The Other Person

by Nathan Leslie

You write the story in the second person.  It’s your go-to point of view now.  You like its edge, its resonance of irony even if your story lacks said irony (it adds irony).  You makes anything possible.  You is the new me.

By writing the story in the second person you can avoid concerning yourself with psychological dimensions; you can avoid over-thinking.  You makes every sentence glow, you think.  It makes the reader the story.  It’s direct engagement.  It’s intense.  Immediacy.

It’s like a camera down the gullet.  It’s like being inside someone.  It’s like sex, without the emotional messiness.

Your story is about an anonymous man (or woman perhaps—though most yous are men) who walks through the urban blight, looking for a child named Cass.  You had just heard Bread on the Classics station, and hadn’t really thought about Mama Cass for years.  Cass?  Why not Cass.  You like the allusion. 

Hipsters should know. 

Fiction should educate.  The urban blight is somewhat inspired by the city in which you live, though a far more post-apocalyptic version thereof.  Instead of Starbucks and little pastry shops and Thai restaurants with orchids on every table you write about the desiccated skeletons of once productive textile factories, crack vials, and prostitutes with scabs on their faces.  You’ve never seen desiccated textile factories, crack vials or prostitutes (scabs or no scab-free), but you use your imagination.  If you don’t know, you will.  Zombies, there’s always zombies.  Second person zombies.

You wonder, Why the post-apocalyptic mélange?  In a more or less peaceful age you notice more horrific violence, more dripping pipes and sunless urban canyons.  Yet from whence does this come?  You know the recession hasn’t helped, but aren’t zombies an overreaction?  Are you really living in an urban wasteland?  There’s a Whole Foods on every other corner.  Shit’s nice.

Once, just once, you’d like to meet a reader.  This would help clarify your purpose.  And not a reader-who-is-also-a-writer hawking his latest “fabulist” novella at AWP (“It’s like 19Q4, only shorter, and less, you know, Japanese”)—a real reader.  One who just reads, doesn’t write.  Even more ideal would be catching a reader in the middle of reading one of your stories, midstream so to speak.  You’d love to ask the reader if he/she felt as if she/he was the protagonist.  You’d love to know if she/he was walking through the rat infested heroin streets whilst searching for Cass.  And if he/she felt as if he/she could place him/herself in the story, did you feel invested in it?  Did you feel the intensity of the you?  Did you meld with the story?  Did the fourth wall come crumbling down?

You keep your eyes peeled.  You’ve published in several small magazines, but you never see people out and about in society reading the Orange Toad Belly Review (circulation 250).  Even if you positioned yourself on the campus of Southwestern Central Missouri State Community College (South Bend Campus), you doubt you would see people walking around reading the Orange Toad Belly Review.  They’re in a box somewhere in some professor’s office.  Behind some other boxes of other shit he’s been meaning to get to.

But then.  You’re on the Metro people watching through the reflection in the window.  Through the reflection you see a young woman scrolling on her I-Pad.  She clicks on several literary pages, then—amazingly— clicks on the Orange Toad Belly Review.  You watch her scanning the page, then she clicks on your story. 

Ten seconds is a long time, you think.  For ten seconds your story, “Gristle and Bone” lingers on her screen.  It does more than linger.  It pulses.  It, like, throbs on her screen.  She’s reading it.  You aren’t breathing.  You are watching her read.  A real person, reading.

You hold your breath.  For the first time your life you feel as if you are really and truly an author.  You feel as if you have a voice and someone wants to hear it.  You feel as if you could be the author you’ve always wanted to be—an amalgam of Pynchon and Vonnegut with a dash of Rushdie and Marquez and a dusting of Barthelme.  You feel important.

She utters a quick little snort.  Then she clicks away.  She clicks to Facebook.

“Wait, wait, wait,” you say, startled by the intensity of your reaction.  You turn your head.

“Huh?” the reader says.

“Just…why did you click away from that last piece?”

“Are you, like, spying on what I’m looking at?”

“No.”

“Yes, you are.  It’s, you know, really none of your business.”

“Ordinarily, I’d agree but I wrote that.”

“You wrote that?”

“Yeah.  So I was wondering.  Why did you click away?” 

She says she doesn’t know.  It just didn’t appeal to her.  It was too negative.  Too caustic.  It didn’t have the human dimension she’s looking for in a story.  It was missing something.  Plus the whole “you” thing is weird, isn’t it?  It feels forced.  Am I supposed to be that person, or something?  I’m not.  I’m me.  She snorted.  Snorted.

“I see,” you say.

“Sorry,” she says, and lowers her head back to her I-Pad.  “Gotta be honest.”

