
1960s. The drapes, a gravy brown,
resembled tired remnants from a school
Thanksgiving play. In order to alter the
weary room, Katie slid the curtains
open. Snatches of late afternoon
sunlight angled through a fresh batch of
darkened clouds, then struck the
window and created a fleeting glare.
Sam's voice rose from beneath the
covers. "It's too light! Close the
curtains."
Everything he uttered was a
complaint since his back surgery. Katie
emitted an exasperated sigh, then
remembered she had to be patient.
But since moving in with his mother,
being patient was difficult. She
caressed an image of their former
home, which they had sold as an
unhappy alternative to foreclosure.
Sam propped himself on his elbows
and rolled his eyes to convey his level
of pain. "Looks like I'm not gonna get
back to sleep." He reached for a copy
of Reader's Digest from the nightstand
and opened it.
Instead of closing the drapes, she
slid the window open. The brisk air
slapped her face with vaudevillian
recklessness. Her mother-in-law's
garden with its late spring blooms
spread below. It was a tangle of
fuchsias and camellias, green feathery
cosmos and crazy vines of New Zealand
spinach. Alongside the back fence, a
Monterey pine stole the sunshine that
peeked through the scudding clouds,
leaving clumps of azaleas and ferns in a
darkened cocoon below. Katie lit acigarette and blew a plume of smoke
out the window. "I hate it here," she
muttered.
Sam sighed. "You could've taken
over my business. Would've made
more money than typing at that loser
real estate company."
His business had been called Direct
to Death Tours, a company that took
visitors to macabre sites in San
Francisco: City Hall where George
Moscone and Harvey Milk had been
gunned down; the house on Fell street
where Patty Hearst had finally been
arrested; the high rise on California
Street where an office full of people
had been shot. Sam had painted an
Aerostar van black and decorated the
doors with a fancy gold logo. People
had been nuts about the tour.
On the day of his accident, Katie
had played hooky from work and had
ridden along with the tour. They were
heading down Fell Street and had
viewed the Hearst location when a
dusty blue Plymouth zoomed into their
path. She saw the car first and let out
a tiny yelp. If she had screamed
louder, perhaps Sam would have
stopped in time. Katie was sitting in
the back, pretending to be one of the
tourists, and Sam, the only one in
front, took the full impact. She saw
him thrown against the steering wheel,
then he flopped back as if he were a
rag doll. She and the other passengers
were bruised and shaken, but not
injured.
This was the image she saw each
time she closed her eyes, and
oftentimes, she wished she would neverclose her eyes again, believing that if
she kept them open, she could stay in
the present and not try to undo a past
moment in time. That split second in
life that changed everything haunted
her. She puffed on her cigarette, trying
to dispel the image.
Sam glanced over the top of his
magazine. "Do you know that fifty
percent of all smokers will die of
smoking related illnesses?" His eyes
were glassy like those of a pot smoker
or someone with severe allergies.
She held the cigarette outside the
window to keep the aroma from the
room. "And what do the other fifty
percent die of?"
He opened his mouth to say
something just as his mother's
footsteps sounded on the staircase
outside the room. Katie quickly
stubbed out her cigarette on the ledge
and closed the drapes. Lusida pushed
the door open, then glanced from her
son to her daughter-in-law. She was
always glaring at the world, Katie
thought. As she let her hand drift from
the windowsill to her side, she felt as if
she had been caught stealing
something.
Lusida spoke to her son in Italian.
Her voice was gruff with age, the words
thick, as if language were cloaked in
heavy sauce. Katie was accustomed to
these conversational exclusions.
Sam nodded his head then spoke in
English so that Katie could understand.
"Back's bad today, but I'll come down
for dinner when it's ready." He fumbled
for his bottle of codeine, then washed
down two tablets with a sip of water.
Each movement was in slow motion,
conveying all the drama of an invalid.
Then to Katie: "Mom wants to know if
you want pasta for dinner."
"Yes, pasta's OK," Katie said.
"Dat's enough?" Lusida asked her. "Pasta is fine."
"Ah, Madonna!" Lusida's reply was
followed by a martyr's sigh. She was
queen of the martyr sighs. Perhaps it
comes with age, Katie thought. One
day, twenty or thirty years from now,
Katie would be sighing as Sam, his
injury now riddled with arthritis, called
for his meds. She would reply, Just a
minute, and then would sigh and say,
Ah, Madonna.
He had begun to look more like his
mother since the surgery. Lack of
mobility had turned his skin to a subtle
gray color, as if the aging process had
whirled forward in time, taking every
inch of his skin with it. Lusida was
squat and sad, the sort of woman who
had looked old at twenty, immigrant
old in a dowdy dress and wide shoes
that encased bunioned feet. Katie was
willowy and Celtic-looking with
strawberry hair that was clipped in a
fashionable bob, a marked contrast to
Lusida's thick gray strands that were
fastened flat with bobby pins.
Sometimes Katie couldn't tell the
difference between Sam and his
mother, the way they each shuffled,
ambling dismally through the house like
stoop-backed peasants.
Figure
Graphic file number 0 named a_dic045.wmf with height 13 p and width 62 p Left aligned
Evening fell and Lusida called
upstairs in her broken English to tell
them that dinner was ready. As Katie
helped Sam down the carpeted steps,
the stairs creaked with secrets, story
stacked upon story amid the
earthquake terrain of San Francisco.
The old house, an Edwardian built in
1911, was host to large rooms whose
walls and ceilings still bore ornate
moldings and plaster cornices. Despite
the richness of architecture, the house
was marked with Lusida's presence,
almost as obviously as a piece of
furniture marked with the scent of a
cat: the thick carpets, the gold brocade
furniture, the dark wood of the dining
table overshadowed by the religious
painting on the wall.
Sam winced and dropped his hands
to his lower back just as Lusida plopped
into a straight-back chair in the foyer
and rubbed her forehead with her thick,
spotted hands.
"Now what?" Katie began to say,
then stopped herself. An awkward guilt
bloomed in her throat. The truth was,
she had been feeling sorry for herself,
not for Lusida and Sam. "You both
OK?"
The old woman shook her head
vigorously as she continued to massage
her forehead. "Mal de testa."
"Aspirina?" Katie assumed that if
she added an o or an a to the end of a
word, it would increase the
effectiveness of communication.
Lusida nodded her head like a toy
dog in the back window of a car. "I be
fine." She trudged to the kitchen. Katie
guided Sam across the entryway and
whispered, "I don't think your mom
feels good."
Sam rubbed his lower back with
both hands, a self-massage that caused
him to groan. "What do you expect?
She's almost eighty."
Lusida nodded at them, then
returned to stirring the tomato sauce.
Sam dipped his index finger into the
pot and Lusida slapped it with her free
hand. Ravioli floated to the surface of a
large cauldron on an adjacent burner.
The pungent scent of basil and
tomatoes permeated the air.
Sam slumped into a chair whose
back was lined with a pillow, then
turned his attention to the portable
television set on top of a teacart. Theweatherman was predicting a strong
front to sweep across the coast that
evening. Expect rain, he concluded.
"How much more rain do we need?"
Sam grumbled as Katie set the table.
Lusida spooned the ravioli into bowls
carefully so as not to spill a drop on the
immaculate white stove top. Katie
watched the ladle hover over the bowls
with the mechanical motion of a crane
operating at a construction site, then
brought the bowls to the
Formica-topped table. She and Lusida
sat down just as Jeopardy began. Their
forks clicked against the bowls as Alex
Trebek apologized before correcting
someone's answer.
By the time Final Jeopardy came on,
Katie had long since finished. Sam
wiped his bowl with a slice of bread,
then stuffed the bread into his mouth.
Lusida heaped mounds of oily salad
onto her and Sam's plates. The Final
Jeopardy question was about the
capital of Canada. The theme song
tick-tocked back and forth as the
contestants filled out their answers, as
Sam chewed his bread, as Lusida
sighed deeply, as Katie touched the
tines of her fork with the tip of her
index finger.
The contestant with the least
amount of money had wagered
everything and guessed Toronto.
"That's right, isn't it?" said Katie.
Sam's mouth was full of bread. "I'm
not sure. I think mom's cousins live in
Canada."
Trebek was overly apologetic as he
told the guest the answer was
incorrect. The next contestant guessed
Montreal, but had wagered only five
hundred dollars. "Naw, that's got to be
wrong," Sam said as he tore another
piece of bread in half.
The guest with the most money also
guessed Montreal. "I don't believe it!"fumed Sam.
"Then what is it?" asked Katie. "If
it's not Toronto and it's not Mon-"
Trebek and Lusida interrupted Katie
as they both said Ottawa at the exact
same moment. Sam looked at his
mother and Katie with astonishment,
then he gave his mother a high five.
Katie had no idea Ottawa was the
capital, but remained silent and cleared
the table instead.
"Her cousin Angelina lives
somewhere in Canada. That's how she
knows," he explained to his wife.
After Sam and his mother retreated
to the living room and turned on the
large console television, Katie washed
the dishes by hand. She stacked the
plates in the plastic dish rack alongside
the sink, one dish then another. When
she was finished, she puffed on an
after-dinner cigarette on the porch,
then joined her husband and
mother-in-law in the living room. Sam
and Lusida were sitting on the sofa,
Sam with a cold pack shoved against
his back. An unspoken camaraderie
between mother and son sat in the air
like a heavy fog. There was not
enough room for Katie on the sofa, so
she settled on the carpeted floor and
searched through an old atlas for
capitals of countries while a Sylvester
Stallone movie blared from the
television.
Lusida rose tiredly and massaged
the navy blue fabric of her smock that
covered her thighs. "Gamba," she said.
Without looking at her, Sam said,
"Leg hurt?"
"Ah, Madonna," she sighed as if
trying to dispel the misery of it all. "My
leg, your back. Ah!" She limped to the
kitchen and Katie could hear the clatter
of dishes followed by the sound of
running water. Lusida was rewashing
the dishes that she had just finished. She kept her eyes glued to the atlas:
Brussels, Vienna, Sofia, Rome.
Lusida returned to the living room
and took her place alongside her son.
Within moments, she closed her eyes
and began to snore. Her lower
dentures rested on her bottom lip
giving her a monster-like appearance.
Through the vertical blinds, Katie could
see trees whipping in the wind as the
predicted storm made its descent. They
bent under the weight of a liquid wind,
their branches like hysterical arms
stretching in mad supplication. Sam
was soon asleep and the trees
continued their lunatic dance. By the
time Katie had reached South America
in the atlas, the movie had ended and
the news was beginning. The white
noise of the television and the storm
outside seemed to lull her husband and
mother-in-law into the arms of Italian
dreams.
Katie closed her eyes and was
carried into a trance by her own
rhythmic recitation of capitals. She
recalled each Jeopardy-player's face
and wondered if they were pounding
their temples with regret, wishing that,
at that fateful moment, they had said
Ottawa instead of Toronto or Montreal.
That moment of offering erroneous
answers would be the recurring image
haunting them into old age.
Figure
Graphic file number 0 named a_dic045.wmf with height 13 p and width 62 p Left aligned
In the morning, both Lusida and
Sam said they felt worse. Their heavy
conversation weighed down the air on
the porch as the three of them gawked
at the wreckage of the back yard. The
Monterey pine had toppled to its side,
crushing the ferns and shrubs that had
rested peacefully in its shadow just the
day before. The raw stump protruded
from the ground, the roots freed from
the confines of the earth.
Sam, who was once used to fixing
everything, shook his head. "With my
back, I can't do a thing with that tree."
Lusida sighed, as if grieving for the
green branches that had snapped from
their base. She told Sam and Katie
that her head was worse, worse, worse
today, that she couldn't possibly get
out in the yard.
Katie felt as if she were leaving a
sick ward when she escaped their
complaints and headed downstairs to
the garage. A long ax with a red
handle hung on the wall inside along
with rakes, hoes and shovels. With a
cigarette pressed between her lips,
Katie carried the ax to the backyard
and headed toward the fallen Monterey
pine.
She had never used an ax before,
and her motions were awkward and
jagged. She slammed the axe into the
soft wood as the sun peeked through
the drifting clouds. The sun
disappeared then reappeared moments
later, as if a million weather patterns
were passing overhead while she
worked. Her bare arms grew red with
irritation from the pine branches. As
she chopped, a distinct rhythm to her
blows, she remembered looking up the
capitals of the world, and tried recalling
the stars on the different colored
countries. Brasilia, Montevideo, Buenos
Aires, La Paz, Santiago, Lima. She
slammed the axe into the soft wood as
she repeated each city's name. The
sacred mantra of memorized words was
interrupted by Sam voice.
Katie shielded her eyes with her free
hand, then saw her husband on the
porch. The bitter smell of cigarettes
lingered on her fingers, a marked
contrast to the aroma of pine and
alarming brisk air. "Mom's sick," heshouted. "I need help."
When she came inside, she found
Lusida spread across the sofa, her
stockinged legs protruding from
beneath a forest green jumper. "La
gamba, la testa," she repeated over
and over.
"Her head and one of her legs hurt
really bad." Sam said. His eyes were
glassy from the painkillers. White
mounds of dried spit had formed at the
corner of his mouth. He patted his
mother knee over and over, like a
feeble effort at reassurance. Katie
could smell the pinesap on her arms
and ungloved hands. "I called her
doctor. He said to take her to
emergency."
They gathered Lusida's purse and a
gray sweater, which Katie wrapped
around her mother-in-law's shoulders.
Sam stood at the top of the stairs
waving as Katie and Lusida descended
the front steps and entered the car.
"You'll be fine," Katie told Lusida as
she helped the old woman fasten her
seat belt. "It could be anything."
Lusida gripped the dashboard, as if
she were more terrified of the car ride
than of illness. All the lights turned to
green like magic meters, and Katie
sailed toward the hospital on Russian
Hill.
When a trio of staff members
questioned Lusida amid the acerbic
confines of the emergency room, she
reverted to only Italian, her broken
English a mere memory. Katie
shrugged her shoulders helplessly.
"She's my mother-in-law, but I don't
speak Italian."
A plump middle-aged nurse
challenged, "She's your mother-in-law
and you don't speak Italian?"
Lusida continued on about her head
in Italian as the nurse wrapped a blood
pressure cuff around Lusida's arm. When the doctor entered the room, a
stethoscope hanging like a talisman
from his neck, he was all business, and
Katie shrank into the corner, feeling
that if she could just disappear,
everything would be fine. Sam should
have driven his mother to the hospital,
but with his injury, it had become her
job. If it were her own mother (which,
luckily, it was not) she would stroke her
hair and be certain of her comfort. But
Lusida was like an alien creature
cowering on the paper-covered exam
table, and became even more alien as
the nurse removed her jumper and
blouse, leaving the sad old woman
half-naked on the table.
"I don't know what's wrong with
her," snapped the doctor. "We've got
more than a language problem here."
"If we could find someone who
speaks Italian," Katie began.
The doctor, a young man with the
misfortune of premature balding, was
steaming with impatience. "No, we'll
just keep her until Monday for tests.
It's the weekend. Can't do any tests on
the weekend."
"I'll bring Sam to see you," Katie
promised Lusida, and gave her a peck
on the cheek. They were the only
words of consolation she could think of.
She was half-way down the hall when a
cry from the examining room echoed
down the corridor and sliced through
the bustle of the emergency room. It
was a cry that encompassed a child's
wail, a cry of passion for dead loved
ones, a cry of grief for living things now
gone. It was Lusida's cry that made
the hair rise on the back of Katie's
neck. She raced back to the exam
room but could not see Lusida because
the old woman was surrounded by
equipment and medical staff. All Katie
could hear was the doctor shouting,
"Breathe, damn it, breathe!"
Figure
Graphic file number 0 named a_dic045.wmf with height 13 p and width 62 p Left aligned
When she arrived home, she found
Sam stretched on the sofa while a CNN
anchor was speaking earnestly into a
handheld mike. His eyelids were half
closed in the stupor or a drug-induced
nap. Katie could smell Lusida when she
entered the house. The basil, the thick
gray hair, the laundry smell of her
clothes, the dry thundering scent of
central heating; the essence of the
house itself was pure Lusida.
A rote of the names of capitals
flooded her head until Sam blinked his
eyes open. His mouth broke into a
crooked grin. Then he said, "Where's
mom?", his voice as fuzzy as an old
audio track.
Katie saw herself leaving then
re-entering the house, and in her
imagination she again heard him say,
"Where's mom?" The picture played
over and over, starting with the key in
the lock, the turn of the key, the click
of the bolt before she depressed the
latch with her thumb. She opened the
door again, and the perfume of Lusida's
world rushed to her, a world that had
caught Sam in a relentless embrace.
This would be another moment to play
over and over again. The house where
Patty Hearst was captured, the dusty
blue Plymouth racing in front of the
van. Sam flying forward into the
steering wheel, then the opening of a
door, followed by her husband's voice
saying, "Where's mom?"
She held her invalid husband in her
arms and stroked his hair as he sobbed
against her shoulder. She could feel
her own shape loom heavy in the room,
a shape marked with the scent of
cigarettes and pine branches. Sam
cried, "Mama, oh, Mama," to which she
replied, "I'm here, I'm here."
4
Untitled
It's been a celluloid night
of dogbarks
and children running,
a little town where everybody knows everybody,
a crooked shack says 'Library' on front.
Strong and somber families gather
and
the unheeded car alarm of crickets
blasts plaintive across the sky.
It's been a museum quiet night
of Magritte black trees
and navy sky
fading to royal blue and streetlamps tittering through the ether
down here.