You wander down the streets of your pleasant urban reality.  The craft shops seemed to have tripled in the past three years.  You pass three grocery stores in three blocks.  Now there’s a tea shop.  More bagel shoppes than you can count.  Aren’t those little art galleries precious?  You can’t help but peek inside one or two crystal shops.  Or is that you?  You’re not sure anymore.

You plop down on your “reclaimed” vintage sofa you bought for $1,687 at Dukents, the new furniture boutique down on 12th Street.  It probably cost $100 to make back in 1979, or whatever.  Now it’s “vintage.”  Perhaps you should invest in furniture, you think.  You close your eyes and breathe and listen to your breathing.  It’s good to be alive, you think.  One day you will write something good.  You know you will.  You’ll keep trying.  Your ten seconds will be elongated.  You will become loved.  We all should, shouldn’t we?  Isn’t that what this is all about?

A Reminder Between Your Eyes

by Eric Maroney

ONE

The Chabadnik would not let Serino alone.

When Serino woke up in the morning and walked down to the café for his coffee and brioche, there he was in his dirty black jacket and scuffed and dented hat.  He walked a few paces behind Serino like a bashful bride. The Chabadnik followed stooped and pale, his brown tangled beard and side locks no more than buds sprouting from his cherubic face.   But when Serino sat down to eat, the young man gave up all pretense of space, and sat close beside him.
      

“You can’t eat that, Jake,” the Chabadnik scolded.  He removed his hat.  The Palermo heat was cruel.  His kippah was ragged, gray and moist. “It’s treyf!”
           

“Morty,” Serino answered slowly, trying to muster his patience and be kind to Morty for once.  It was something about the deep blue tint of the water and the greater black shadow of Mount Pellegrino that gave Serino hope that life was getting better.  His opposite conclusion, reached just yesterday, was a dim memory.  “We’ve been down this road before. I’m not Jewish. You’re barking up the wrong tree.”
          

“Even though it is coffee, milk and bakery dough, you have no idea who has handled them and how.  What if the board was used, God forbid, to chop up pork? You know these Sicilians have pastries filled with pork?  Then you would be committing a grave sin.”
           

“What is your suggestion, then?  I don’t eat in Palermo?  This isn’t Crown Heights, Morty. Where do I get kosher coffee?”
            

“I told you, down at the Chabad House.”
             

Serino stared at the man’s willful face.  He was younger than Serino and not healthy.  The hot, humid climate of Palermo trapped him in a physiological dead end; the air rubbed his body against the grain of its natural inclinations. He snorted into a handkerchief.  Serino could not tell if it was a cough or a sneeze.

“You’re sick, Morty,” Serino explained. “You should be in bed.  You shouldn’t be walking around in this heat.  The pavement is buckling it’s so hot.”
             

“What can I do?” the young man asked, raising a weary hand. “I have work to do.”
             

 “How did you get such a crappy assignment?” Serino asked, lowering his coffee. “Jewish outreach in Palermo? A Jew hasn’t lived here since 1495.”
            

“There are people here who are descended from Jews,” the Chasid answered, squinting stiffly at Serino. “They still have the spark of Jewish souls in them.  If I can bring them back, it is a mitzvah for me.  But there will be far greater rewards for the people of Israel, and the universe itself.”
            

“How do you know who is a Jew? Everyone here is a Matteo or Luca or Paulo.”
            

“Last names,” the man sniffled into his handkerchief and pulled out a small book. “Like your name. Look, according to this book, Serino is a Sephardic name. The Jews were forced to flee from Spain, and some came to Italy. Over the course of the years, your ancestors lost their Judaism, or they were forced to become Christians.”
            

“How do you know that?  From that Chabad book?  Where is the source?  My ancestors are 100 percent Sicilian, whatever that means.  If Serino is a Spanish name, it’s because some Spaniard fled here to escape a debt, or because he murdered a man.”
             

Serino then begged the Chasid to drink some water.
             

“I can’t…” the Chasid croaked.
            

“But why? This is water!”
            

“The glass,” the man answered weakly.
            

“Oh, for shit sake, take me back to your Chabad House. I don’t want to be part of a death investigation. In Sicily they take weeks, and I haven’t the money to stay here much longer.”

           

The Chabad House was in a dilapidated building near the port. Serino and Morty had to walk past the Cuba and the Zisa, monuments to Palermo’s Muslim past, down a steep hill, and around a lane strewn with trash.  A small tattered sign on the door read “Chabad House” in Hebrew, English and Italian. Morty pushed open the door. The room was so dim that Serino could not see.  Morty switched on the lights, but there was a sudden short. So for a moment the cluttered room was illuminated by an ailing, yellow light, then it was plunged once again in to sickly darkness.
         

“Morty, aren’t there any windows?”
         

“They don’t open,” he said, sitting heavily on something. “And the landlady won’t open them.  She hates Jews.”
         

“She probably doesn’t. She’s never met a Jew. You just don’t speak any Italian. She has no idea what you are talking about.”
          

“I do my best,” the man panted. “I have a phrase book…”
          

 Serino opened the door. A great wave of heat and a blinding white light stabbed the darkness.  He walked over to a sink, found a glass, and handed it to the young Chasid.
         

 “Ah, thank you, thank you. A real mensch, a good guy, I knew it.”
          

“I have to go,” Serino said.
          

“No, please don’t leave me Jake, I beg you.”
          

“I have to. Stop begging me. I’m not your mother.”
          

“No, but you’re a Jew. Jews need to help Jews. Especially in a land like this…”
           

“Listen, Morty. I was raised a Catholic. I was baptized. I used to kneel before the cross. I went to Confession. I’m serious. I don’t feel Jewish.”
          

“You can’t leave me,” Morty pleaded.  I’ll die a terrible death alone.”
          

“You won’t,” Serino scolded. “You’re being a baby. Drink the water. You’re dehydrated. You’re sloughing your skin like a snake.”
          

The Chasidnik gulped down the water. The Chasid was seated on a little cot.  Morty fell backward with his eyes clamped tightly closed.
           

Serino placed a hand on his forehead. He was burning with a fever. He placed two fingers on his neck.  His heartbeat was fast and irregular, and then it was gone.
          

“Crap!" Serino hissed, and rushed out the door, down the street, and up toward his flat where the office of Doctor Busso was on the ground floor. When they returned to the Chabad House, Morty Gruss was gone.

TWO
          

“You need to pay 10,000 lire for entrance,” the man spoke in dialect. Serino had difficulty.
            

“What did you say? 1,000? That’s cheap. Here you go…”
            

“No, you imbecile, 10,000!” the man spat. Over his bristly black and white stubbly beard, his eyes bulged from the sockets like two raw eggs.  He guarded the entrance to the church like an ogre.
           

“Screw it, then,” Serino tossed the bill at the man. “Keep your Rococo mess and your 1,000 lire.”
              

The man muttered something, and stooped to pick up the bill. Serino recognized he was not being thrifty with his diminishing funds, but he wouldn’t take the scorn of these Sicilians just because his ancestors had the good sense to leave. They listened to his polished Italian; they gazed at his threadbare clothes and reached all sorts of conclusions about the kind of American he was; that it was true, in part, only made Serino angrier.
            

“You see, that is how the goyim treat a Jew!”
             

 Serino turned around. Morty Gruss was standing behind him. He looked slightly less pale than the last time, but no less unhealthy.  In fact, in the intense glare of the piazza, with his sooty shirt and pants, Serino thought he resembled a black hole: light swirled around him and did not escape.
            

“What the hell, Morty?” Serino took a step toward the Chasid. “What happened to you last week? I left you unconscious, and then when I came back with a doctor, you were gone.  Did you know I had to pay his fee just because his feet left his door?”
           

“I’m sorry,” the Chasid answered, abashed. “I can call the office in Rome and get you a refund, if you kept a receipt.”
            

“No I didn’t keep a receipt! Who do you think I am?  Some traveling salesman that keeps receipts? I was trying to help you, and you pull some sort of a stunt!”
            

“I’m, I’m sorry,” he stuttered. “I really am. I looked for you, to explain, but you changed your room.”
             

“Goddamn right I did. I needed a cheaper place because I’m paying medical bills for people who vanish! Come on Morty. Stop with these dumb games.”
             

“They’re not games. Jake,” he whispered. “And please don’t take HaShem’s name in vain.”
              

“I’ll take any name in vain that I want to! Don’t preach to me. I told you, I’ve prayed to a bloody Jesus nailed to a cross.  It is all crap, but it’s no more crap than your Jewish bilge.  So do me a favor Morty.  Stay away from me.  Stop following me around Palermo. This is my trip. I may not be able to come back here ever again. I’ll sit behind a desk in Manhattan for forty-five years like everyone else, and hopefully, I’ll retire before I croak. You have to understand that for years and years I hated being Sicilian — the crassness, the loudness, the ignorance. Now I have a chance to make it right — to see the real Sicily — to figure out what I am and where I came from and where I am going…”
           

 “You never felt at home, Jake, because you’re a Jew. The souls of your Jewish ancestors, forced to convert against their will, are crying out to you to return.”
            

“Listen, I’ve had it with you! You are ruining this trip. Do you hear me? You are following me around, with your New York accent and mincing steps, making a nuisance of yourself.  I just want to be left alone, do you hear me? Leave me be!”
             