The twinkle
of forgotten cosmonaut
hovers
above us,
pretending to be a star,
reading Marx,
unaware of so many things:
The bleating of crickets.
A stray dog with a black patch on its back huffing thirstily
and not bothering anyone.
4 generations of us here.
A cool night,
brought in by last night's rain.
Grandma.
My father crying.
My father crying.
My father crying.
shrunken
and nothing I can do.
--Randall Patterson
Thwack. Thwack.
The sounds of exploding heads
and shredded chest cavities brought
waves of nausea, even after almost a
full tour in the bush. The hot metal
of an AK-47 burrowed into Sgt.
Steven Tennenbaum's cheek like a
blood thirsty parasite, but there was
no target. Charlie was being his
elusive self.
Thwack.
An artery slasher seared into Billy
Fagan's chest and he fell, squirming
on the ground like a hooked worm.
Thwack.
The invisible little bastard sent a
second round into Billy's medulla
oblongata, and the squirming
stopped. A sniper was shredding the
platoon. Steven raised his field
glasses to his eyes, searching
frantically, but he saw no murderer.
There was only the thwack, followed
by chaos.
The thwack was a horrible, airy
noise of machine operating as
designed, followed by the dull thud of
contact with something wet and solid.
The sound tormented Steven twenty-
four hours a day, seven days a week,
three hundred and sixty five days per
year. All the time that existed.
Thwack.
Jerry Grayheart's brain matter
rocketed towards God, then fell to
the earth soft as snow, clinging to the
surrounding plant life.
Steven lagged behind the front
per his orders. His job was to locate,
then obliterate any VC dug into the
side of Dong Ap Bia, a stinking humpof meaningless dirt in the A Shau
Valley. At least the objectives at
Hamburger Hill were clear, a rarity
in the 'Nam. This was no booby
trapped laden patch of jungle, this
was no tension laced night patrol
within a half-mile of a VC line, this
was pockets of dug in rice eaters
trying to keep the Marines from
clearing the western approach of
Hill 937 for the 187th infantry.
Charlie had melted into the
valley canopy like a yellow reptile.
Holed up in bunkers leading to
underground tunnels, they
scurried from hole to hole, like a
colony of groundhogs. You had to
dig those fuckers out one at a
time.
Steven's field glasses felt like a
pair of led pipes in his hands as he
raised them to his eyes. Where
was this mother fucker? All
Steven needed was a glimpse,
and he'd send this gook to
Nirvana.
The acrid smells of rotting flesh
and humidity burned Steven's
nose. He lay flat on his belly like
a maggot, trying in vain to get
parallel with the ground. He
desperately scanned the terrain,
waiting for this one to make his
mistake. But the whole mountain
was alive with scurrying soldiers
and the chaos of friendly air
support. How in the hell was he
supposed to find one VC poking
his head up for a split second?
Thwack.
That one missed everybody. At least the bastard wasn't perfect.
There was only sniper in the
immediate foreground. One mother
fucking, shit-eating gook splattering
the guts of his platoon as they
charged up Ap Bia, May 12, 1969.
It had been May of '69 every night
for the past six months. Steven
thrashed in his bed, and jungle sweat
saturated his skin. He was close
enough to being awake he knew he
was asleep, but he had to finish.
There was no weekend pass from the
dream.
Lt. Barker took off, just like he
had last night and the night before.
He ran, screaming blindly,
discharging his weapon in a hail of
machismo and pointlessness. He
looked like something out of a fucking
movie, but his wounds were real.
Thwack.
His left arm broke in two at the
elbow and blood erupted like a
champagne fountain. But Barker
kept moving, firing with his good
arm.
Thwack.
A gut shot. Barker fell to his
knees screaming, clawing at his
exposed intestines. Another grunt
stopped and whispered something in
Barker's ear. It was Finder from
Kansas. Steven never knew his real
name.
"You're fine, it ain't nothing,"
Steven could read Finder's lips
through his field glasses.
"Don't leave," Barker wailed,
reaching for Finder. “Don't leave."
Finder tore away and dove behind
a napalmed tree as a hail of friendly
fire pounded down on Ap Bia.
In his sleep, Steven put his hands
to his ears and writhed against the
headboard. The roar of the air
support never muffled Barker's deathwail.
Steven looked around
Hamburger Hill. He'd been in the
shit ten months but had never
seen anything like this. This was
a fucking slaughter. It was only
his second day in the valley, but
he was starting to fry.
He'd learned about frying in
Parris. He knew the signs.
Steven's lip quivered, and a hot
tear threatened to run down his
cheek. He stood straight up and
dropped his weapon to his side.
He took a few steps forward, he
was ready to go. Steven was
frying.
“End it,” Steven muttered.
“End it.”
Steven stood tall, king of the
bullshit around him, but no bullets
came.
He collapsed, sobbing, then felt
his weapon wriggling in his hands
like an angry serpent. One shot
to the kneecap would shatter it
like a bowling ball through glass.
He might lose a leg, but fuck it.
In a few minutes he'd be carried
to an ambulance chopper bombed
on morphine, dreaming of banging
Terry in the backseat of his Dad's
Buick. He pointed the weapon at
his right knee. Nobody would
know. There were no forensic
investigators in the shit. His
ticket home was right in his
hands. What hadn't he figured
this out before? His finger rested
on the trigger. Steven was frying.
His vision tunnelled, then he saw
the kaleidoscope, then...
Thwack.
Steven looked up. Thresher,
from a small town in southern
Indiana, Steven never knew his
real name, just had his cock blownclean off the front of him. He was
bleeding through a hole where his
baby maker used to be. And God
damn he was screaming, howling like
a stuck animal. The ungodly
screaming snapped Steven correct.
"What the fuck are you doing?”
Steven hissed. "What the fuck are
you doing Marine?” he shouted.
"Back to Parris, back to Parris,"
Steven whispered, as he pressed his
eyeballs to the field glasses.
Holy shit. A glimpse. There he
was, just like that. Some chicken
shit, five foot two inch rice eating
mother fucker killing highly trained
members of the USMC, making
Steven look like he couldn't do his
job.
Steven saw just the tip of a Soviet
made gun, then a two inch square
patch of yellow forehead almost
parallel with the ground. That's all he
needed. He took steady aim at the
sliver of head. His vision tunnelled,
then he saw the kaleidoscope, then...
Thwack.
The VC sniper fell backward in a
torrent of brain mess. One click of
the finger and this kill zone was dead.
“Clear," Steven screamed, his
voice cracking. “Clear.”
About fifteen men rose from their
bellies and moved forward.
They got another thirty feet,
maybe forty. Then...
Thwack.
You had to dig those fuckers out
one at a time.
Steven awoke, shouting nonsense
and cuss words, his T-shirt and shorts
wetter than a Cambodian rice patty.
Thwack. Thwack.
The nail gun blasted its first
rounds of the morning. Steven sat
up in bed, took a deep breath, and
slicked a tuff of graying hair backagainst his balding scalp. He
looked at his alarm clock on the
nightstand. Deck man was at it
earlier than usual today. 0730 on
a Sunday. Steven was starting to
fry. He knew the signs.
It had taken him almost thirty
years to get his shit together after
coming home. Last year he'd
finally saved enough from his
third-shift job and a VA psych
disability to buy a little house in
the suburbs, his tiny piece of what
America had promised.
Six months into his ideal
existence, a fat, hairy-backed
bastard, living in the house behind
his, had started with the saws, the
hammers and the nail gun. All
day on the weekends, and every
weeknight from 1800 to 2100.
It all started as a simple ten by
fifteen deck, but the project grew
like a cancerous tumor,
encroaching ever closer toward
Steven's property like a methodic
enemy.
Steven had called the zoning
commission once. They had
granted the variance, but he
wondered if those suits really
knew what was going on here.
Certainly the government would
not authorize this disturbance of
the peace. When the clatter did
stop, Steven could only sit and
wait for it to begin again. He
didn't trust the silence.
Once, three months ago,
Steven had heard deck man say
to a neighbor:
"Only got a week or so more of
work to go."
And to Steven's eye, the deck
did indeed look about finished.
But about a week later, the shell
of an enclosed porch began to jutoutward from the man's shitty little
house like a tank through the side of
a grass hut.
The lots in Steven's subdivision
were a quarter-acre at best, probably
smaller. The houses were literally
ten or fifteen feet apart. Rows of
houses back to front, as far as the
eye could see. Why were the other
neighbors seemingly oblivious to deck
man's hideous clamor?
Only a thin tree line separated
Steven's property from deck man's
never-ending project. There was no
escape.
Steven walked to the window of
his bedroom, fumbled in a nightstand
for his lighter. He lit a big Jamaican
doobie and took stupefying toke. The
morning sun was hot and his tiny
bedroom window was acting as a
magnifying glass.
Thwack.
The nail gun blew ferociously and
with malice. The thwack was
immediately followed by the
thunderous echoes of three hammer
rounds. Steven's eyelids fluttered as
he struggled to stay correct.
He was starting to fry. He'd been
going to his shrink, doing his
relaxation exercises, but there was
no denying he was starting to fry. He
knew the signs.
Thwack. Thwack.
Steven flinched at the sounds, his
heart pummelled his chest.
This fat son of a bitch had no
intention of ever finishing his project,
which had transformed itself into a
hobby. What really irked Steven was
deck man's apparent indifference to
the clatter he was generating. Did he
think he could not be heard?
“Put your shirt on you fat
bastard," Steven muttered, squinting
out the window.Deck man, Steven never knew
his real name, shed his shirt every
time the temperature approached
sixty degrees, forcing Steven to
stare at his hairy pelt covering
rolls of fat.
Thwack.
This guy might as well bring
the nail gun over here and let it
fly into Steven's temple. Steven
was frying. He stood tall, pressed
against the window. He was
ready to go.
"End it," he muttered. "End
it."
But no nails came.
Thwack.
The ungodly thwack snapped
Steven correct. His thoughts
drifted to the bedroom closet
where his service weapon leaned
harmlessly against the corner like
a fishing rod. Just because he
was discharged three decades
ago, didn't mean he'd ever
stopped thinking about his best
girl. She'd been resting peacefully
all those years, but he could have
her operational in fifteen seconds,
twenty tops.
He walked to his closet and
grabbed her from the past. He
sat on the edge of his bed and
held her gently.
Thwack. Thwack.
Steven's head felt as though a
bamboo shoot had been
ramrodded into his eye socket.
She was operational. He could do
that in his sleep. Maybe he just
did.
The sweat crawled down
Steven's forehead, soaking into
his ripped black T-shirt. Steven
was frying. He edged to the foot
of his bed, leaned against the wall
and put the muzzle in his mouth. For several sweaty seconds he
struggled to reach the mechanism
with the right big toe. The logistics of
the endeavor served as a time
machine and suddenly Steven was
back in the valley. Barker's death
wail snapped him correct.
“What the fuck are you doing?"
Steven hissed. "What the fuck are
you doing Marine?' he shouted.
He gripped his weapon with both
hands and slid his bedroom window
open about two inches, just enough
to fit the muzzle through the opening.
Where was this fat mother fucker?
He was there, doing his thing, but
Steven couldn't see him through the
tree line separating their backyards.
“Where are you gook?" he
whispered.
Ah yes, a sliver of forehead, in the
newly screened-in porch. That was
all he needed. The AK would cut that
screen like jungle bush.
Thwack.
The nail gun discharged and
Steven zeroed in on a two-inch slice
of forehead.
"Back to Parris, back to Parris,"
Steven whispered.
His vision tunnelled, then he saw
the kaleidoscope, then...
Thwack.
She discharged with familiar
precision.
Deck man fell backward, his body
plummeting to the floor of the porch.
Blood and brains hung from the
finished portion of the porch screen.
The shot's echo bounced off the
homes in the neighborhood, but
nobody would recognize it. A car
backfiring, a kid with firecrackers,
someone building a deck. There were
plenty of explanations for a thwack.
"Clear,” Steven yelled, his voice
cracking. “Clear.”There was quiet now. The
man had no wife Steven had ever
seen. He might start to stink
before they found him.
Steven sat back on the edge of
the bed, his best girl resting next
to him. He was still as a dead
man. He didn't blink. He didn't
move for thirty minutes, maybe
forty, then....
Thwack.
Steven grimaced with pain, but
not surprise. He stood and
walked slowly to the window. He
scanned the row of back yards.
Three houses due north of the
deck man's place, a new project
had begun. Another man had
staked off a portion of his yard
directly behind his house. Steven
watched as the man repeatedly
disappeared to the front of his
house, then reappeared a few
moments later, carrying tools,
lumber and other building
materials. It looked as though
this man was getting ready to
build a deck.
Steven watched as the man
happily set about beginning what
promised to be a long and
detailed home improvement.
Steven was frying. He walked to
the window. The hot metal of the
AK-47 burrowed into Sgt. Steven
Tennenbaum's cheek as he slid
the bedroom window open. The
warm sun felt good on his face as
he took his aim.
"Back to Parris," he whispered.
You have to dig these fuckers
out one at a time.
Thwack.
4
Of Claw and Eye and Tooth
By Vincent W. Sakowski
|
"THE EYE SEES ALL. THE CLAW
DRAWS US IN. THE TOOTH IS OUR
REWARD. . . DO YOU KNOW THIS?"
No reply. Only the soft humming of
the Examiner's generator broke the
silence.
"DO YOU BELIEVE THIS?"
His eyelids removed long ago and
his eyes moistened only at the
Examiner's indulgence, the man stared
up at the stainless steel Examiner,
unseeing. His mouth hung open, lips
trembling, drool running, but no
intelligible sound was uttered -- like a
fish washed up on a beach, screaming
on the sand.
The Examiner leaned in, but not far
enough over him to block the sodium
arc lights assaulting his eyes. Burning.
Searing.
Silent gasping.
Snap.
Hiss.
Whirring.
One of the Examiner's many
concealed appendages extended from
its compartment towards the man. At
the end of the multi-jointed arm a
small expander was attached. Similar
to a pair of scissors, the Examiner
squeezed its handle, testing it, opening
its ends, as it moved the expander
towards the man's head.
"PERHAPS YOU ARE HAVING
DIFFICULTY HEARING ME...”
And the Examiner worked the
expander into the man's left ear canal,
and squeezed once more.
This time, the man had no trouble
finding his voice, and he howled and
cried, but still he had no answer. Therewas only agony exploding in his head,
and he could do nothing to stop it. The
man struggled against the straps
binding him to the examination table,
even long after the Examiner removed
the expander. Blood flowed freely from
what remained of his ear, and the man
was almost surprised that he still had
some tears left to weep.
The Examiner leaned back, lenses
scrutinizing him, while calculations were
made, determining the next course.
Figure
Graphic file number 0 named a_dic045.wmf with height 13 p and width 62 p Left aligned
It's been quite some time since I
last saw the demon smiling at me from
the darkness. Snickering. Teeth
shining in the shadows. Glistening.
Always seeming sharper than before.
Always ready, waiting to snap off any
little bit that I leave exposed. Whether
I am slow or careless, it does not mind
as long as it receives its reward.
And always, there's this strange
rush of fear -- simultaneously terrifying
and exhilarating -- because the demon
is mine. I am the master. What a
laugh. Yet I have only heard the
demon laughing. I can't even
remember the last time I cracked a
grin.
Where has it gone?
Why has it left?
When will it return?
But still I wonder . . . has it really
gone at all? Or is it hiding even deeper
in the shadows? Or has it found a way
to exist in the light? In any case, is it
simply waiting for me to let my guard
down while I am consumed with duty
and routine?
I haven't called it back to me either,
for, no matter the reward, I am still
better off without it -- until my desires
get the better of me, of course.
Impractical demonkeeping? Now
there's a thought.
Figure
Graphic file number 0 named a_dic045.wmf with height 13 p and width 62 p Left aligned
"LET'S TRY SOMETHING
DIFFERENT."
The Examiner's motor revved, and it
wheeled around the table. From a
nearby stand it gathered up several
filaments, then spun around and stared
at the man's head. Suddenly, with
extreme speed and strength it inserted
the ends of the filaments into the man's
skull, so that they were directly tapped
into his brain.
As each needle was driven in, the
man felt a brief burst of emotion and
memory along with the excruciating
pain. Each time the emotion/memory
was different. The rich smell of freshly
brewed coffee. Burning his hand on a
stove element when he was five. A
blur of protests. Packing his papers for
another move. Boxes. Always
surrounded by boxes. And books. And
music . . .sweet classical music keeping
him awake on the highway at night, or
locked up in his apartment, studying.
Running. The comfort of lilac in a
neighbour's yard. Captured at a
convenience store. Milk jug exploding
on the tiled floor. And then there was
nothing. Only the pain of his body
being invaded once more.
Completely drained, the man could
only whimper, and wonder at what was
in store for him now. Countless days
gone. Long past. Countless methods
employed upon him. Yet the Examinerseemed to have no trouble finding new
ways to explore and torture him. Just
searching for the correct approach.
And through all of this, the man still
had no understanding; couldn't answer
the Examiner's questions. There was
nothing.
The Examiner flicked a switch.
"PERHAPS THIS WILL HELP YOU IN
YOUR UNDERSTANDING."
Music flooded into his thoughts, but
there was no comfort in it at all. Only
one verse repeating over and over
again: an incessant, banal jingle, only
too familiar to him. He wrote it. Years
ago. As a joke. Hated every annoying
line right from the start. Never thought
anyone would take it seriously, but
there wasn't anything that song
couldn't sell. It made millions. . . for
someone . . . not for him. The man
trembled. He thought he knew fear
and pain before . . . The man screamed
for it to stop, but it did not. Not for a
very, very long time.
I know only too well how to let go.
I know the question and the answer --
so it does not matter which one comes
first, or if they remained unmentioned.
I know. But I also know the price of
letting go completely, and having that
knowledge gives me peace, because I
can never think of anything that it
would be worth paying so much for in
the end. What's that old saying about
gaining the world but losing one's soul
in the process? I don't remember
exactly how it was worded, but I know
it's true, at least for me.
But still. Sometimes even I have
doubts. Does the demon know
something more? Something I don't?
Some bit of inside information? I think
that it would considering where it
comes from, but again. . . the price?
Perhaps it simply has hope that I will
succumb eventually . . . Perhaps soon
. . . And what is a demon without
hope?
And what am I? Who am I to be
possessed, or to possess another so
close to myself?
And in the meantime . . .
I have my work.
in the meantime.
I have my duty.
The meantime . . .
Figure
Graphic file number 0 named a_dic045.wmf with height 13 p and width 62 p Left aligned
"DO YOU FINALLY BELIEVE?"
The man barely turned his head
towards the Examiner, the verse still
repeating, even though the switch was
turned off long ago. Eyes dried.
itching. Burning constantly. Peeling
away like onion skin. But still they held
some life. Awareness.
The Examiner leaned over him. "DO
YOU FINALLY UNDERSTAND? OR DO
YOU REQUIRE MORE--”
His chin dropped, and slowly --
excruciatingly slowly -- the rest of his
head bowed half an inch. The man's
lips cracked and parted into a soft smile
under the shadow of the Examiner.
"NOW TELL ME . . .”
Am I the rule? Or the exception?
Have I been wrong all this time?
Perhaps this is only another step . . . as
I see the demon's teeth glistening once
more. but another step towards . . .
towards . . .
Figure
Graphic file number 0 named a_dic045.wmf with height 13 p and width 62 p Left aligned
“. . . and the tooth is our reward."
4
Raped
I'm gone now, the gargoyle whose clenched panther thigh
you drank after my virgin attempt at no-thing-ness.
The broken headless woman whom the lascivious moon
refuses to shine on.
A distant bride plucked and old,
squatting open-hearted at the altar.
And here, and always, Kafka lay like a jellyfish
around my neck and my eaten flower.
as the Gods urge the dank tides of eternity to delete me.
I won't return, the chimera whose open-petal thigh
you bruised after pounding me into the sand-dust.
Being becomes electric, here, in the Painted Desert.
i, the doleful damsel unfathered in my karmic landscape
Slaughtered in the Painted Desert, fuschia-lipped,
Only thing equal to my ex-beauty.
--Nanette Rayman
To Give Him Life
By T. Everett Cobb
|
Charlie's neck was broken. I
remembered enough from my EMT
internships back in college to diagnose
injuries like this, though not enough to
treat them. When it came to family
emergencies, I was the consummate
armchair warrior.
The ambulance was painfully
cramped, but I felt out of place saying
anything, with Charlie belted to a
gurney right there in arm's reach.
Julie's bony joints dug into me all up
and down my left side; her weight,
along with the constant lurch of the
vehicle, forced me to collapse against
the rear door. I hoped to hell it was
latched securely, or I might end up
needing the same treatment as my
son.
Julie let out a long, tentative sigh,
which made me think of how faint the
siren sounded from inside the
ambulance. Couldn't remember that
ever occurring to me in college. Of
course, back then you couldn't just
scan the subject, fix the flaw and print
out the altered file. The panic factor
was a lot higher twenty years ago.
Still, Julie had been crying on and off
since we found Charlie lying at the
bottom of the Moorlander's empty pool,
two houses down from ours. It'd been
a perfectly normal afternoon up to the
moment their twin boys came charging
down the street shouting, "Mr.
Olearain! Mrs. Olearain! Charlie's
hurt!"
My hand came up and rested on
Julie's arm. "He'll be fine, hun. They'll
scan him and he'll be fine."
Her muscle hardened under myfingers, elbow tightening around her
legs. "I hated that glider. I told you I
hated it." It took effort not to get
defensive. She was under tremendous
strain. "I knew something like this
would happen." No, Julie, I wanted to
say. You didn't. But any resistance
would have been seen as an attack,
since it had been my idea to get Charlie
the glider for his Birthday. I'd grown
up surfing the beaches of San Diego,
living in El Cajon. Growing up in
Sacramento had made it impossible for
Charlie to learn the joy of real surfing.
These new gliders were the next best
thing. Except when you wiped out,
there was no bubbling blue safety net
to catch you.
"This is pretty mild," said the Tech,
huddled on the other side of the
gurney. "At least compared to a lot of
the glider accidents we see." He was a
Latino with perfect English and a warm
smile. As a state social worker, I'd
spent a good amount of time around
Latinos, and had come to appreciate
their innate sensitivity. I was doubly
grateful for it now, since he seemed to
be rescuing me from my loss for words
more than simply comforting my wife.
"Like Mr. Olearain says, we'll set up a
scan of Charlie, print him and he'll
come home with you tomorrow, wild as
ever.”
His smile was so reassuring, I felt
the matter was closed. Julie just let
out another haggard sigh.
The waiting area had a high ceiling
checkered with those coarse acoustic
panels. I found myself memorizing
them for distraction; it beat having towatch the evening soap flickering on
the only TV in the room. Occasional
mumbling came from the nurse's
station at our backs and the ventilation
system purred softly. In all, it seemed
a quiet night at Alta Vista Emergency
Room, until Julie blurted, "Oh my God."
I fought to straighten myself,
wrenching my gelatinous abs. My pulse
raced, more from the tone of her voice
than from my quick movement. I
thought maybe she'd seen Charlie's
ghost standing there in mid-air. Before
I could say anything, she whispered,
"Stephanie.”
That word felt like a narrow finger in
the eye. "Shit," I said. I'd completely
forgotten about Steph, hadn't thought
about her once the whole evening,
"One of us better call. See if she's
alright. "
"I'm sure she is," said Julie as she
rose with a click in both knees. What
she really meant was, Don't bother
yourself, dear. I can take care of it. I
shot up quickly, too quickly, and felt
the blood rush away from my head.
Amazing, I thought, how my wife can
turn every expression into an
emotionally pitched battle. I was the
one I really hated at the moment
though. Because I was surrendering,
or maybe fighting on a different front.
Better to play the dutiful husband than
to live with the undercurrent of scorn
when her every word, every movement
said I know you love your children,
Max...Don't you?
She marched from the carpeted
waiting area and crossed the glaring
tiles to the nurse's station with a stride
that pretended to leave me sitting
there alone. Of course, I was right
behind her.
Stephanie was home. That hollow
glance from Julie told me the instant
our daughter's voice came through thehospital phone. The conversation
sounded curt from this end, not out of
rudeness, but because mother and
daughter could communicate in grunts
and dislocated syllables. I found my
eyes drawn to Julie's form, slumped
against the station's counter. Fatigue
was the sculptor of that pose. I could
see it pulling down on her girlish figure.
Julie's olive skin, usually dotted with
tiny goose pimples, looked to be on the
pale side, and her bobbed brown hair
draped her eyes, without covering the
fuzz trail up the back of her neck. This
skinny woman had borne our two
children? It was easy to see why I'd
put up with the American dream all
these years, aside from the fact that
divorce in the Twenty-First Century was
only for the world's wealthiest.
"Alright, hun. We'll be here."
She handed the phone back across
the counter without looking at the
nurse.
“So?"
"Moorlanders already told her what
happened. She was just getting her
stuff. They're bringing her over."
"That's good."
"Sorry I've been such a butt today,"
she said, rubbing her forehead as we
moved back to the couches.
"It's understandable." I couldn't let
her off the hook without a slight pinch
before giving in. "Especially being
married to a stiff like me."
"Yeah, " she said, managing to curl
the corner of her mouth. "But you're
the only stiff I got." Her arm came
around my back as mine rested across
her bony shoulders.
"Mr. and Mrs. Olearain?"
We both turned at the sound of our
names. A tall, thin man with a pocked
complexion stood there. His smile was
uneasy, hands digging deep in the
pockets of his lab coat. The gold rimsof his glasses shimmered, making him
look like a giant insect. I had the
feeling this was no doctor, or maybe I
just hoped it wasn't.
"That's us," I said, in unison with
Julie's "Yes?"
"I'm Todd Hegstead. The
Information Tech working on Charlie's
case."
He extended his hand to me first,
which caused me a bit of discomfort. I
have too often had the impression of
being a puppet figure, like the
President of the United States. You
make a speech, you wave, you kiss
babies, then they shove you into the
back of a limo and tell you to shut up.
My wife was the one who really knew
what was going on, and she always
knew where to strike the first blow.
"You're doing the alterations on our
son?" she said as she took her turn
shaking his hand.
"Yes, ma'am. Everything looks
really good." His glances alternated
between us. "I just need to brief you
on the procedures."
"I think we already know how it
works." said Julie, looking my way for
support.
"I know, but it's the law."
We sat, Julie and I close together,
the lanky Hegstead on the other couch,
white squares bouncing off his lenses as
he mumbled in a tone that could have
put a rabid dog to sleep.
"Under the Humane Duplication Act
of 2055, I'm required to explain Scan
and Print and the policies that
accompany it. Now, If I'm not
mistaken, Charlie was already
duplicated once. Wasn't he?"
"Yes," said Julie. It felt natural to
let her do the talking here. "When he
was five. He had a heart murmur when
he was born. They thought it would go
away, but he started to fail...""I understand. Mr. and Mrs.
Olearain, the government is extremely
reserved in their use of this process. I
know One Life to Live makes it out to
be a daily routine, if you'll forgive the
pun. But it isn't. There are relatively
few conditions that we are allowed to
treat with Scan and Print. In fact, had
Charlie simply broken a limb or suffered
a laceration, we wouldn't be able to use
it."
"I thought limbs could be fixed this
way."
"Only if the break happens in
conjunction with something life
threatening. The patient would be
scanned and the break fixed along with
whatever qualified condition
accompanied it. It wouldn't make a lot
of sense for us to scan a new subject
and then set his arm in a cast."
"So why are they letting Charlie?
His condition isn't life threatening."
"Well, a severed spinal column can
kill, but that isn't the issue here. There
is one major exception to the 'life
threatening' rule. If the State
considers that the patient could become
a financial burden, as in the case of a
quadrapelagic, they will usually okay
it."
“Ah ha."
Now he was talking my language.
The government had gone to great
lengths to cut back on excuses for
State Welfare. Nobody knew the hard
facts better than a social worker. In
order to qualify for a single child, at
least one member of a married couple
had to be Career Certified. (Fortunately
Julie and I had both graduated, else
Stephanie would never have seen the
light of day.) And without a marriage
license, forget it. It wasn't a matter of
morals, it was money. The government
had come to realize it had two choices:
either make people responsible for theirown offspring, or go down in flames like
Rome or the Soviet Union. I couldn't
really argue the logic, especially at the
moment, since my son's life would have
been a horrible tragedy without it.
"That's the most important part of
the briefing. I presume you still
remember the basic process, that the
elements of the template are
transferred to the duplicate."
"You mean his new body will be
made from his old?" Julie asked.
“Yes."
"Why? If it's just for recycling, that
seems like a virtue turned to vice."
"Well, there's a moral issue to it as
well. The Duplication Act prohibits the
coexistence of the template and the
duplicate. It's illegal to have them both
alive at the same time. Thus, we
disintegrate the first as we integrate
the second."
"Mm." Julie was obviously sickened
by the imagery this brought to mind. I
fared no better.
"Don't worry," Hegstead said,
sensing our dismay. "There's no
danger."
Figure
Graphic file number 0 named a_dic045.wmf with height 13 p and width 62 p Left aligned
Stephanie arrived only moments
before the "print" was scheduled to
begin. Her breath came deeply, and
her cheeks flushed dark, more than
usual. She had my phenotype, poor
girl. The blue eyes, the light skin,
which made anxiety glow in her
features. Despite the fact, though, I
could call her pretty without my
conscience knifing me.
"How is he?" she said, pulling at the
neck of her coat.
We both looked at her, Julie and I.
The question caught us off guard.
Neither of us had taken a second towonder how he really was doing. We
weren't giving Charlie any say. I could
hear Julie's claim in my head, "I
brought him into this world. He doesn't
leave until I say."
"He's fine, Steph," I said. "You
alright?"
"Uh huh. Mom, I brought your
jacket and your purse. You forgot
'em."
Julie smiled, the same tired reflex
she'd been using the last few hours. I
raised my finger to the lighted screen
on the wall. "There he is." The second
screen was still dark, since that was
where our new Charlie would appear.
Stephie scowled, glancing over the
columns of color. "Where?"
"They don't let the family watch
how it really happens."
"You won't catch me complaining,"
Julie added.
"These are just the levels of his
usable elements."
Steph screwed her mouth up.
"Yuck."
Moments later, Hegstead's pink face
came pushing through the door. I
realized I was getting used to his jerky
eye movements. Social work had
made me far too adaptable to quirky
behavior . "All set," he said. "With
your permission--" Once again, he
shared his glances between us, though
his look was serious this time. He
meant, Are you ready for us to pull the
plug on your son?
"How long will it take?"
"Boy, I didn't cover that, did I? The
computer has calculated a two-and-a-
half hour integration. Plus or minus
three percent."
I felt like I was being invited to run
a marathon. Julie's brown eyes met
mine, and I saw the same tired
assessment in her. We exchanged a
nod so faint a stranger might have
missed it altogether.
"We're ready," she said.
"Fine," Hegstead replied. His
fingers went to tickling the keys at the
work station beneath the monitors.
"Just...one...second." He tapped a
mike switch and spoke to an unknown
colleague. "Okay, Mario. You got the
controls.”
The monitors changed then, not
drastically, but immediately. On the
blank monitor, colors cropped up in thin
lines across the bottom. They were
creating another son for me. I felt my
lungs surge, needing a flush of new air.
Stephanie told me I looked like a
marble statue. That's when my wife
suggested I sit down.
Figure
Graphic file number 0 named a_dic045.wmf with height 13 p and width 62 p Left aligned
The excitement wore off quickly,
and I surrendered to drowsiness. I'd
finally begun to believe this would take
a full hundred and fifty minutes. The
levels were coming off the top of the
template monitor, only to transfer to
the duplicate monitor with a
momentary delay, an achingly slow
business. With the fireworks turning to
cinders, my eyelids drooped.
I realized I'd dozed off when a yelp
roused me, and I felt a grip on my
wrist. Sounds bouncing off the walls
mixed with the white noise in my head,
turning my senses to mush. When I
found Julie latched to me, speaking in a
blare that bordered on hysteria, and
Stephie just behind her wearing a mask
of disbelief, I said to myself, Sorry! I
didn't mean to fall asleep!
All at once, that drowning sensation
swept away, and I took in the sterile
room around me. Julie had turned to
Hegstead. "What happened? What
was that?" She came back around tome. "The lights flickered, Max! And
the monitors -- look!"
It took my bleary eyes a moment to
find the monitors. I had naturally
begun a search for the rows of rainbow
colors and the slow ticking away of
each column, one slice at a time. I lost
my sense of the space again when I
found the grey outlines of those
monitors, each blinking with an
identical phrase, System ready for
Upload.
Ready for...? Was he finished? Was
Charlie fully duplicated already? That
was fast! Somehow my thoughts
clashed with the twist in Julie's lip, with
the stretch in the whites of her eyes.
Something was terribly wrong. Fear
added its venom to my confusion.
"What is it?" I said, staggering to
my feet. "What does that mean, Ready
for Upload?"
Hegstead was sitting slouched in his
chair, eyes sharpened like butterfly
knives. He whipped his glasses off and
rubbed his temples, briefly, then
slapped the mike switch. "Mario, talk
to me."
"Tom, I--" Tremors ran through the
voice, warping those Latino vowels.
"There was an outage. The power was
cut."
“I realize that, Mario. Auxiliary is
programmed to take over."
"I know. But it didn't. The system
shut down, Tom...we lost the file."
"What about the back-up?"
A moment of silence. "It's gone
too."
"Oh God," said Tom. He slumped
back, his palms coming up to cover his
face. "No...no.”
"What happened?" I said, feeling
turbulence beneath my voice. "What
the hell is going on?" I could practically
hear the rage running through my
wife's veins, without looking her way.
Her breath was shallow and quick in my
left ear. What really shook me,
though, was that gape in Stephie's
eyes. She hadn't made the slightest
change, a state of complete shock held
her captive.
I was shouting now. Screaming,
more like. "Where's my son!"
Tom pulled his hands down and rose
from the chair. After sliding his glasses
back on, he fought like a man to meet
my gaze, and avoided Julie altogether.
"I'll be back in a minute. Please wait
here."
"Bullshit! You tell me what's going
on here, or your going to need a scan
yourself.”
"Mr. Olearain, please--"
Julie firmed her grip on my wrist,
which I'd completely forgotten. "Max,
stop it." She faced the Tech, with a
glare hot enough to burrow holes
through him. "We want answers, Tom.
Now damn it, hurry up!"
The Tech rushed out of the room,
like his life depended on it. I watched
him go, then turned to find the tremble
in Julie's face. "I can't stay here, Julie,
I can't. I'm going."