“I can’t,” Morty whimpered. “I’m charged with returning you to Judaism.”
             

“You simple bastard,” Serino spat as he turned and walked briskly down to the piazza. Soon he began to run, and Morty followed him, his pace surprisingly swift for a sick man. Serino knew that carabinieri were positioned outside the Pension Bureau. He ran to them, and in his best, florid Italian, he began to create a story about the foreigner who was following him. Serino wove a roll call of crimes on the spot.
             

The carabinieri asked Serino to wait.  Then they ran to Morty, who stopped on seeing goyish police rushing him.  They placed cuffs on the Chasid, and when the three turned around, Serino was gone.

THREE
“I’m sorry, I really am.” Serino was sitting on a wooden stool.  Two days after he ran from Morty, Serino made some inquiries and was surprised to find the Chasid still in custody.  Morty, behind the bars, was looked green and gray in nauseating shades. They had taken his shoe laces, belt, and tallit katan.
           

“The worst is I can’t pray. They won’t get my tefillin.”
            

“I can try,” Serino answered. “I can speak to the captain.”
            

“Thanks Jake, but it’s no good. I didn’t realize that my papers weren’t in proper order.  In Rome, the Chabad people said I was ready to go. But they screwed up the visa.  I’m here illegally.”
            

“Can’t Chabad in Rome help you?”
            

“They’re trying, but it’s taking time. Things move slowly down here.”
            

“At least let me get your stuff,” he said. “What does it look like?”
             

“You don’t know what tefillin look like?” Morty asked.
              

“Don’t be difficult, Morty,” Serino answered, shaking his head. “I’m trying to help you.”
              

So the Chasid explained. Serino asked if he had eaten or drank.
             

“Of course not,” the Chasid scoffed. “This prison isn’t kosher!”
             

“Let me bring some back, then…”
             

“No,” Morty interrupted. “I’m fasting for my sin.”
              

“What sin?”
             

“The sin of failing you.”
            

 “How did you fail me?”
              

“Because I could not reach you,” Morty explained. “I was charged to expose your hidden Jewish soul, and I failed. That is why I am here. HaShem sent me to this place just to turn you back to Judaism and I failed. I accept the punishment with joy.”
           

“God didn’t send you here, Morty,” Serino answered. “I did.  This is my fault for playing games. This isn’t America. You aren’t innocent here until proven guilty. They let you stew in jail in Italy and they don’t know habeas corpus from orecchiette. You don’t want to get mixed up in the Italian legal system. Let me get you out of here. Give me names and numbers to call.  And in the meantime, at least let me bring back your stuff and food and water.”
           

“No thank you,” the Chasid answered firmly. “Just the tefillin. I won’t eat or drink. They’re in a bag on my bed.  Bring them back, if they let you.”
           

Serino went out and spoke to the captain.
           

“Captain, he needs the things to pray. He has an obligation to God.”
           

“What kind of things?” the Captain asked. Serino didn’t know what a tefillin was with precision, but when he said a box with leather straps, the captain shook his head.
            

“No, no,” the Captain answered emphatically. “The man is suicidal. He won’t eat or drink. If he kills himself, I will be held responsible. He is an American national.”
            

Serino tried to explain, as best he could, why the Chasid would not eat and drink. Serino gave his assurances that he would give the object with the boxes and the straps to the Chasid, and then take them back.  He would return with them when the Chasid needed them. The Captain gave his grudging permission.

          

 Serino stood in front of the Chasid with the bag. He tried to give it to him through the bars.
              

“I don’t want it,” the Chasid said flatly.
            

“What the hell do you mean, you don’t want it? I had to negotiate with Il Duce out there for an hour to get you this stuff.  You have to take it. Stop with your games, Morty!”
            

“This is not a game.  This is life or death. Please open the bag, Jacob,” the Chasid asked.
            

“Morty, stop screwing with me!”
            “Jake, you said you wanted to help me. This will help me. Please open the bag.”
            

Serino exhaled deeply. He opened the bag.
           

“Take out the tefillin, please. Are you right handed, Jacob?”
           

“What difference does that make, Morty?” Serino cried.
           

“Please Jake. You said you’d help me.  Just help.”
            

“I’m right handed.”
            

The Chasid told him to roll the box with the loop up his bare left arm, halfway between the shoulder and the elbow and across from the heart.
           

“Now repeat this: Blessed are You, HaShem our God, King of the universe, who has sanctified us with His commandments, and commanded us to put on tefillin.”
            

So Serino repeated. The Chasid then showed him how to bind the rest of the strap seven times around the left arm and once around the palm, leaving the rest to dangle.
          

 “Now take out the other box.  See how it has looped strap? Put it on your head so the box is in the middle just between your eyes.”
            