"Max, don't--"
I'd already loosed her grip and
reached the door. Tom had turned left,
and I saw him tapping a code into one
of the doors down the left wall. A
surge ran through my limbs; I had to
catch him before he cleared that door.
"Wait," I said, my steps sounding like a
stampede in the narrow corridor.
Tom's look was one of sympathetic
horror. He shook his head as I slowed
up. It wasn't a gesture of refusal, but
one that said Don't do this to yourself.
"Please," I said, just realizing that
what I was feeling was helplessness. It
was a vacuous sensation that
threatened to consume all of my
strength. "If something's wrong withCharlie, I've got to know."
Tom teetered there for a moment,
not knowing what to do. When my
hand squeezed his shoulder, he turned
without a word and finished tapping in
the code. The door swung open and we
were met with a dark complexion,
brown eyes filled with too much water.
I had expected to find the same Tech
that had ridden in the ambulance with
us, but this one was different. He
stood in the doorway, without budging,
perhaps unable to. His chest lifted
once, with a breathy sigh and he said,
"Tom, we...Mr. Olearain, your son...we
lost him.”
Figure
Graphic file number 0 named a_dic045.wmf with height 13 p and width 62 p Left aligned
I insisted on telling Julie and Steph,
which was stupid of me. They really
needed to hear this from an outsider,
and I needed to share the impact with
them. I felt dislocated as I said it.
"The information was lost...Charlie's
gone."
Julie had broken down then, of
course. I had to fight hard to get her
attention. "Julie, listen! Tom said
there's still an option."
"An option," she spat, as if the word
had been a mockery. Her face was
painted with tear trails, eyes already
getting puffy. "They lost Charlie! Now
they're going to try to smooth it over! "
"I don't think that's it, Julie. But we
need to go right now, if we want to
hear the details."
"Where?"
"Tom's waiting for us, at the main
office."
Her face turned dark then. For an
instant I had seen a sparkle in her
eyes, but she forced it out. I knew
what she was feeling. How could we
dare to hope? It would be like losing
him twice. But then, how could we say
no if there was the tiniest possibility?
I glanced back at Stephie and
wondered if she'd moved at all since
the outage. There was something
different about her face now though. It
had turned from shock to a terminal
kind of gloom.
"Come on, Steph...come on."
She managed to put one foot in
front of the other, but didn't take my
hand.
Figure
Graphic file number 0 named a_dic045.wmf with height 13 p and width 62 p Left aligned
"Mr. and Mrs. Olearain, thank you
for coming."
This was an older gentleman --
Doctor Ralph Fuller, Hospital Director,
according to his name plate. Silver hair
covered his head, with no sign of
thinning. He sat comfortably in his high
back chair, a collection of plaques filling
up the wall behind him. Success fit him
well, I sensed, which annoyed me at
that moment.
"First let me say," he continued, "I
am crushed by the news of your loss.
It has never happened at this hospital,
though I have heard of such things
elsewhere."
"If this has happened before," Julie
cut in, not bothering with manners,
"why hasn't someone taken
precautions?"
"I suppose because it's so rare.
Perhaps we haven't learned how to
take all the precautions yet."
"That passiveness killed my son."
"No. A faulty auxiliary system killed
your son. And I'm sorry...deeply sorry.
"That won't bring our son back,
doctor," I said, knowing that my cliche
wouldn't ease our agony.
"No. That's true. But as Tom
mentioned, there is one option." Thedoctor smiled, his perfect teeth a pure
white. "Your son was duplicated once
before. We have traced the file and
found the back-up. "
The air grew heavy as this new
ingredient seeped into the brew.
"He was six," I said.
"Five," Julie corrected.
"Is there some way to--?"
"To make him sixteen? No. That,
I'm afraid, is not part of the option."
"Then you would print him, and he
would be a five-year-old?"
"Yes, basically."
The slump in Julie's posture bespoke
her wonder. I knew, though, it was
merely due to her weighing the reality
of this option, not because she didn't
understand. "He would wake up...and
think he'd been in kindergarten
yesterday."
"Yes, And it would be entirely the
truth, so far as he was concerned.”
"And his sister would suddenly be
seven years older than him."
Stephanie sobbed, a sound that
tried to break from her control. "I'll
take care of him, mom, I promise."
Julie looked seriously troubled now.
She laid her hand on Stephie's, but
couldn't summon a smile.
"Please say yes, mom. Bring him
back."
A harder twist came into my wife's
face. Before she could say anything,
Dr. Fuller interrupted. "I should tell
you, there is a special clause dealing
with these kinds of...situations. There
is a mandatory twenty-four-hour
waiting period. You'll have to go home,
and come back tomorrow with your
decision."
I didn't hear the small talk that
followed. When we were outside, Tom
stood there wringing his hands. "I'm so
sorry ... really.”
He turned then and walked away
from us. I wondered if he felt as hollow
as I did.
Figure
Graphic file number 0 named a_dic045.wmf with height 13 p and width 62 p Left aligned
I must have woken up a hundred
times that night. Mostly because Julie
never came to bed. I'd always found it
hard to sleep without her there, and
tonight of all nights...
Sometime after three I dragged
myself up and pulled my robe on. In
the hall, I could see the lights of the
television flickering up from the den. I
first thought I'd find Stephie curled up
in front of the set, asleep maybe.
When I reached the railing I found
I'd been wrong. Julie sat Indian style a
few inches from the screen, arms
wrapped tight around her. Naturally,
my eyes wandered to the brightness of
the set and I soon recognized the
images. A cluster of boys running in a
track meet. I recognized the camera
work too -- my own, jumpy as ever.
That was Charlie's seventh-grade year,
when he'd taken second in the region in
the eight-eighty. Damn, I was proud of
that boy. The flickerings stopped
suddenly when Julie switched disks and
pulled up footage from her sister's
wedding, six years ago. She stopped
on a shot of Charlie being chased by
the groom's nieces, a trio of gorgeous
mulattos who had the hots for our son
that whole weekend. Girls didn't have
to be in puberty to act that way. Julie
did an iso on Charlie and enhanced it.
He took up the whole screen as he ran
for his life, dodging through tux-clad
ushers and flowing pink skirts, laughing
like an imp.
It was hard to control the currents
running through my chest at those
images. Maybe because I knew what
Julie was doing. She was trying toabsorb those precious years we would
lose when Charlie was printed again. It
would hurt. But I didn't give a damn,
as long as I could bring him home with
me. And we'd get those years again
anyway. All the better.
A soft sound came to my ears,
which couldn't have been the set. I
realized Julie had the headphones on,
and anyway this sounded like sniffling.
It had to be Julie, I thought, crying
softly because of the disks. That
seemed the sensible thing, except it
was coming from down the hall.
Stephie.
I went to her door and stopped
there, looking into a nest of shadows.
"Steph?"
Her sniffling got louder, and turned
to sobs. "Ah, Steph." I stepped in and
moved to the bed, where I sat and laid
a hand on her leg. "You okay?"
"I'm so sad, Dad."
"I know, Steph. Me too."
"When we were at the hospital, I
couldn't stop thinking how empty you
and mom's lives were going to be now.
'Cause I know how much you loved
Charlie."
That forced the air from my lungs. I
couldn't speak.
"And I was so happy when they said
we could get him back...I didn't want
you to lose him, Dad. I didn't want . . ."
She couldn't speak anymore either.
Someplace deep in my mind opened
up, and I suddenly understood why she
was really hurting...in that moment, I
hated myself. I had created this in her.
My favoritism for Charlie had forced her
to give up on her own needs. And now
it was more frightening for her to see
our pain expressed at Charlie's loss,
than to actually lose him. My instincts
faded and I gathered her up in my
arms. "Oh, Lord...Stephie...Oh, Lord."
Her sobs grew deeper against my
chest.
Figure
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Dr. Fuller pulled up his chair and
rested his hands on the desk. "I'm
sorry, but Tom will not be here today."
"I understand," I said.
"I presume you've reached a
decision." His expression offered a bit
of brightness to us, if tentatively. He
was clearly taken aback when neither
of us responded. It was strange to me,
sitting there. We hadn't discussed it
once, not a single word. Perhaps I had
just assumed we would print our five-
year-old Charlie without hesitation, it
being the only option. Or perhaps
because to discuss it would have been
to admit there was a possibility of the
unthinkable. I cleared my throat,
tapping my thumbs together, and
glanced at Julie.
She returned the look, adjusted in
her seat and said, "We've decided not
to do it."
A gag came up in my throat and I
reeled around to her.
"We feel it's better this way."
I realized then that I could not,
under State Law, authorize the
duplication by myself. It would take
both of our signatures.
"Julie--?"
"Our son, Charlie, had a life. We
gave him that life." She was
addressing the doctor, but I knew who
she was talking to. "We watched him
grow, took joy in everything he
learned, every day. And now..." She
paused, to take a deep breath. "We
can't bear to lose those years, and the
memories we have of him."
Why was she doing this? She must
have snapped. "Julie, we need to talk
about this.""Do we? After all these years, we're
going to talk?"
Oh great! Take a jab at a moment
like this!
Stephanie was crying openly now.
She'd been taken of guard too.
"Max, it wouldn't be fair to Charlie,
to wake up and find us all eleven years
older. He wouldn't understand. And
most all, it wouldn't be fair to
Stephanie."
Steph broke out into a shrill cry that
sounded like she'd been torn in two.
"No, mom!" she pleaded, her eyes
clamped tight, face red with agony. "I
want him back!"
"No," said Julie, calmly. She opened
her arms to Steph, who wailed louder
and tried to brush Julie's hands away.
I realized my limbs were paralysed.
I was losing my son, my wife had gone
mad and my daughter was breaking up
at the seams.
Julie said nothing at first, only
moved closer and cradled Steph,
inviting her to cry freely with a
gentleness I didn't quite comprehend.
"We aren't losing him, baby," she
whispered. "He'll always be there...and
so will you."
Steph collapsed then, giving way to
her mother's arms. I found my sight
smearing over. What I'd felt last night
in Stephie's room Julie had sensed on
her own. Nobody loved Charlie more
than his mother. How, then, did she
have the strength to choose this
remedy? "I'm not leaving here without
my son, Julie!"
"Then you'll leave here without your
daughter!" Her eyes held on me like
hot rivets, then she spoke softly.
"Stephanie needs you now, Max. Give
her the life she needs."
I couldn't lie. That's why she stayed
up all night watching those old flicks.
She had been purging herself of
Charlie. And I knew she was right. My
limbs moved. I felt as if they had to, if I
was to live through this moment. I
rose and pulled them both up with me.
This was my job, to take them home.
Sometimes that's all a man knows how
to do, and I was going to do it.
"Destroy that file, Doctor," I said.
We left him sitting there, a stare on
his face.
I felt a heavy loss as we drove
home, but I forced myself to admit that
we'd left that hospital with something
we hadn't brought in. I guess we'd
given our son his life -- his real life.
Our daughter too.
4
The Nature of Infinity
By Ellen Persio
|
It always starts the same way. My
mother sits at the kitchen table and
stares out the back window. Outside in
the rear courtyard of a tenement is all
the mess you can't see from the street.
A web of clotheslines, rows of garbage
cans, black iron fire escapes zigzagging
dirty brick walls. Across from our
window is the rotting back porch where
Mrs. Dinnan's arthritic mutt, Lassie,
totters out every hour or so to pee. My
mother appears to be looking beyond
all this, squinting into the distance at
something obscure and important. On
the table in front of her are a tall glass,
an ashtray, a pack of Lucky Strikes,
and a bottle of Miller Hi Life. The bare
essentials arranged just so, like an altar
at Lent.
My mother smokes cigarette after
cigarette, but rations out the beer, half
a glass at a time. The way she drinks
it, in quivering, furtive gulps, makes
swallowing look like an unnatural act.
She gets up from the table every ten
minutes or so to empty the ashtray, to
scrub the fingerprints off her glass.
When she runs out of Luckies, she
fidgets with the pack, tracing and
retracing its alarming red emblem. The
bright afternoon fades, but she doesn't
bother to switch on the overhead light.
She just sits there, silent and
expressionless, as aloof from everyday
business as someone awaiting the end
of the world, the return of the dead.
The television is on in the living
room. My older brother Butchie is
kneeling on the floor, smashing toy
trucks together. A wily eight-year-old,
with milky skin and buzz-cut red hair,he looks tough and sly, yet oddly
delicate, like a tiny convict with a
rosebud mouth. I'm under the desk in
the foyer with a coloring book and the
big deluxe box of crayons. I use my
favorite colors over and over again. All
the outdoor scenes in my coloring book
have twilight skies streaked with
purple, blue-violet, and magenta. I
give every little girl black hair and
moss-green eyes like mine.
It's way past dinnertime. My father
should've been home hours ago.
Butchie and I keep our eyes downcast,
away from the darkened kitchen.
Every now and then, when there's a
noise in the hallway outside, we stiffen.
As it gets later, my mother's
intermittent bursts of activity in the
kitchen become more frequent and
hectic. The three of us know exactly
what we're in for.
I'm in the entryway of the
apartment building where I grew up,
waiting for my watch to say exactly 11
o'clock. If I'm five minutes late my
mother will think I'm dead; five
minutes early, and I'll give her a heart
attack. It's two minutes to eleven.
This place makes me feel like I'm in a
funhouse. Fire and water damage has
left the ice-green plaster walls cracked
and sagging, the floors wavy, the doors
warped. The large, ornate mirror next
to the perpetually disabled elevator
hangs off-kilter. I'm holding my
breath. Even after all these years, I'm
afraid of what I might smell.
Thirty years ago, in the apartment
above us, a fat, shy teenage boy
named Andy beat his mother to deathwith a crowbar, doused the furniture
with gasoline, and struck a match. The
local tabloid dubbed him the Flabby
Enigma.
When I told my therapist Maryann,
that this was the only kind of family
barbecue that went on in my
neighborhood, she hardly blinked.
I responded to her level gaze with a
defiant smirk.
"I think you're in a lot of pain," she
said.
This remark sounded suspiciously
familiar. I thought it might be a line
from a movie. Whenever a shrink in a
movie says something like that, the
patient bursts into tears. At that point,
the all-knowing, all-giving shrink would
wrap her arms around the weeping
patient and the healing would begin.
Of course, in real life the only
therapists who touch patients are slimy
sexual abusers. And hugs are
overrated. They don't change
anything. Just the same, Maryann's
display of serious concern had its
intended affect. Whatever measure of
dignity my uncompromising cynicism
had afforded me disappeared into the
maw of a newly awakened beast. An
all-consuming need for validation of my
suffering had risen from the shallow
grave where I'd buried the past. I was
ready to spill my guts.
I take a minute to steady myself
against the banister and then trudge up
the four flights to my mother's
apartment. When I get to the top, I
take a deep breath. The TV is blaring.
I knock. There is a brief commotion,
then silence. She must've forgotten I
was coming. I pound the door.
“Mother!”
I imagine my mother crouched
behind the armchair. She has nothing
to do all day except wait for trouble
and bad news. A ringing telephoneshakes her up like a blast of machine
gun fire.
"Mother. It's Jean."
The door cracks open. I see the tip
of my mother's beaky nose, then her
eyes, the color of petrified wood.
"Please, Mother...let me in." My
voice is calm, but my twitching hands
feel maniacal and alien, like hands
transplanted from a strangler. I lower
my eyelids and compress my lips,
emulating a Buddha's beautific smile. I
read somewhere that you could change
your emotions by changing your facial
expression.
My mother starts to shut the door,
but then cued by some mysterious
internal signal, blinks and snaps out of
her trance. "Oh. It's you then."
Unsmiling, she lifts the door chain.
I step into the apartment. My
childhood home -- the same brown
carpet, brown wallpaper, brown living
room drapes. The lifeless air tastes like
ashes in my mouth. Impoverishment is
the word that comes to mind when I
look around here. The place is too
clean and neat to qualify for squalor.
We lived on a more subtle plane of
despair. My mother would feel obliged
to make everything spotless and tidy.
But setting out fresh flowers or
repainting a peeling window sill -- that
was “extra,” an absurd waste of energy
like painting your toenails or putting
paper booties on lamb chops. My
mother is a compulsive housekeeper of
the most perverse kind -- one secretly
in league with an insidious
deterioration. The linoleum is buckled
and cracked from scrubbing, the cheap
white net curtains in the bedrooms
yellowed and frayed from too much
bleach.
I touch my lips to my mother's
cheek. It feels dry as paper and smells
of baby powder and pine soap. Mymother pulls away, clutching the neck
of her droopy cotton house dress.
She's been wearing the same basic
outfit for the past thirty years. The
flowered apron, the hairnet, the heavy
flesh-colored support hose. To
purchase these relics, I have to drive
her halfway across town to a gloomy
little department store, named
Levine's, where everything smells like
mothballs. Anything pretty or
comfortable that I buy her -- like the
pale yellow jogging suit I'd given her
for Mother's Day -- is immediately cut
up for dust rags.
I start to ask how she's feeling, but
before I get two words out, she cuts
me off, resuming mid-thought
whatever dire rumination was
interrupted by my arrival.
"Sweet Jesus," she mutters,
wringing her hands. "Now what. The
neighborhood's gone to the dogs.
Coloreds. Hippies and their pot
parties.”
“It's the nineties, Mother. There
aren't any more hippies."
My mother, suddenly speechless,
claps her hands on her hips and
scrutinizes me with narrowed eyes.
She's baffled for a moment, then
outraged. "What in God's name did
you do to your hair?" She wriggles her
fingers above her head with an
expression of profound distaste.
“Why's it all crinkly like that?"
“It's a perm, Mother." She wouldn't
understand if I were to confess that this
mass of corkscrews -- a pathetic
imitation of Maryann's Pre-Raphaelite
blond curls -- reflects my unconscious
wish to merge with my
therapist/surrogate mommy. She
would guffaw if I told her this hairdo
cost me one hundred and fifty dollars.
"It's the style now," I say.
"Well it looks like a rat's nest."She's never approved of my
hairstyles -- not since the day I
chopped off my braids. The braids she
wove for me were "nice and neat."
That meant they stretched the skin
around my eyes so tight that I looked
Chinese. Sometimes my scalp bled.
When I bawled like a baby from the
pain, she would slap my throbbing
hairline with her version of the balm of
mercy -- a cold smear of Vaseline.
Head bent, arms gripping her sides,
my mother scuffs into the kitchen.
Even before she got old, she looked like
a hunchback, her shoulders clenched
and rounded as though she were
braced for a blow or a dirty trick. She
doesn't bother to inquire about the
large paper bag I'm carrying, so I set it
down on the kitchen table. I lift out a
cardboard cake box. I've brought
paper napkins too, because my mother
never has them unless it's a special
occasion like Christmas -- the rest of
the time she uses old dishtowels. I
open the box and take out two little
cakes on white paper doilies. Then I sit
down and try to feel plucky. I
straighten my shoulders and make my
spine an arrow, but I can maintain this
unnatural posture only a few seconds
before surrendering to my genetic
slump.
My mother sets out mismatched
cups and saucers. She reaches into the
cabinet for a box of tea bags -- the
cheap supermarket brand that tastes
like metal -- even though she knows I
prefer coffee. Since she quit smoking,
she drinks cup after cup of tea. I wish
she still drank beer, so we could have
one now, but she gave that up too,
shortly after my father bled to death
from a hole in his stomach.
My mother puts a tiny enamel
saucepan on the stove and measures
out two cupfuls of water from the tap."I was promoted at work last week.
Art director for a new deodorant
account. One of those New Age-y clear
ones. Like the clear dishwashing liquid
and the clear beer? It's supposed to
seem more pure and natural? Like it's
good for you?" I wish I hadn't gotten
started on this. Now I have to explain.
A task that seems as endless,
overwhelming, and ultimately useless
as counting every grain of sand in a
vast desert.
I invited my mother to my office
once. There I'd demonstrated dazzling
feats of technology on my computer
and patiently answered stupid
questions. I'd shown her my portfolio -
- the logos, signs, and labels, which on
my better days (when I don't mind
contributing to the decline of Western
Civilization) seem as elegant as
hieroglyphics, as potent as swastikas.
Now, whenever anyone asks her about
my job, my mother says I'm a copy
machine operator.
My mother leans over the big white
porcelain stove and puffs on the front
burner. A crackling ring of blue and
orange flame flares up. She stares at
the pot, waiting for the water to boil.
When she pours the seething water into
the cups, it hisses and bubbles out of
the pot onto the counter and some of it
sprays her hand. She flings the pot
into the sink and hollers, “Jesus, Mary,
and Joseph!" I jump up and insist she
run cold water over her burned hand,
but she waves me away.
After she blots up every last drop of
the spilled water with a dishrag and
washes the saucepan, she brings the
two half-filled cups to the table. The
strings on the tea bags are stapled to
little red flags with clever sayings on
them. Mine says, "A woman is like a
tea bag -- only in hot water do you
realize how strong she is." I start toread it out loud, but my mother
interrupts.
"That old colored man next door is
keeping a brothel. All day long there's
a parade of whores -- dozens of them -
- coming and going.”
Since retiring from her waitress job
at the Green Dolphin Grill, my mother
has turned into some kind of demented
mystic. She exists in a perpetual state
of now. Everything is interrelated,
past, present, and future are all rolled
into one big ceaseless moment.
Yesterday's news or her own uneventful
afternoon -- it's all the same to my
mother. Hour after hour of Mrs. Dinnan
sweeping the backstairs and the janitor
loading trash in the dumpster melts
into the unending flow of soap operas
and tabloid news shows about thrill
killings and teenagers possessed by the
devil. I remember that she's recently
been glued to a three-part report about
a call girl ring operated by suburban
housewives.
"There are only two women, Mother,
and they're not prostitutes. They're
Mr. Johnson's nieces. Remember I
asked Mrs. Dinnan's daughter? You
were right there when she told us?
Vanessa and Ruth? They take turns
coming by to check on him and cook his
dinner."
Last week my mother had called the
police to report a dead pigeon on the
sidewalk. She tried to finger Mrs. Reus,
the Puerto Rican social worker, for
ritual sacrifice. "Voodoo," she insisted.
“They're all into it. They always kill a
chicken or something before they do
one of their drug deals."
The police had sent over a smirking
crossing guard to reassure my mother
(“nothing to worry about here, ma'am -
- looks like a cat got it") and then
called me to let me know my mother's
daily crime reports were getting to be anuisance.
“Listen, Mother. The man must be
eighty years old. He's paralysed on
one side. He's a deacon at the Baptist
church. I seriously doubt he's got a
secret life as a pimp going on here.”
My mother snorts and gives me a
look. That look has molded her face
the way disasters carve a landscape.
Pursed lips, narrowed eyes. The
pinched sneer of someone who will not
be fooled again.
"This used to be a nice
neighborhood. You could sit in the
park. These new people are animals.
Worse than animals." She pretends to
spit. “Cockroaches.”
I answer slowly, through clenched
teeth. “If the neighborhood is as bad
as you say it is, why don't you move?"
"And where would I go?"
We've been having this same
conversation for fifteen years. Again
and again we use the same words, the
same gestures and inflections. My
mother folds her arms across her chest.
My tone of voice starts out measured
and infinitely reasonable. Then,
gradually and inexorably, the familiar
jagged rhythm of contempt asserts
itself like a native dialect that can be
disowned but never unlearned. I sound
exactly like my mother. The scene
replays itself over and over. A broken
record, a dripping faucet, mirrors inside
mirrors. The torture of infinite
repetition.
I spread my hands on the scarred
yellow oilcloth that covers the kitchen
table. Between my fingers are the
ghosts of stains -- grape jelly, coffee,
brown gravy. In my childhood home,
there may have been enough to eat,
but nothing ever tasted good. I open
my mouth to say that other people
manage to grow and change, that
nothing is impossible if you believe youcan do it. Every day people are
learning to scamper over hot coals, to
walk through glass.
Instead I say, "Bill and I are getting
a divorce."
We can't look at each other. We
hang our heads, both as dumbstruck as
witnesses to some lurid confession
scrawled in lipstick on a bathroom
mirror.
Then my mother says, "Sweet
Mother of Christ.” She rears back,
mouth gaping to convey that this was
unforeseen, this is unthinkable.
Her pale unblinking eyes say
something else. I should have known.
If it's not one thing it's another. Leave
it to you to break my heart.
She sets down her cup. "What
about the children?"
I figure she got this from one of her
talk shows. People on TV are always
worried about children. The show can
be about divorce or alcoholism or
lesbian mothers -- it doesn't matter.
All revelation and analysis lead up to
one moment and the same plaintive
refrain. The smarmy host, the
implacably reasonable guest expert, a
caller from Des Moines imploring,
"What about the children?”
Apparently, I've missed my turn to
be the center of the universe. Which is
not to say I don't worry about my
children. I've resolved to give them
everything I missed -- hugs, self-
esteem, tasty meals. I'm determined
to be the exact opposite of my mother,
to erase the resemblance that keeps
popping up like some evil twin on a
soap opera. But I guess Crazy Irish
Mother syndrome never skips a
generation. Last Saturday the twins
overheard me howling like a lunatic
while I careened around the living room
clutching a gin and tonic in one hand
and propelling the vacuum cleaner withthe other. They were playing upstairs,
and I figured the din of the Hoover
would drown out my noisy histrionics.
But when they came downstairs later,
Lil was sullen and red-eyed, and Mike,
hysterical because the gerbil bit him,
threatened to flush the little rodent
down the toilet. I'm afraid this is how
well-intentioned mothers end up
rearing teen-age runaways and serial
killers.
Figure
Graphic file number 0 named a_dic045.wmf with height 13 p and width 62 p Left aligned
My mother is staring right past me.
She shakes her head. Her face has
gone slack; her eyes are full of doom.
I try to imagine Maryann's voice
saying, "You haven't done anything
wrong." I love it when she says that,
even though I know it isn't true. I try to
think of it as a mantra. A mantra is
useful -- it can calm you down, even
after you find out that the guru
whispers the same supposedly personal
and unique secret word to everyone
who pays the initiation fee.
"Don't worry about Mike and Lily," I
say. "Not only are they going to be
fine, they're fine right now." This
doesn't sound like anything I would
normally say. I must have gotten it
from that book of daily affirmations
Maryann made me read.
"I'm a good mother," I add feebly.
The Maryann who lives inside my
head, reigning over every waking
moment, nods reassuringly. Her
unconditional positive regard costs me
six hundred and forty dollars a month.
Hey, whatever it takes, I keep telling
myself. I'm desperate and this is my
last chance. So what if I'm paying
someone to care about me.
Of course there are times when I
feel like a sucker. The recent arrival ofa droning forklift and a crew of
scurrying laborers outside Maryann's
Window -- my therapy dollars at work
building her new swimming pool --
hasn't helped. I often imagine
comparing notes with her other
patients. "Oh, yes," one of them would
say, "the hand-knotted Persian carpet.
She must have decided she could afford
it when I told her I was bulimic."
Another would remark that the Lalique
crystal lovebirds on the mantel of the
Italian marble fireplace had been paid
for by her postpartum depression.
My mother picks up her spoon and
starts stirring her tea. She won't look
at me but I can tell from the resolute
motion of her spoon that she's about to
say something mean and judgmental. I
instruct myself to breathe from my
stomach. I close my eyes and exhale,
imitating a placid infant.
"In my day being married meant
something,” my mother says. "You
made a promise.”
"You should have left Dad. He was
a raging alcoholic."
“Your father liked a drink," she says,
dismissing my version of the truth with
a wave of her hand. "Besides, he died
when you were so little. It's a wonder
you remember him at all. Your mind is
playing tricks on you."
"I know what went on, Mother. I
was there.” The point I'm trying to
make has become a distant blur, even
though my memory of the dread
inspired by my fathers approaching
footsteps couldn't be clearer. I can see
him, hulking and bear-like, as he comes
through the door.
He slams his black metal lunch pail
on the counter. "What the hell is going
on here?" He switches a light on in the
dusky kitchen.
My mother, exhausted from her
end-of-the-week cleaning frenzy,
remains at the kitchen table, sipping
her beer. She doesn't acknowledge my
father. His shift at the button factory
was let out hours ago. She knows he's
been up to no good. At the track or a
poker game. Drinking, of course, and
throwing away his paycheck.
My father takes the cigar from his
mouth and flips ashes on the floor.
"So. She's in one of her moods.” My
father never refers to his wife by her
name -- Peg -- or even as your mother.
He always refers to her with a pronoun.
"Tell her I'm going out.” He directs all
his comments to Butchie and me. My
mother hardly blinks; you can't see one
muscle move in her bony, freckled face.
She just stays dumb as a stone and
refuses to look at him.
"Oh, and don't forget to tell her,”
my father says, pointing to a corner of
the ceiling, "that she missed a
cobweb."
His exit is accompanied by off-key
whistling and the jingling of coins in his
pockets. Not until this merrily sinister
music has disappeared into the night
sounds of the street does anyone make
a move.
My mother serves Butchie and me a
late supper, some hideous
conglomeration of whatever's left, in
the refrigerator -- spaghetti with
ketchup and hard-boiled eggs, frozen
fish sticks with canned ravioli. Then
she lets us stay up to watch the "Alfred
Hitchcock Hour.” I consider this a treat
even though the show scares me so
much that every week I promise myself
I'll never watch it again. Butchie and I
sit cross-legged on the floor. My
mother reclines on an old aluminum
and plastic chaise lounge we carry in
from the back porch. We have to
watch with the lights off, so my mother
can pretend she's at the movies.
In the middle of the night, I'm joltedawake by an explosion. For a split
second I think this might be the nuclear
holocaust we're always practising for by
crouching under our desks at school.
Then I realize it's just my father
committing the usual mayhem. He's
barging around the apartment,
breaking things, swearing, and hollering
for my mother to make him a
sandwich. Muttering and mocking his
diction ("Samich? You want a
samich?"), she marches around the
kitchen, rummaging in cabinets,
banging around in the silverware
drawer.
What comes next cannot be stopped
or altered. My father opens the liquor
cabinet above the refrigerator and
decides someone has been drinking his
Canadian Club. He pours himself a
glass of whiskey and goes on a search
for evidence of other crimes.
Slamming doors, flinging pots, he
denounces my mother. She is a liar
and a cheat. A terrible cook. A
spendthrift. An old hag. A red-headed
Irish whore. He accuses her of secretly
entertaining an endless, unlikely parade
of lovers. The usual suspects include
the mailman, the teenage paperboy,
even old Mr. Ponzillo, the blind man
who lives with his mother upstairs. Not
only have these boyfriends drunk up all
his whiskey, they've apparently eaten
most of the half-gallon of ice cream my
father had stashed in the freezer.
From my bedroom, I hear the sound
of breaking glass. A lamp is smashed,
furniture pitched. My father threatens
to throw the television out the window,
to set fire to the apartment. This is his
right. "You must obey!" He kicks the
walls and roars like a wrathful god
betrayed by his creation. "I have built
it up and I will destroy it!'
Finally I run out into the kitchen to
confess that it was I who ate the icecream. But it's too late. Nobody pays
any attention to me. Drink in hand, my
father continues his tirade. My mother
stays at the kitchen counter, cutting up
onions with an enormous butcher knife.
She keeps her eyes downcast, but she's
smirking the whole time. When my
father shouts that he wants his
goddamn dinner on the table right now,
she turns to salute him and sneers,
“Heil Hitler!” Then she mutters, "Go
ahead and hit me you big bully."
He does. He dumps the rest of his
drink on her head, and bellows, "Pooh
on you!” Then, flinging his head back
grandly as an artist putting the final
flourish to his masterpiece, he spits in
her face.
Hair dripping beer, arms shielding
her face, my mother cowers near the
floor. Then, quick as a cat, she
recovers herself. She springs up and
snatches the knife from the counter.
Face-to-face with my father, she takes
a few steps back. Her eyes are wide,
her upraised hand is trembling. The
sweeping blade of the knife is an arm's
length from my father's throat.
My father laughs. He is weaving
slightly. He flings his arms out,
exposing his chest, like an eager
martyr. His movements are clumsily
playful, but his face is twisted in a
vicious sneer. "You want to kill me?
Go ahead. Stab me. Rip my
goddamned guts out."
My mother stands there gripping the
knife. She lowers her upraised arm a
bit; her shoulders start to droop. All of
a sudden, my father's hand swoops
down, huge and inescapable as a
monster's paw. Now he's got the knife.
I scream and Butchie runs out from the
bedroom. He kicks my father's shins
and shouts brave, useless threats,
while I just stand there, arms flailing,
teeth chattering, my whole bodytwitching and jerking like a windup toy.
While my father is busy taunting us,
my mother crawls out the window. As
she scrambles down the fire escape,
my father's frenzy begins to wind
down. He lapses from homicidal
maniac back into the role of scornful
tyrant. "You want to beat up your old
man? You think you're a tough guy?”
He raises his arms over his head and
growls like a cartoon beast. Butchie
and I flee, as my father laughs and
stumbles off to pour himself another
drink.
Later, after my father has passed
out on the couch and I'm in bed, I hear
tapping on my bedroom window. My
mother has made her way over to the
fire escape outside my window, and
now she's huddled on the landing ready
to sneak back inside. I know the drill
by heart. Deft and soundless as a
practised spy, I unlock and raise the
window. My mother and I tiptoe into
the kitchen. A few minutes later,
Butchie gets out of bed. Crouched
down like a soldier in a mine field, he
hops over shards of broken glass. My
mother smokes a butt she's retrieved
from the trash. No one says a word.
The early morning light is a murky,
unwholesome gray, lifeless, stagnant as
water. The three of us sit there
surrounded by wreckage and drenched
in relief so sweet, it feels almost like
happiness.
Figure
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Of course my mother would tell you
I've led a sheltered life. If you're
talking unhappy childhoods, my mother
is playing in a whole different league.
She's right up there with Jane Eyre and
the Little Match Girl. A father who'd
just as soon beat you as look at you.
Nothing to eat but mashed turnips and
watery porridge. I don't have much to
complain about compared to my
mother. Not to mention the burn
victims, concentration camp survivors,
and children with hideous facial
deformities who rank so high above me
in the kingdom of suffering.
I used to fantasize about being the
Easter Seals poster child. If I were a
real victim, I could feel sorry for
myself. Everyone would praise my
courage, and motherly nurses would
fuss over me. My own real-life
suffering gained me nothing. It was
too ordinary. After a while, I began to
long for a truly terrible event.
Something spectacular and public that
would bring down Judgment Day. A
shooting perhaps. Or maybe instead of
just passing out with a lit cigarette that
burned another hole in the couch, Dad
would torch the whole building. I
wished that instead of sobbing
discreetly into my pillow, I would at last
go mad, my screams too heart-rending
to be ignored. I conjured up the scene
over and over, the way some girls
dream of proms and weddings. The
neighbors bursting in. The police. I'd
be wrapped in a blanket by some
outraged, responsible adult who would
finally demand an answer. "What have
you done," they would say, "to this
poor little child?"