Serino, exhaling again, did as he was told.
           

“Now back to your hand. Wrap the rest of the strap three times around your middle finger: once around the base, then once just above the first joint, then one more time around the base. You've got some strap left over, so wrap it around your palm and tuck in the tail end.”
            

“Ok.  It’s on, are we done now?”
           

“Just one more part. And you have to promise me Jacob, you must say it with meaning. You don’t have to say it in Hebrew, because you won’t understand, but you must mean what you say. Particularly when you say the HaShem, Blessed Be His Name, is One.”
           

“Fine, Morty. But if I do this, will we be done? Will we be squared away? Your sin is gone and my debt to you is wiped clean and you’ll eat and drink?”
             

“I suppose so,” the Chasid answered. “But I think when you are done with the Shema, you’ll feel differently about things.”
            

 “OK Morty, give me the lines already!”
             

“Hear, O Israel, HaShem is our God, HaShem is One. Blessed be the name of the glory of His kingdom forever and ever. You shall love HaShem your God with all your heart, with all your soul and with all your might. And these words which I command you today shall be on your heart. You shall teach them thoroughly to your children, and you shall speak of them when you sit in your house and when you walk on the road, when you lie down and when you rise up. You shall bind them as a sign upon your arm, and they shall be for a reminder between your eyes.  And you shall write them upon the doorposts of your house and upon your gates.”
              

Serino repeated the words. Then it was suddenly done.
             

“I don’t feel different at all,” Serino explained. The Chasid smiled.
              

“Jake,” the Chasid said and beamed. You’ve performed a mitzvah. You put on tefillin. You lifted a fallen spark. You’ve helped heal the world.” Then the little Chasid started to cry.
               

When Serino emerged from the jail, the blinding light of the noon day Palermo sun momentarily stunned him, and he didn’t know quite where he was standing or what he was doing, or why he was here in the first place, and he had to guess which way to walk.

Pinch

by Lucian Mattison

Oli dove head first into the surf one last time before returning to Yohan. The salt water stung his eyes. He just wanted his mother to come back and explain to him, again, how it was possible that she could love a man like Yohan.

“Oli,” Yohan began, “I’m glad you went to the sea because you were sleeping for too long. You shouldn’t fall asleep on the beach, the sun is dangerous.”

The sun is dangerous. This was exactly why he hated Yohan, for saying stupid things like this. He’d spent the entire day in the sun, all three days of this vacation. He played with other children, even Mariana—Yohan’s daughter—under the sun. Everybody was in the sun and Yohan seemed to think this was dangerous.

Olivier dug his toes into the coarse beach sand and fired back, “Is the sun more dangerous than a shark?”

Yohan laughed, “Yes. I think so. Sharks, they kill much less people everyday than the sun.”

The sun more dangerous than sharks.

“Yo, stop lying.”

“I’m not lying, Oli. Why would I lie about this?”

Of course he wasn’t lying. Of course the sun was more dangerous than a shark. He hated Yohan, his ability to mispronounce Algiers while saying racist things, how his stomach ballooned outward, how his stupid wrinkly genitals always sagged at eye-level.

“Oli, I know why you went into the sea. You made pee-pee on yourself again.”

Olivier felt his legs where the urine had been. He had, in fact, urinated all over his thighs just minutes ago.

“You need to stop doing that Oli. You’re too old. Mariana is two years younger than you are and she hasn’t made pee pee on herself for many years now. You will make your mother crazy.”

Yohan was making Olivier crazy; this was precisely why Oli had fallen asleep. Again, he had the recurring dream of being back home in Rennes, the public swimming pool, the whole nudist colony transported with him. Luckily, he had awoken on the beach covered in his own urine, but his parents had not yet returned from the yoga class further down shore to see it happen. He ran to clean himself off.

Back under the beach umbrella, Yohan was still grilling him about his accident. A paperback, “The New You: Reawakening the Soul, dangled in his fingers. Yohan recrossed his legs, mashing his balls and penis together between them right in front of Oli. His mother had told him that Yohan and his wife, Peggy, were in love, but they were so full of love, just like his maman and papa, that they liked to share it with more people. The whole reason they seemed to go to this private beach in Nice was so that Yohan could share his enormous, hooked love with his parents—except they could do it outside, on this beach, in the apart-hotel room just a few meters from where they were, at another couple’s house, or on the balcony, late at night after they had sent Olivier and Yohan’s daughter, Mariana, to bed.

Yohan rubbed the bottom of his front teeth with his tongue as he looked at Oli.

“What do I tell your mother? Do you think she wants to hear this?”

“No. Please, don’t tell her.”

“Oli, I must. It is better for you.”

Oli grabbed his body board and hugged the board’s image of a white shark flush against his front. He shot back a look at Yohan, but couldn’t think of anything horrible enough to say, so instead just opted for a singular and emphatic “YOU.”

Yohan drew back with surprise. The thin gold-link chain caught awkwardly in the tuft of his black chest hair. He winced and fingered the gold links. Oli ran back toward the ocean.

The sun was setting and by the time Olivier had tired himself out on the body board, he could make out his parents returning from the other side of beach stretch, Peggy in tow. Their naked bodies wavered in the humidity, blending into one jiggling, tan blob.

Olivier had always wondered why they liked to be naked all the time. Sure, he liked to be naked when he took a bath or was in his own house, but he also liked to act like normal people. The beach colony was like a school for grown ups, where instead of a uniform, they didn’t wear anything, and instead of doing class work, reading, and sports, they went to classes about writing stories, spirituality, or yoga—all in the nude, everybody.

At least Yohan lived over in Paris, far away from Rennes, so Olivier didn’t have to see him on a regular basis. Oli couldn’t even imagine Yohan dressed like a normal person. Yohan couldn’t get away with saying stupid things while dressed like a normal person.

Yohan set out the bread, cheese, and salami from the cooler onto a wooden cutting board.

“Help me cut the salami.”

“Is Mariana not eating?”

“No, she’s working on her model boat. I left her something at home already.”

Yohan winked at Oli, “You want me to go get her?”

Oli acted as if he didn’t hear.

Yohan handled the cured sausage and knife in one giant paw and passed it to Olivier along with a cutting board. Oli cut a straight line down the middle of the salami and peeled the dry film away. He chopped.

“Be careful, with a salami like yours, you don’t want to slice the wrong one,” Yohan said, as he erupted with more porcine laughter. Yohan laughed at all his own jokes. Oli wondered if Yohan just walked around making jokes about other people’s private parts and laughed alone like a crazy person. He cut the salami into half-centimeter wheels, arranging them in four columns of six pieces, and quickly ate the remaining three that were extra.

Mariana appeared in Oli’s peripheral vision. She exited the beachfront apartment, closing the sliding glass door behind her. Mariana had stayed in the hotel room because she wanted to keep working on the model boat. Everyone had praised her for using cloth from a broken kite for the sails instead of the fabric provided by the model company. He didn’t know why anyone cared about this, but his parents seemed to think it was very clever. She claimed so it could “move faster,” but he knew she had no idea. She was a bony girl, thin black hair, straight down to her waist, the top of her head level with Oli’s shoulder. She was younger and Oli’s mother always forced him to play with her, although she never seemed interested in anything Oli wanted to do. For example, when he suggested building a shark tank instead of working on the boat, she said that his idea was stupid because sharks didn’t live in small spaces. Obviously, she didn’t know anything because they had gone to the aquarium together in Paris and they watched sharks swim many circles inside the ring shaped tank. She even said they looked “bored.” Oli knew it was common knowledge that aggressive animals like sharks couldn’t get bored.

Mariana kissed her father on the cheek and sat down next to Oli.

“Can the boat float?” Oli asked.

“Of course it can, Oli. My angel can make anything float,” Yohan answered, smiling at his daughter.

Oli wondered if Yohan knew just how stupid that comment was, but decided not to say anything. He offered Mariana a slice of the salami.

“Oli, watch yourself, you try to give Nana more salami and you’ll have to deal with me,” Yohan warned with a chortle.

Oli shied away with the plate, annoyed at his embarrassment after hearing this joke for the third time this trip. Nana leaned over, took a slice, some bread and soft cheese, and chomped on a sandwich.

Yohan rose up to greet his wife and Oli’s parents, who were sweating profusely from the walk under the sun. Oli rose to kiss his maman and papa on the cheek, but was impeded by Yohan’s large backside. It boasted a mélange of matted hair, sweat, and sand creeping close to his anus. Always eye-level.

Yohan began to tell maman and papa about how Oli peed on himself. In an attempt to distract Mariana from what was going on, Oli motioned for her attention. She watched as Oli knelt by her, picked up a Salami slice between two fingers, and displayed it like a magician’s coin. He did the same with a piece of soft cheese in his left hand. Mariana was mesmerized.

Oli crept behind Yohan, who had leaned over to fetch a beer for Oli’s papa from the cooler. Using his thumb as the thrust, Oli jammed the bit of salami and soft cheese halfway into Yohan’s anus.