Figure
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I grip my teacup in both hands and
say to my mother, "I was a twisted
child with a twisted childhood.”
My mother gives me a blank look.
"What are you talking about? We were
no different from anybody."
“Normal families don't have drunken
brawls every week.”"Oh, you dirty liar," my mother
says. "You should be ashamed."
Maybe she's right. I could be
exaggerating or even making things up
to get attention.
I decide to try another tack. "I'm so
unhappy, Ma. I need help."
"Have you talked to a priest?"
Of course she means Father
Murphy. She has no use for the
younger priests. The cozy, tolerant
ones who might as well be Unitarians --
winking at birth control, hugging
everybody after mass. Not that she
likes Father Murphy. She suspects him
of diddling altar boys.
"He'd set you straight.”
There is no doubt about that.
Father Murphy with his perpetually irid
smile, the same smile he wears
blessing a bride and groom and praying
over a corpse. His brand of comfort is
just my mother's familiar poison
dressed up to look like sustenance.
The good Lord will bless you only with
as many children as you can provide
for. Jesus never burdens you with
more troubles than you can bear. Shut
your eyes, open your mouth, swallow
the dry wafer of misery dropped on
your tongue.
“I don't need a priest,” I say. “I
saw a therapist." I lurch and knock
over my tea. I wait for my mother to
say what she always does when anyone
mentions psychotherapy -- Why would
you pay somebody to stick their nose in
your business?
Without looking at me, my mother
mops up the tea with her dishrag. “I
suppose you told that shrink I was a
bad mother."
This is my cue. According to the
script that Maryann laid out for me at
my last appointment, I'm supposed to
confront my mother and express my
pent-up rage. But my mind, which was
teeming with bitter accusations a
moment ago, is now a total blank. The
idea of coming to terms with my
mother, with my past, suddenly seems
as silly as it did when Maryann first
expressed it.
"Come to terms," I'd sneered, "what
is that supposed to mean? Aside from
a nice fat income for you?"
Maryann was draped in richly
textured fabric, her delicate arms and
hands laden with estate jewellery.
"You sound angry at me." Her perfectly
even tone acknowledged my feelings,
while indicating how ridiculous they
were.
"Why should I be angry? I'm here
voluntarily, paying you handsomely to
recite all these ridiculous cliches. I
might as well be at an AA meeting.
Can't people be hopeful without being
stupid? Don't give up five minutes
before the miracle. Things have a way
of working out. Try telling that to six
million Jews.” "Cliches make people
feel better. Who are you to take that
away from them?"
I could tell she was already getting
sick of me. People can take my
ironclad hopelessness only so long. My
husband claimed it drove him into the
arms of other women. “You wore me
out,” he said. “I had to prove to myself
that I could make someone happy.
You're like the last holdout at the
Alamo -- you'd rather die with your
boots on than let anyone get to you."
Figure
Graphic file number 0 named a_dic045.wmf with height 13 p and width 62 p Left aligned
“You'll be sorry,” my mother is
saying. “Bill is a good husband. He
doesn't drink. He doesn't gamble.”
I stop gnawing on my thumb and pick
up my fork. I take a small bite of one of
the ethereal-looking teacakes I bought atthe Japanese-French bakery as a special
treat for my mother. They are subtly
flavored with green tea and ginger and
cost four dollars each. The feathery
crumbs stick to my parched throat and
set off a coughing fit. I gulp some tea,
which leaks out of the side of my mouth
like a trickle of drool. My mother hands
me the soggy dishrag.
"It's a bad patch," she says. "You'll
ride it out."
“Oh Mother.” I intend for my
remark to sound mildly decisive, but
my voice cracks pitifully. I wonder
whether she has any idea what's going
on. Bill's latest is a nineteen-year-old
hairdresser named Dawna. I booked an
appointment at the salon where he gets
his hair cut so I could check her out.
There was only one girl there, fetching
and carrying for the Italian peacock
owner and his homosexual minions.
She was dressed in lace and black
leather, like a baby hooker. The type
who would have a smiley face tattooed
on her ass. When our eyes met, I
recognized a hint of my own features in
her blank, unformed face. It was a
shock, as though my blurred reflection
had suddenly taken on a life of its own.
Before Bill moved out, she'd call him at
the house, unfazed when I answered
the phone. “Oh hi," she'd say, “just tell
him Dawna called, okay?” She
managed to sound both perky and
brazen, as though I were the clueless
mother of her
teenage boyfriend.
My mother looks wary -- torn, I
suppose, between her inherent
nosiness and the fear that I am about
to reveal some shameful secret for the
neighbors to gossip about.
“Well, life with your dad was no
picnic." She sighs and shakes her head.
I rest my head in one hand and
press my eyelids closed with my
fingers. The night before, I'd dreamt of
lying in a great white bed, nestled
against softness and warmth. A loving
hand was caressing my head. When I
woke, my face was wet with tears.
Figure
Graphic file number 0 named a_dic045.wmf with height 13 p and width 62 p Left aligned
I wonder whether the dream might
be a long buried memory. The notion
stirs a secret tenderness, an infant
longing. I imagine a radiant pink larva
that once awakened would unfold and
swell as big as the world.
I stare into the dregs of my cold
tea, sliding my finger around the rim of
the thick cup. "Mother," I say. "There
are things you don't know. Things I
never told you." I raise my head and
try to look into her eyes, which have
the same droopy lids as mine. “Bill had
an affair." A tiny, unexpected sob
escapes me and I cough to hide it.
"More than one affair, actually." I can
feel my face going splotchy, my grief
blooming like stigmata.
My mother doesn't say anything.
She takes a sudden interest in her
untouched cake. She breaks off a large
bite with her fork and with a quivering
hand raises it to her gaping mouth. As
soon as she withdraws the fork from
her mouth, even before she swallows,
she lifts her lip from her upper teeth in
a grimace that somehow conveys global
scorn -- as though not just the cake,
but everything in the whole world were
not to her liking. She pushes her plate
away. She looks straight at me, with
my brimming eyes and my trembling
chin, and says, "That's what men do,
when they're not happy at home.” She
taps her fork down on the table.
I take a deep breath and turn my
face to the window. The sagging back
porch is covered in junk -- cheap lawn
furniture, a rusting tricycle, thetinselled skeleton of a discarded
Christmas tree. In the soft light of
dusk, even these ordinary things seem
weighted with agonizing regrets. I
stare off into the distance. High above
the courtyard is a full moon, its ancient
white face eternally scarred.
I start to lift myself out of my chair,
but quickly sink back down. I feel
oddly stuporous, lulled by the faint
thrumming of kitchen appliances, the
dripping faucet and gurgling pipes. The
muffled, incessant tone of daily life. I
close my eyes and see a toy version
Maryann. She's wreathed in filigree
bracelets and Chinese silk scarves, her
golden head bobbing in clockwork
empathy. She reminds me of the
jewelled mechanical nightingale in the
fairy story -- an expensive imitation of
something pure and priceless. Is this
all I get?
My mother starts to clean up. She
performs the task with exaggerated
slowness, as though each of her
movements has some precise, subtle
meaning. "Alice called last week,” she
says. "Your cousin Terri got engaged
to a boy she met on one of those Love
Boat cruises. An executive with some
big important job." My mother dumps
her teacake into the trash can under
the sink. Then she reaches up into the
cabinet for a bag of store-brand
imitation Oreos.
"Alice always asks about you. Now
I've got this to tell her." My mother
shoves a whole cookie into her mouth.
She chews with her mouth open,
chocolate crumbs crusting her chin.
I swallow hard. I'm trembling and
sweating. My heart thumps in my
chest. A single paper napkin, crumpled
like a dead leaf, is all that's left on the
table. I snatch it up and begin ranting
at her. "You just don't get it do you,
Mother? What makes you think it's all
right to treat me like this?"
My mother closes up the bag of
cookies and puts it back in the cabinet.
She's pretending not to hear me.
I throw the wrinkled napkin on the
floor. "Goddamn you, Mother. Listen
to me." I catch her wincing, but I know
she's just worried the neighbors might
hear.
My mother bends over to pick up
the napkin. She tucks it into the trash.
“I'm tired of pretending just so you
won't have to feel bad, Mother."
My mother turns her back to me.
She bunches over the sink and starts
scrubbing the teacups.
I call her a mean-spirited, selfish old
woman, a tyrant. "You should never
have had children." According to
Maryann it was your mother's love and
attention that gave you the strength to
endure suffering, the resilience to feel
hope. What then, could be worse than
my mother's indifference? Suddenly I
feel as if I'm shouting at her from a
great height, from the peak of an
immense, shining pyramid.
"It's always the same, Mother. It
will never change. You're never there
for me! And you never have been!"
I stand there, triumphant. The long
moment of silence that hovers between
us is as perfect and unknowable as a
mirror before you look into it.
Then my mother says, "Too bad,"
and she goes on washing the teacups.
Weather
The taste of her tobacco
and the smell of her perfume
the humidity of her breath are vivid
as a child's boundaries are thin
and life is a ball of nerves
still in the wrapping God gave it.
The smell of his raincoat
the odor of his work
hammers, saws, sawdust, glue
building a nest, Popular Mechanics.
I shared their feelings
without understanding their lives
while they, two poles passing a current
through me, daily made me.
In this kind Frankenstein of family
we see only one room
but the house has many mansions
one where the vicegrip of control
is a hug that never lets go
where closets of disappointment
stay closed.
We build a house that must fall down
and we surrender to the sun and rain
that beats against our tombstone
becoming wind, then weather.
--Mike Wilson
4
The Wishing Well
By John De Laughter
|
He first saw her at a family gathering
in the deep woods near an ancient oak,
which twisted like a gnarled hand
against the blue sky. Kids ran to-and-
fro in their irresponsible way.
Unbetrothed couples followed the
rituals of meeting, then embracing,
then burning together like a candle
flame in the night. Many married
people, amid their endless
preparations, failed to notice the rites
of spring. Occasionally, a fatigued
husband or wife glanced up, saw the
free couples, and sighed over things
they thought lost, which perhaps they
never had.
In the heat of the day, with aromas
of the feast wafting above the grounds,
he sat under a tree alone without a
woman. The yearning in his heart
proved overwhelming; for even the
married women, among whom he
performed his chores, made him burn.
As they innocently bent over their
undulating asses, beckoning smiles and
knowing glances made their own
indecent proposals, to share stolen
moments filled with carnal pleasures.
He sat as a shadow, listening to the
music of fife and lute ply the day. A
flagon of water filled his hand, relished
relief against the humidity that
enveloped the hillside. As he tipped up
the leathery flask to drink, his eyes
beheld an odd reflection in the water.
Dumbfounded, he almost dropped the
flask.
What madness is this? Did the
bright sun invoke the apparition?
Brave of heart, he gazed again into
the waters of the flask. No, it cannotbe, what matter of witchcraft, or druid
magic, or curse of wood nymph is this?
A woman's figure swirled in the
reflection, hair of spun gold, face flush
with passion, sculptured like a goddess,
animated in her preparations. Her
beguiling nakedness enthralled him; for
the woman's form shimmered in the
waters, as the flask shook in his
trembling hand.
Glancing around, he expected to see
a dryad enticing him from a shifting
treetop. Alas, he found no one in the
circle of trees that surrounded his
solitude. He looked into the flask,
hypnotized by the grace of the woman,
her comely legs freshly oiled and
glowing after a bath, her rosy nipples
dripping with...
Spices? Was that alluring scent,
arising from the waters of the flask,
balsam?
Suddenly, the flight of a nearby
crow startled him. He dropped the
flask, spilling its contents onto the
grass behind him. Not one for cursing,
his words turned vile after he retrieved
the flask; for in its hollow, he saw his
maiden no more.
He leaped to his feet and broke into
a mad run. He passed others, chatting
only long enough to ask the
whereabouts of the well from which the
water came.
He told no one what he saw, for
those who claimed to see visions
disappeared, rumored victims of the
Magistrate Demas. Long ago, the
church proclaimed such visionaries to
be in league with the forces of chaos.
He barely escaped the minions ofDemas before when, by accident, he
happened upon the feared rites of the
Goat-Headed Man in the Forbidden
Forest, not many leagues hence. He
remembered the Goat-Headed Man
dancing among his blood-spattered
handmaidens in the moonlight. He
recalled the naked women's hands
tightly gripping their Lord's rigid
member, like young virgins grasping
and encircling a maypole to a feverish
rhythm. Each maiden dripped at the
chance to offer her loins to the Master
and to be filled with his pleasures until
daybreak.
Lost in thought, he tripped over a
brick outcropping serrated like the
broken teeth of an unearthed skull: at
last the well! Immediately, he
recognized the place; in his youth, his
sire made a wish and cast a coin into
this well.
Cautiously, he knelt down and
peered over the edge of the wall, afraid
that demons might ascend from the
well's depths. Those fears did not
materialize; for the well looked quite
ordinary in broad daylight.
What did he spy sparkling at the
bottom of the pool? His heart lurched
within his breast; 'twas the very silver
his father tossed into the elder well
long ago? The voice of his father, like a
spirit, filled his ears:
“...Merlus, when you come of age,
you will again draw nigh to the waters
of this well...”
What now, a new manifestation?
The bewitching fragrance of the nymph
in the flask arose from the well. He felt
the same lust, conjured up before in
the glade, again overcoming him.
In that moment, he resolved to own
this well, fathom its magics, and
possess the woman for his own.
Figure
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She prided herself in her
presentation, and no one was more
meticulous than she. From the way her
accessories matched, to the thought
that went into every outfit, she did not
miss a detail: neither in the color of her
shoes, nor the texture of her handbags.
Women half her age looked older than
she did, simply because they thought
the need to look feminine ended at the
altar.
She promised herself long ago that
she would not neglect her appearance.
Even now, the discipline of her
primping rituals helped preserve her
sanity in an otherwise insane marriage.
The incessant clamor of his endless
demands threatened the stability of her
mind and the substance of her soul.
Supper, slippers, and sex defined his
narrow existence. She meant little
more to him than those.
She shook before the bathroom
mirror needing a beauty fix.
Now for the crowning touch to her
polished appearance: her lipstick. But
not just a quick dab and tissue number,
like many of her peers, taught as little
girls by mentors, barely beyond the
budding of their own womanhoods.
With the utmost care, she applied a
light inner circle to highlight the pouting
quality of her lips, then a darker line to
frame the outer edges.
Inexplicable feelings swept over her
each time she applied her lipstick. Her
soft voice hummed an incantation, filled
with words of inexorable meaning,
spoken from the depths of her soul.
Her talisman was a silver lipstick
holder, a refined little bobble she
picked up from the estate of an older
dame, said to be from the British Isles.
She loved to put on that finishing shade
of lipstick simply to feel the weight of
the trinket in her hand and the sensual
touch of its carvings under herfingertips.
In those moments, she floated
somewhere else, escaping the mire of
her matrimony. She felt a desperate
need to get away -- far away -- all with
the help of her silver lipstick case.
Figure
Graphic file number 0 named a_dic045.wmf with height 13 p and width 62 p Left aligned
The fires, which fluttered in the
swirling winds of the forest, both
warmed the hearth of the small cottage
and reflected like madness in his feral
eyes. The wishing well, now the focal
point of a wild silver-inlaid pentagram,
dominated the partially masoned floor
of his domicile. His own untamed
figure, gilded with the grays of middle
age, stood a tower of benevolence in
the midst of the bubbling cauldrons,
strangely labeled flasks, and other rare
herbs that filled the rough hut to its
groaning rafters.
The shack shook with the power of
the approaching storm. Excitement
filled the man, as he sensed a
convergence of astral forces beyond the
dark clouds. Tonight was his night. His
past failures and his lonely existence all
paled in comparison to his forthcoming
triumph. His figure skirted the earth,
his feet not touching the ground, like a
disembodied familiar floating from
cauldron to cauldron. His aura
transmuted after years of studying
among wizen alchemists invoking
forbidden magics in the deepest
caverns under the darkest earths. His
flittering form bore resemblance to an
ancient crone riding a broomstick, with
his feet plowing up and down like a
man climbing a staircase, except there
were no stairs.
Hope reared up inside him as he
began the thrice spoken incantation
and peered into the depths of the well,hoping to glimpse the lady. Memories
of her stirred his passions, magnified
beyond measure by years of isolation,
years in which he pursued a goddess,
while his fellows sought after buxom
pitchwives.
As he searched the well, a flash of
lighting lit his face, transfixed by a
snare of sardonic exaltation. Yes,
there...in the depths he saw a glimmer.
Did he see a thunderclap reflected in
the ebony pool? Perhaps his mind
conjured up the flicker of light. He
didn't even know if his words meant
anything to other humans, for in his
cloistered existence, he seldom spoke
to others, at least not his own kind.
Instead, his lips uttered magical words
and incantations not meant for
syllabification by human tongue.
Arcane magics struck the hut and
sent the implements of his art reeling in
their places. Once...twice...thrice...at
the height of the spell, ascending
intonations reverberated throughout
the shack, like the voice of the black
mage he witnessed in the Hall of the
Masters Three.