Olivier was not given dinner that night. The hours after the incident were loud and confusing. Papa had been yelling at him quite a bit, asking many strange things about him and his friends at school. Oli did not answer any of it. Maman had concluded he had “acted out” in a strange fashion, and that was that. Yohan adopted a routine of looking over at him at regular intervals throughout the discussion, shaking his head like a robotic pig. What had upset Oli most of all was that Mariana hadn’t defended him. She told his parents that he had acted “crazy” just before he “attacked” Yohan. They kept using that word like he was some kind of wild animal. When he and Nana were finally sent to bed, she had stashed away some raisins and half of a cookie for him. Oli took them, but did not eat them in front of her.

He had fallen asleep for an hour or so, cookie in his hand, again dreaming about the public pool in Rennes. His mind was filled with the leftover images burned into his head like a camera flash: women’s breasts bobbed in the wake of paddling feet, kids his age scrambled out at the perimeters, grizzly, dark haired men stewed in the turgid bubble of Jacuzzis. Between deep breaths, he remembered ducking underwater and swimming between and around the bottom halves of people, their legs like stipes of a kelp forest, hairs the undulant fronds. He slipped within inches of vaginas, sagging vulva, shriveled penises almost retracting into the crotches of overweight men. This time his dream had made him follow a procession of the commune’s children, his friends Antwan, Mariana, and the ugly Sofie, up stairs leading to the opening of a slide in the shape of a tremendous penis.

The slide’s shaft fell ten meters down into another diamond shaped pool. The children shot out of the slide’s tip like short bursts of urine. At the top of the stairs, kids disappeared into a dark opening. Climbing atop an enormous pair of testicles, he had grabbed at coarse black hairs to steady and pull himself up on the slick skin surface. At the top, Antwan jumped, leading with his prominent nose, face first into the opening, a porcine squeal disappearing after him. Mariana and the ugly Sofie went hand-in-hand, their legs pressed together like four wet sausages, hair sliding after them, a dirty blond-black braid. Olivier stepped up to the slide, the rush of falling water pulsing through his veins. He put one foot in, sat down, and pushed off. He fell into nothingness, his throat too shocked to scream. He thought he had wet himself again, but to his relief woke in dry pajamas.

He could hear his parents, Peggy and Yohan, all chatting and laughing in the apart-hotel living room. It sounded like they had gotten over his incident that they had made seem like the end of the world just an hour earlier. He imagined they were drinking beer and pastis. Their muffled eruptions grew louder and more frequent. Nana was asleep in the twin bed across the room. Oli didn’t understand how she could sleep through the racket their parents were making.

The clock on the bedroom bureau displayed 12:22 AM. Oli could hear murmurs, the faint smell of something burning, and the late night noises now coming from beyond his room. He was still angry with Mariana for her betrayal at dinner, and even more so, for sleeping soundly. He got out of bed, stepped over the unfinished wooden boat by her bedside, and stood over her. He raised his thumb and forefinger in front of her sleeping features, miming a pinch on her lips, eyes, nose, a double pinch with both his hands to her neck. She slept peacefully.

At the window, he watched the ocean, the moon hanging like a glowing bone over the surf. He wondered if Nana’s miniature boat could actually float in something so violent like the ocean. A bottle broke beyond the bedroom door. His mother shrieked. Yohan’s enormous laugh burst through the walls.

Oli turned his gaze toward Mariana’s small outline. It rose and fell like the swell of a wave. How could she sleep through this? She must be deaf? Oli tiptoed toward her and contemplated what he should do to disturb her: yell in her ear, kick the bed frame, double pinch her sides, or clap in front of her face. Mariana stirred, her eyes flickering open and closed. She focused on Oli’s moonlit silhouette.

“What are you doing?” She murmured, half asleep.

Oli, having not made up his mind yet about how to disturb her, turned to dart away, and stubbed his toe on the foot of the bed in the process. He leapt toward his own corner, trying to stifle his pain.

“Go back to sleep!” he hissed, tears building in his eyes. He hobbled quickly to the bedroom door in order to get out of sight.

“I’m thirsty.”

He turned the doorknob with measured delicacy and tiptoed into the hallway, his mind engrossed by the pain in his foot, before lifting his gaze toward the kitchen door.

About twenty feet in front of him, Oli’s moonlit mother was bent over the kitchen sink, both her hands gripping the edges of the metal basin. Her breasts swung like pendants as Yohan furiously pumped into her from behind. Oli had never seen them loving each other this way before. He could not help but watch, as a runnel of sweat streaked down Yohan’s wrinkled lower back fat. His hands gripped her waist, crotch hammering into maman, their bodies a broken metronome. He grabbed at her breasts as if handling fistfuls of cured ham. His forefingers and thumbs tweaked both of her nipples and she let out a short gasp. Double pinch.

Yohan, lifted his huge, right paw up into the air and slapped maman’s bottom with such force that Oli let out a gasp in time with his mother’s, and immediately cupped his mouth with his right hand.