He quickly disrobed, as the magics
required him to be skyborne, bare
before all those whose aid he
summoned. He reached into one
bubbling cauldron and smeared its
silvery contents all over his frame; its
fluidity, when applied to his lengthening
manhood, felt like fire and passion, the
very flowering of a woman's desire. He
thrilled as the vision of the nymph
began to take form and shape in the
narrow pool.
He raised his arms repeatedly,
barking like a wolf, and making obtuse
signs in the air with his fingertips. In
response, the piping of a distant fugue
slowly arose from the well; he swayed
to the growing singularity, like a cobra
before a turbaned piper. As his form
sailed back and forth across the room,
like a banshee swooping over a moon
bog, liquid light poured forth from the
well's black heart.
Gradually, he spun above the rim of
the well like a feathery seed riding the
wind. Then, looking down with half-
closed eyes, he saw a distant wreath of
flowers, faintly illuminated and framing
the longest of flowing tresses, partially
obscured by his silvery erection. He
felt invisible hands grasp his throbbing
manhood and slowly draw him
downward into the well. The earth
rumbled, and the expanse of the shack
exploded with a multitude of lights, as
his head disappeared beneath the
craggy rim that encompassed the well's
mouth.
Figure
Graphic file number 0 named a_dic045.wmf with height 13 p and width 62 p Left aligned
She stood for a long time in front of
the bathroom mirror. Today was
different, for some wild mood overcame
her this morning, and in its grip, time
remained unmoved. She went out
early to pick wildflowers in the garden;
for she felt beautiful and she wanted to
surround herself with as much beauty
from nature as possible. In fixing the
bouquet for her dining room table, she
set aside the choicest flowers to do
something that, giggling to herself, she
had not done since childhood. She
braided a crown of daises into her hair,
and felt entranced as something green
and earthy wove its way into her
thoughts...and her very being.
The events leading to her nakedness
-- waiting before the mirror -- seemed
a blur. First, she scented her bath with
moist oils, those that made her skin
soft and appealing to the touch. Then,
she quivered as her fingertips applied
perfumes to the hidden points of
pleasure that a lover might comeacross were he to touch, explore, taste
and savor her.
Soon reality intruded; why was she
doing this? She had no lover, real or
ethereal, with whom to share her
sensuality. The thought of the man she
lived with sickened her; duties aside,
she would not surrender herself to his
coarse inability to live above his need
for sex and food. Fortunately, her
magical mood derailed this train of
thought.
She then picked up the silver lipstick
case. A surge of pleasure electrified
her; the intense emotions were quite
unexpected. She trembled as an
orgasm washed over her, not rooted in
the nuzzling warmth of her breasts, nor
in the spreading of her dripping
loins...but instead...
...in a wave of pleasure birthed in
her shaking fingertips.
No, it cannot be. The silver lipstick
case grew and lengthened in her hands,
like a tree-limb in time-lapsed
photography. It was soon a fife, a
silvered reed, covered with runes.
She raised it to her mouth and felt
its sensual tip press against her lips.
She blew, not knowing what she
played; for a will, not her own guided
her hands. The need to encircle her
lips around the head of the instrument
heightened, as the pleasure received
for her continued obedience, increased
and enlarged its place inside her.
Suddenly, her hands drew flat
against the surface of the mirror, and
the end of the silver fife became a part
of her own reflection. Spellbound, she
watched images teeming beyond the
surface of the mirror. In her horny
trance, she thought she saw. Yes, the
flute changed from the form of a fife,
into a man's strong desire, which
stiffened as its head rolled between her
eager lips. She panted hotly, awaiting
the elongation to be completed; her
nipples, longing to be plucked, became
lewd and hard, and her sex, aching to
be ravished, became inflamed and
engorged.
Then, the surface of the mirror split
open, and through the rend poured a
blast of hot air carrying hundreds of
rose petals, which quivered against her
skin like the wings of a thousand
butterflies.
She felt intoxicated, as the blizzard
of petals buzzed around her nipples,
fluttered against her bare ass, and plied
her want like a warm, gushing geyser.
She hungrily wrapped her lips around
the luscious tool that, inch-by-inch,
extended beyond the face of the mirror
like the appendage of a god.
Suddenly, a great flash of light
exploded in the mirror before her, the
object of her worship vanished from her
anguished lips, and a large coin
cascaded across the tiled bathroom
floor with a tinny crash. As she fell
weeping to her knees, the coin spun
before her, the heads and tails of its
two sides a blur of chance possibilities.
Figure
Graphic file number 0 named a_dic045.wmf with height 13 p and width 62 p Left aligned
He howled as his goddess dissolved
from between his feet and he felt
himself drawn painfully upward by his
Nazaritic locks. He screamed as the
rough bricks of the well flailed his skin
like a cat-o-nine tails. When his head
again cleared the well's mouth, a circle
of torches blinded him. Among their
flaring heads, a single face emerged,
that of the Magistrate aflame with its
own zeal. In pain, the man attempted
to bring his hands together to invoke
the cabalistic formula against Demas.
The strength of many hands prevented
his movement and lashed his arms
tightly against a stout beam. He feltthe cold steel of a keen blade drawn
against his throat.
Before the struggling figure could
speak, the Magistrate lifted his
gauntleted hand in knife-edged fashion
across his own mailed throat and with a
movement of swift dispatch, said:
“Begone demon!”
He last saw her during a night when
the moon poured a dull crimson
through the tattered remains of a
thatched roof, and lovers elsewhere
burnt together like bright candle flames
in the darkness.
4
Exposure
I.
There is one photograph
you allowed
the first hard year
a stilled image of you
not eating, you
starved
most days
with sunken eyes.
Beyond the photograph
remember darkness
all around, how
it settled across
the attic floor,
remember that
you have not eaten,
will not let go of your wish
to not eat.
II.
You hear the sound.
A doorbell, listen,
the familiar language
of your favorite aunt
steering her husband
into the kitchen
reminding him which way
to turn right, left,
right to the kitchen.
Up, in the attic,
with your eyes shut you see
your uncle's faraway eyes,
with your hands
against the small heater
you imagine the exact placement
of theirs downstairs,
your aunt's hands
against her husband's shoulders,
guiding him into a chair,
your mother's
carrying a red cake
to the wood table,
your uncle's sudden fingers
into the cake
someone slapping his hands back.
And your father's hands,
your father's fingers
rubbing the same crease on
his forehead.
III.
You scrape your own hands
like hollow, cold sticks
back forth
together against the attic heater
until fingers glow, hot red.
Directly below
women work hard
on their husbands,
they prop up your father,
pin a towel about his neck
and let it fall pretty.
Say gently, Please don't! Please.
Put your hand down.
Because it is your birthday,
a day for you,
for them to think of you
suddenly
everyone remembers
how difficult
it is.
IV.
Remember the cow bell
that you are called by a cow bell
how, when, the bell clangs,
you are to walk
downstairs
you hear the sound
and your hands rub together.
You remember, don't you, your
parting from a heater,
reluctant arms leaving
how slowly
you had to
how you pulled
your thin frame away
let your limbs go
allowed your flesh
to lead
through the brisk air taking
your feet down
legs branching
onto each step through
the main room into the kitchen.
( continued on next page )
V.
Happy Birthday. Happy Birthday
to you! They sing
out of respect
you stuff yourself
among the sick men
easily hiding
your twig body,
only your face
showing the hollow
brown eyes.
Smile! Your mother says.
Go ahead.
It takes time
but you think back
you have to
a year or so
maybe more
until you discover
again just how to do this
as you figure it out,
when your mouth forms
itself upward,
your mother,
clutching a camera,
snaps.
-Therese Halscheid
The Abyss of Night
By Rick McQuiston
|
My name's Tomey. Jason Tomey.
I'm your average thirty-something
stockbroker. I have a beautiful wife, a
nice colonial home and plenty of
money. At least I used to have all that.
I used to have all that, before the night
came. Although I would hesitate to call
it night. Night brings with it an
assurance of dawn. This is more like
the ocean floor night, black and cold,
swallowing every corner, every angle.
My house sits empty, as do the
neighboring homes. The money, the
job, the cars, it all means nothing now.
The only things that matter now are D
size batteries and my flashlight. I knew
that the minute I saw Bev get taken by
the darkness.
It wasn't something in the darkness,
but the darkness itself that seemed to
grow arms to grab unsuspecting people
and do God knows what with them.
All I know is my wife is gone, and as
far as I can tell, I'm all alone in the
world, with 2 D batteries and a
flashlight between me and this Abyss of
Night. When the batteries die, I tend to
think I will too. The swirling, frigid
blackness around me attests to that.
It all started two days ago when I
left work. Bev had a nice dinner ready,
and we planned on a good movie to
wind up the night, I believe it was
Braveheart. Anyway, at about 7:30 we
suddenly lost power. Fortunately, I
knew where the candles and flashlight
were. The wax cylinders provided a
comforting glow of light. That is before
they kept going out. But it wasn't the
fact that they wouldn't stay lit or the
sudden drop in temperature that
frightened me. What did frighten mewas how they went out. I heard Bev
scream as I was attempting to use the
phone, which was also dead. I turned
just in time to catch a glimpse of a
protruding arm, for lack of a better
word, carefully swatting at the flames
on the ends of the candles. My wife
started to rush towards me when a
thick rope of inky shadow wrapped
itself around her face.
I made a desperate attempt to
save her, but I quickly found myself
standing alone in silence in my own
family room. My wife was gone. A
spray of luminescence from the
flashlight gave no insight of her
whereabouts.
I was dumbfounded. This only
happens in the movies. Not to me. Not
to me in my comfortable house. I stood
motionless, fearing I was next. Hopes
of any familiar sounds soon were
abandoned. Silence. Dead, undisturbed
silence. No light anywhere, save for my
flashlight. The blackness couldn't blow
out this light like it had the candles.
This light was fed by batteries.
Who would have guessed that 2 D
size batteries were more valuable than
all of man's lighting resources.
Anyway, this artificial light kept me
alive, and I carefully snaked my way
down to the garage. Both cars were
where I'd left them, thank God, but it
made no difference. Neither would
start. Completely dead. I don't know
how, but I'd bet my right arm that the
darkness did it.
My senses were leaving me now.
Abandoning me like a marooned man.
A part of me unable to cope with this
bizarre, demented nightmare.But I had no choice. No alternatives.
When this logic set in, I commenced
my journey out of the garage and into
the street. I knew it was the street
because I was so familiar with this
particular piece of real estate. As well I
should, I've owned it for nearly 8 years.
Yes, my house. My many hours of
landscaping, painting and decorating all
gone to waste. Captured by this
accursed gloom, swallowed whole by
the night. My anger was silenced by
another's voice. No, it was a series of
voices. They seemed to be crying for
help.
As I stumbled blindly down what
used to be Mannery Street, the voices
seemed to trail off.
I speculated that their sources of
light were running out, leaving them
vulnerable to the darkness. I held the
flashlight close to me as I tried to keep
my entire body bathed in light.
It soon occurred to me that even
the moon and stars had vanished.
Sucked into this black void along with
the Earth and it's inhabitants.
There was nothing to do. I
contemplated suicide, but didn't have
the strength, so I wandered aimlessly
looking for someone, anyone, who
might still be alive in this ocean of
black torment.
I wonder if Aunt Emily made it.
Probably not. She never did prepare for
things. The temperature continued to
drop, Must've been thirty or forty
degrees cooler than when this thing
started. Or maybe that should be in
Celsius. Never did get that Celsius
thing. I mean why not have everything
in Fahrenheit. Only makes it easier.
"She's got eyes, of the bluest
skies..." God, can't get that song outta
my head. Bluest skies. Oh, to only see
blue sky again.
Oh shit. I think the batteries arestarting to die. There, that's better.
Now, where was I...oh yeah, songs.
Hmmm...no more music now.
Couldn't play it anyway, no power.
Unless of course, I use batteries. No,
better not, need 'em to live. Of course,
what's to live for? A child locked in a
closet. A worker trapped in a mine
shaft. I suppose one could get used to
it. If it only weren't for the inevitable
death that awaits in the form of black
limbs waiting for an opportunity to
strike.
I can feel them. Can't hear 'em,
can't smell 'em, or even see 'em. But I
can feel them.
At least all the assholes in the world
are gone. Or I hope so anyway. All the
murderers, rapists, thieves. No more
tax dollars supporting their asses.
Come to think of it...no more dollars.
Well, I don't have to go to work
tomorrow. That'll show 'em, show 'em
all. Jason Alexander Tomey quits!
I wonder what time it is? Suppose it
doesn't matter anyway. Found a couple
more batteries a while ago. Problem is
how can I switch them. Arms will get
me first. Oh Mr. President, we need
help.
Every now and then, one of em
scrapes me. Feels like talons. Razor
blades on silk. Cold too. Very cold. Ice
talons. Frozen claws tearing at me,
trying to drag me off like they did to
my Bev.
God am I bored. Tired too. Too bad
I can't find something to eat or drink.
I'd kill for a fifth of Jim Beam. Get
drunk. Get so drunk I don't feel the
claws. Don't feel or care for that
matter.
Ha! The joke would be on them
then!
"She's got eyes of the bluest
skies..."
God I miss Bev...and mom too.Oh shit! The batteries are dimming
again. This time I think they're going.
Well, mankind dies out within two
days. Forty-eight hours to extinguish
thousands of years of civilization.
"She's got eyes of the . . . ."
4
The Cut-Off Game
By Bruce Henricksen
|
One thing about it, the bright side,
they don't whack you all at once. Not
the Mafia, they're masters of the
foreplay and the long goodbye, of two
steps forward and one step back. Slit
your throat then sew you up. It's a
game with them, a process. You see
them sometimes in the corner of your
eye, slipping away behind curtains or
into cracks as you turn your head.
Slipping away like fog -- Spooks,
maybe, grinning among themselves.
Things from another dimension. They
wall you up for a week, you think,
referring to yourself in the second
person, then something leaks through.
Like the call from Snodly this
morning. Wants to stop by and see
how you're doing. Maybe after the
panel today? he asks. We've got some
important discussants. Perhaps you
heard. No? Well, I should be free by
5:00. Okay, see you then.
Scrotum-cheeked Snodly, a stupid
old twit, sure to endure the panel
discussion to the bitter end, as,
perhaps, women of color debate ladies
of pallor, the final questions from the
floor sputtering out like tiny roman
candies.
Three decades ago, with the smell
of Vietnam still in your nose, you came
to St. Ignatius University, tucked in the
shadows of live oaks on St. Charles
Avenue, one of the Pope's bustling New
Orleans franchises. A surreal university
where professors, anointed and civilian
alike, chattered in the patois of
matriculated piety about thaumatology
and theurgy, angelology and diabolism-
-a university, as you thought then,untroubled by the slightest spark of
reason. Since neither of you were
Catholic or Southern, there was no
shaking Snodly, despite his own
annoying, in-your-face Christianity. You
could avoid him for a time, but
eventually he'd be back like something
incurable. You remember him staring
down at you when you were on display
in the hospital, a voyeur adorned in his
ancient corduroy suit, the skinny grey tie
that he's had these thirty years dangling
from his blotchy throat, his cummerbund
of flab moping down over his belt. Have
faith, was his expert advice.
The Yahoos -- time's sprawling, snot-
nosed treeful to whom he teaches The
Sermon as Literature, to whom you
taught. . .stuff -- the Yahoos called him
Dr. Death. For three decades the
Yahoos have dozed or popped their zits
as Snodly mumbles on about John
Donne, Cotton Mather, Jonathan
Edwards. And he'll drag his brief case
and his sorry ass down the halls of St.
Ignatius until he's a pile of dust in the
corner, until the maid sweeps up the last
remaining Snodly particles. Except for
his plastic hip, which will outlast the sun.
Which will defy cremation. Which is not
environmentally sound. What, you
wonder, will future generations do with
all the things that we are rebuilt with
these days, all the stuff that won't
biodegrade -- the plastic joints and the
nylon veins, the titanium screws and the
synthetic hoses? Will they be
warehoused in caves or dropped in the
sea? Sold to emerging nations? Then
you remember that you are thinking
about the pre-embalmed Snodly ...student of larvae-laden manuscripts
and professor of obfuscation, with prose
like canned spaghetti.
You used to try to argue him out of
his sanctities over coffee in the school
cafeteria, quoting Nietzsche on the
fraudulence of theology, tipping back
and lighting a Camel. Sometimes he'd
laugh and strike the worldly pose of the
blackjack player, contending that faith
is simply the smart wager -- the Pascal
stuff. I don't see religion dealing you a
lot of aces, you'd say, imagining Snodly
betting the stack, his chins wobbling
and his fingers crossed. But other
times he'd only stare at his coffee,
delicious as landfill slim, his remaining
strands of hair parted across a scaling
scalp like ribs blanching in desert sand.
You can lead a horse to water, you'd
mutter.
So you have two hours to kill before
the charitable visitation. Before Snodly
in person, doing good in his Jane
Austen world, stopping by on his way to
the morgue to console corpses, then to
the clinic to donate blood. Snodly the
retro-man in your living room, perched
like a crow on the edge of the sofa,
sanctimoniously scruffy in his whiskers
and wheezing with asthma, plagued by
hemorrhoids and rectitude, Well, how's
retirement going, he'll ask? Wheeze.
You've really made a remarkable
recovery from your surgery, Brian.
Doing any writing? Wheeze -- now's
the time to finish that book on Jonathan
Swift, I should think. You're calling it
The Gentle Misanthrope, aren't you?
What's that? Wheeze. Lost interest?
Wheeze. And then, because there's
always something ponderous and
moralistic rising to the Snodly surface
like a whale: Pity. Perhaps, then, you'd
like to do some volunteer work with me
at The Salvation Army? Cough.
There's a larger world out there, youknow. Then, folding his lizard hands in
his lap, he'll sink into hypothermic
solemnity like a chess master at his
game. The spooks have it scripted.
But you have a gun. When coping
doesn't work, call in some fire power,
make the Colt move. Stick it in your
belt and pull down your sweater. No
one the wiser. Sometimes you know
that these spooks, vanishing as you
turn, are fluids sloshing in your eyes. Or
maybe these minatory signals are
artifacts of aging--glitches in your
system. You know that believing in
them is as barking mad as believing in
devils and angels, parted seas and strolls
on the water. But then you get confused
and wonder how the demons will be
costumed when they make their
entrance, no longer veering into the
wings? As goat-footed wraiths of smoke
and blood? Gooks in lab coats and
jackboots? Maybe as Linda and her new
hubby, pulling up in a black Lexus. Or
as Hells Angles in tee-shirts and blue
jeans, cruising in on Harleys. Rumbling
in like a fucking thunderstorm. Or
maybe disguised as Snodly, clawing up
out of his grave and wheezing in your
doorway in his dingy old suit, his geezer
tie back in or out of style for the fifth
time. A Trojan horse of a Snodly, farting
spooks who want your ass. But you're
ready. Fire off a few rounds, anyway.
Not a question of winning, Just leave
some tooth marks.
Then, as the clouds part for a
moment and you see clearly, you know
that bolts and wires are coming loose in
your soul. Jesus, you whisper in your
unrenovated Sixties slang, you're going
through changes.
The clouds slide shut like great stone
doors, and you know that the demons
will be crammed in your son, that Alex is
affordable housing for spooks. You
picture Alex and his aphasic crowd,hoisting glasses and flipping the bird,
their faces all in a row at some swish
bar, blank and stupid like slices of
Spam. Yahoos, out on a limb with caps
backwards and lives in reverse,
punctuating their chatter with nether
toots compliments of Coors or
Budweiser. Not that your own life
explores ever higher vistas. One thing
about you, you're familiar with
mediocrity. You and mediocrity go way
back. But Alex. You shake your head,
remembering when he scoffed at your
failure to appreciate the cretin in the
French Quarter who mixed shit and
pubic hair in his oil paint before
smearing it on bed sheets with toilet
brushes, giving his lame
representations titles like Mary Under a
Shower of Piss or Jesus Sucking a Papal
Dick. Alex had been so stirred by these
wonders as to commit painting himself.
Dad, he had said, flipping a Gauloise
from a crumpled pack, just between
you and I, your provincialism is just
much too de trop. Alex, who's never
seen a Titian -- or had a language
lesson either -- pontificating on
contemporary art and other plagues.
You're rehabing from cancer surgery
last year while Alex ralphs chunks in
every bar in New Orleans, stumbling in
at 5 a.m. to zonk until sunset, a rabble
of vapors-alcohol, amyl nitrate, and
sundry unnamed molecules cobbled
together in garages and attics--this
rabble of vapors escaping his pores and
seeping through the keyhole of his
bedroom door, getting out of Dodge.
His bed smelling like a bag of old fish --
like last Friday's catch. That death
rattle is Rent-A-Nerd, the computer-
assistance business he announced when
gallery owners failed to ejaculate over
his nightmarish canvases.
Then he steals your television and
clears out, leaving in his bedroom: inthe far corner, an oak desk littered with
Rent-A-Nerd papers, roach clips, and
candy wrappers; along the north wail,
the odoriferous bed and bedding; on the
dresser along the south wall, assorted
ointments and creams, and in its top
drawer an ancient Dr. Suess book;
heaped in the near corner, a paperback
extolling Satanism, two Jockey shorts
with skid marks, and a ragged sweat
shirt sporting the legend This Fruit Can
Hum; in the closet, one hiking boot,
twenty-seven wire hangers, and a
battered magazine depicting clusterfucks
and fisting fests, its pages stained with
squirts of self-inflicted passion; randomly
distributed, fifty-three plastic CD cases
and seven crumpled beer cans; on the
battle-scarred nightstand, two ashtrays
cluttered like demolition sites, a pizza
crust, and a cactus; and scotch-taped to
the walls, four torn movie posters (the
usual suspects--Bogie, Rock, Marilyn,
and Dean) and a well-pawed stud
calender. The final inventory, as Alex
leaves you to rehab alone, a catamite
mincing off to sniff glue and touch
naughty parts in the salon d'amour of a
like-minded if somewhat shopworn art
lover.
Leaves you alone. You had to do it
by yourself, chauffeured to Touro
Infirmary in Snodly's old Toyota for your
chemo, your radiation, your hyperbarics.
Standing in front of the bathroom mirror
each morning, dressing the wound
draped under your chin from ear to ear
like a chain, awed that the wreckage in
the mirror is you and afraid that the
wound will open again like a clam, wider
and wider until your head fails off.
Blacking out two or three times a day,
thinking that next time you'll crack your
skull and spill your brains. Feeding
through a PEG tube that dangles from a
hole in your side. Sitting at the kitchen
table, cleaning your trache, slipping itfrom your throat, reaming out the lung
slime with Q-tips and saline solution,
coaxing it back in its hole, your hand
shaking.
One day your trache is gone and
your chemo is done and the fistula on
your neck has healed, although you
won't be swallowing anymore. You get
stronger, but each day is an elongated,
empty snag, like Snodly's prose.
You're a wave going under and out
after batting itself silly on the rocks.
Then one day your loving son tears a
hole in reality and climbs back in,
resurrected with new leather pants, a
nose ring, and green hair mowed short
as Velcro, You wonder if his tits are
pierced, or his dick. At least the pants
cover his ass, no show-window thing
like you saw in his cum-spackled
magazine. Faux-filial, he tug-of-wars
his friend's golden retriever into your
living room, hits you up for two
thousand, and heads for New York to
demonstrate for gay rights, for the love
that dare not shut its mouth. Hey Dad,
he says, I'm off -- off like a prom
dress! Take care of Carmen San Diego
while I'm gone. You look at him and
mutter something like, Blush minho
bloomer mo, since your rebuilt throat
and remaining slice of tongue come up
with the cutest darned sounds. And
that's it -- his parting shot: take care of
Carmen San Diego. Then he's gone,
the little bastard, and the hole in the
world seals itself. You forgot to tell him
to bring back your Sony, with which
you have your only intimate
relationship. Well, he can suck your
cock, the fairyfucking, biscuit-hurling,
stinking-through-his-bedroom-door shit
smear.
You take the gun from the dresser
drawer, a nickle-plated Colt .38 as
advertised in Bottle and Bullet, and jam
it in a trouser pocket next to yourirrigation syringe. With a bottle of Jim
Beam in one hand, Donne's Devotions in
the other, and a writing pad wedged in
an armpit, you head for the backyard to
air yourself out, to plop the juryrigged
assemblage that you call your body on
the patio under the scrutiny of an April
sun, under clouds bailed like fists.
It was the patio that made you love
this house after Vietnam. You and Linda
sipped wine coolers here, letting the war
drift away, and for a few years your
world seemed to heal. The patio by the
small yard where you tossed the ball --
baseball in the spring, football in the fall
-- with the shit smear before the shit
smear became a shit smear. Before the
denied promotions at Jesus Freak U.
Before Linda, no longer of the family-
values persuasion, detoured into a clinic
to have her nose sculpted and her boobs
filled, then sped off with a well insured
oil exec -- or was it an oily insurance
exec? Yes, the latter -- an exec from
Southern Medical Alliance, the Vice
President for Swindles and Denials.
Before Alex lost his compass and his
map and drove into Fairyland. And of
course before your thrilling race through
the smoldering precincts of Cancer City.
How soon the cream sours.
You fumble in your pocket for the
syringe, unbutton your shirt, jam the
syringe in your PEG tube, and slosh in
some Jim Beam, your preferred tipple.
If health is when it doesn't hurt, Mr.
Beam will make you healthy. You begin
to write. It'll be a story about yourself.
Well, sort of ... if you're still capable of
syntax. Words slide and melt these
days, slipping around like the spooks you
think you see, and you get confused.
You're a stupid old fuck dialling up weird
frequencies on invisible equipment, a
batshit creature from a Beckett play.
Probably the doctors sewed your head
on wrong. Also, you're shrinking. If youlive another ten years, joining those
groovy seventysomethings, you'll be
able to carry yourself around in a
suitcase.
The ricochet of traffic down the
street, traffic from other stories. Bits
of trash crawl down the sidewalk and
stick their noses under your fence.
Through the slats you spy Pookie, the
neighborhood monstrosity, lugging her
two plastic bags of groceries from the
Winn Dixie, a tidal wave of lard pushing
her incredible belly before her like a
barge full of garbage. Hot damn!
Maybe you should marry Pookie! Send
videos of the wedding night to Linda, a
little realism to counterpoint her cell-
phoned, online, tit-enhanced life!
Something moves in the corner of
your eye. Maybe just that crow
perched on a crepe myrtle by your
fence, black as a Jesuit. But maybe it
was the boogymen, darting inside the
black kids who pass by and peek
through your fence, snickering at the
old man with the hose in his side. The
old man with smeared glasses and
rheumy eyes. With ears stuffed with
hair. The smelly old butt scratcher with
the sealed-in life. You wave the Jim
Beam at tomorrow's Fruits of Islam as
they giggle and straggle down the
block, kicking the garbage metastizing
in the streets. The scary things fly
from their mouths like bats from caves,
a flapping, swirling tornado of bats that
spirals into the ears of Carmen San
Diego, curled like a sausage by the
garage, sulky chin on hooked paw,
almond eyes sliding to catch your every
gimpy move. Watching. But you've
taught her to stay out of your face, to
lie low. One thing about her, she
knows who not to fuck with. No. She
knows with whom not to fuck.
Although she's out of range, you hawk
a loogy from your deconstructed throatand lob a mortar shell at Carmen San
Diego.
You load the clip and slap it in, your
faith in the .38 secure. Mr. Colt and Mr.
Beam are your buddies. You draw a
bead on the canine's snout, just to let
the demons know, to send them a
message in case they're bivouacked in
Carmen San Diego. Having a sit-in.
Planning civil disobedience. But maybe
the enemies live in your veins. Maybe
your veins are tunnels full of gooks, your
brain a rice paddy. It's just a thought.
Thoughts snick by like tracers.
You draw a bead on the sun. The
clouds are crumpled paper. You're
familiar. Since Nam, crumpled paper
has been your life. And vice versa. And
now your crumpled life drifts across the
sky. In Vietnam the ground had been all
snakes and land mines, the air all
helicopters and mosquitoes. The few
times you fired your rifle you shot at
shadows, once ventilating a gook who
got in the way. A paper pusher,
greasing gooks was not your job. Now
you want to shoot holes in the sky to
peer through, and if anyone is back
there you want to shout, Hey, what's
with failure? With cancer and PEG
tubes? What's with the demons and the
Spam heads? Nothing like this, you
think, since your acid days, since "hey
man" and "psychedelic." It's all just
much too de trop.
You trundle back inside to squeeze a
few drops past your prostate, then
return to the patio and pour in more
Beam. Your tube is semi-transparent,
and you watch the brown liquid settle to
a certain height, like mercury in a
thermometer. Then you tape the tube
to your side and take up Donne's
Devotions, which the rebarbative Snodly
brought to you in the hospital -- the new
edition. You've taught at a religious
university ever since the war, and now,rereading the old Dean of St. Paul's,
you rediscover the drabness of the
Bible-infested mind. At least Donne
"made the scene," knew "where it's at,"
before he converted to Anglicanism and
droned his no man is an island dirge,
obviously unenlightened by indentity
politics. Not that his early poems grab
you anymore. The stuff you taught all
this time has crumbled to rubble in
your mind -- the myriad books that the
young have written about themselves,
crammed with melodrama, sen-pity,
and sincerity. Many books, you'd tell
your students, lost in their nose-picking
stupors, are useful software, and some
even help you improve the hardware.
There is salvation in books.
But look at you now--a mind failing
apart, leaking booze and shit. A
tumbledown outhouse in a third-rate
ghost story. Maybe Alex was right.
Maybe all art reduces to pubic hair and
shit. Or maybe that moron in the
Philosophy Department has it right, the
intellectual cockroach who shows videos
from MTV in class -- or the cornrowed
bro in the College of Music who teaches
rap and hip-hop. If Cardinal Newman
could sniff the vapors that waft from
St. lgnatius, he'd blow voluminous
chunks.
Since Nam, you've had a life with
the books, and now it's Caliban time.
You need to be punished. You should
be condemned to reread Endymion.
Shoving Donne aside, next to the
bottle on the old plastic table, you
return to your scribbling. You'll revise
when you're sober -- add some
allusions, some self-loathing. You are
not Prince Hamlet. You write about
Donne and Snodly, arm-in-arm on a
desert island listening to the sea's
melancholy, long, withdrawing roar.
But Donne didn't say that, and you try
to remember who did. It's some oldpiece of software still drifting around in
your tangled circuits, sloshing around in
your Jim Beam. In your outhouse.
Giving it up, you return to your picture
of Donne and Snodly highfiving with
angels and consoling themselves that
they are not alone as their island drifts
away into lost time. The sea is dotted
with drifting islands--among them: the
Isle of Dour Academics, the Island of
Renovated Divorcees, the Isle of the
Bare-Assed Spam Heads In Love With
Art, each island bobbing ever deeper
into absentia.
But you're half way there yourself,
dickhead, you mutter, still addressing
yourself in the second person, your
latest thought style. Half way to lost
time. At night you dream of a face
emerging from a vast jungle to crumble
in sand before a vast sea, then you
awaken and pretend you're alive. Just
like before. But now your body's
particles have had it with self-
organization, with the old community
spirit. Things fall apart--your things--
and your thoughts slide out with the
waves into dark grottos. Your molecules
and cells become islands. Electrons
escape their orbits, and quarks swim
into worm holes, hauling ass to the far
ends of the cosmos. You're all spun out,
a demolition in slo-mo. The spooks you
see are the trails of those electrons, the
flotsam and debris of that demolition.
Hey man, you're going through changes!
A car door slams and your writing
equipment clatters softly on the bricks of
the patio. Some of your still-organized
brain bits know it's Snodly, but then,
because everything happens again, you
listen for the gook sounds -- or the thud
of jackboots, the rustle of lab coats, the
rumble of Harleys. The Linda laugh or
the Alex swish. You hear the geezer
wheeze, the Save-the-Owls, Support-
the-United-Way Snodly wheeze, andthen the doorbell sounds in the kitchen.
Fom blosh mibible stunsh, you shout.
As something ducks away through the
fence, you rise, lurch, and slip the gun
into your belt beneath your sweater.
Let us go then, you and I. Donne fails
beside your pad as Carmen San Diego
broods in the shade of the garage. The
sun, bleeding now all over the horizon,
has been watching, taking notes.
Notes on crumpled paper. The thing of
it is, they've got you cut off. They've
taken the Colt move into account, and
they're licking their chops. Your faith in
Mr. Colt melts. But what the hell, it
isn't a matter of winning. It never was.
4
Nth Migraine Poem
Aftermath: orange and black gashes flare
and subside, leaving paralysis, bomb-strike
to the control center. Helpless, useless,
without clarity, I endure edges flayed by flesh-
hacking sword, huge slabs of soul gouged out
around the head, debilitation floating on a bloody
soup, words coagulating in a black stench. I grasp
for a single strong lifeline and, finding none, flail,
desperate, too tired to float to clean, stable
ground. Every pore pain-flooded, every cell
saturated, I lose personhood. The enemy
leaves behind naked, shapeless confusion. Will
some compassionate god ever alleviate human
misery? How could a Being made in our image
fail to care? Or is he divine? His compassion
atrophied centuries ago, leaving him inhumane,
less than the best of us, less than the worst because,
model and mold of suffering, our God of Pain
died, his side sword-pierced, his thirst
vinegar-quenched, a picture of gray
agony-a skull thorn-punctured.
--Martha Drummond
BOOK REVIEW: THE HOLLOW
Book by Todd Hayes, Hardback, 405 pages, Gypsy
Books, more information available at
toddhayes.com
The Hollow is about Doctor Sidney Thorn and his research concerning
violent behavior. By conducting a study of serial killers, and measuring the
amount of manganese in their blood, he is hoping to discover a correlation
between the levels of this metal in the blood and repetitive violent behavior.
His work lands him at what appears to be a cushy job at Chicago's Crystal
Institute. The Crystal Institute is holding William Brandy, a notorious serial
killer that preys on young, attractive women but whose charm and wit make
him a media idol.
When Doctor Thorn has a breakthrough in his research, the discovery of a
new viral structure carried within Brandy and the other killers at the Crystal
Institute, he begins to grow the virus on his own and to administer various
doses to his patients, and ultimately to himself as well. What he has
discovered is no less than the very origin of fear itself.
But fear is an extremely powerful thing, and when Thorn's boss, the
mysterious and cold Dr. Tiki, learn of his discovery Doctor Thorn learns that
the Institute will stop at no lengths to have it for themselves. Thorn finds
himself in an irreversible spiral of betrayal, terror and violence that shakes
apart his marriage, his career, and his entire existence.
I will leave the end of the story a secret -- or are you to afraid to find
out?
t Samsara 8 -- Circles of Regret t Page 1
Converted by Andrew Scriven