Yohan’s head cocked a small fraction. He slowed his pace for just a second, but then continued with his vigorous thrusting. Oli wasn’t sure if Yohan had heard him, but he couldn’t bring himself to move or pull his gaze away. Yohan started to pump more furiously, making hideous noises, loud boastful moans, almost as if he knew he were being watched. Oli’s blood froze when Yohan looked directly at him for a good second, without the slightest pause in his rhythm. Oli thought he saw a hint of a smile on Yohan’s face as he turned his head back toward maman and leaned deeply into her. She made a noise like she was being hurt.

Yohan jerked his crotch back, as if he had burned himself inside of maman, his banana-like penis curved toward the ceiling. He held it directly over Oli’s mother’s back. Yohan seemed to be peeing on her in short bursts. Oli snapped back into his mind, slipped into his room, and shut the door behind him.

Oli felt a tremendous urge to pee and entered the bathroom connected to his and Mariana’s room. He pinched the tip of his penis, so as not to go too quickly as he lowered his pajama pants, and managed to squirt only a small bit onto his leg, the rest dripping down into the water. The toilet bowl swirled with the light cloud. Oli thought of the moon painting the ocean surface. He flushed and washed his hands. It felt strange to him now, scrubbing his fingers together, the same ones he had used to humiliate Yohan.

Hands still wet, he tiptoed toward Mariana and shook her awake.

“Get up! You need to see something!”

Mariana sat up. He motioned her toward the door.

“Hurry!” he hissed.

Mariana got up and poked her head out of the bedroom door for a second. She looked back at Oli in confusion.

“Is it not strange to you?” he asked.

She shook her head. Oli poked his head out into the hallway from behind her.

“They’re gone,” he whispered over her shoulder.

“Who?”

“Your dad.”

“What was he doing?”

“Acting strange, like always, but this time much more.”

“How?”

Oli paused. Mariana would think he was lying if he told her that Yohan was having an accident on his mother. He had no idea what to say. He couldn’t stop thinking about the way Yohan had looked at him. He felt as if this was some kind of additional punishment being dealt his way.

“Forget it. You won’t understand.”

Oli stepped back from the door, head buzzing. He sat in the sag of his mattress. His whole body felt charged. He recalled the textbook images he used to calm himself: caravan of pilot fish tethered to a whale shark, remoras plastered just below a white tip’s mouth, two nurse sharks joined at the clasper swimming a vertical helix toward the surface. He pointed toward the sails and frame of the unfinished sailboat by Mariana’s bedside.

“Nana, you are making the boat all wrong.”

Mariana rubbed her eyes and slipped back into bed.

Oli continued, “It has no place for people to sleep. What good is that?”

Mariana’s silence made him more anxious. He needed to busy his shaking hands. He got up and opened the top center drawer of the bedroom’s bureau. He felt around inside the darkness of the drawer, rustling small papers, rolling ballpoint pens, and other small objects.

“Oli, stop!” Mariana shot in his direction, “go to sleep.”

He fished out an old letter opener with a dull blade and approached Mariana’s bed. He saw her pupils swell almost to the size of coins. He picked up the boat frame.

“What type of boat is this? Where does it go?”

Mariana hesitated before answering, “I don’t know. It’s just a boat. Why does it have go anywhere?”

Oli wove the letter opener through the strings and frame holding the mainsail, jibs, and topsails in place. He imagined it was Yohan’s ribcage. He jerked his arm and with great effort pulled through it, ripping it out of any discernible shape. He presented the tangled mess to her.

“If a boat doesn’t go anywhere, then this is also a boat.”

He dropped it on the floor and returned to his bed. He put the letter opener inside his pillowcase and rolled over to face the wall. He could hear her sobbing and was confused by how much relief Mariana’s whimpering was giving him. His stomach and throat were tightly knotted, but his chest felt like it had been cracked wide open, like he could suddenly breathe underwater.

Cindy Silk

by Ed Meek

"Excuse me, Cindy, but these people tell me their food isn’t hot,” Angelo said.

Cindy stared at the new Maitre D puzzled.

"Not hot?"  Cindy put her hands on her hips. "It's not supposed to be hot.  Tell them that."

 "Where do I get these people?"  she said to no one in particular.  She put her hands on her temples and massaged them.  Her throat was so dry she could barely swallow.  She looked up and the Maitre D' was still standing there.  She reached out and grabbed him by the ear.  "Did you hear me?"  She twisted his ear.  "Go," she said pushing his head away as she released him.

 Angelo stumbled backwards, rubbing his ear, incredulous. 

Cindy turned around, went back upstairs and found David, "I'm going to take a break. Keep an eye on things. Keep everyone moving." 

Two hours later, rush over, most of the guests gone, Cindy was talking to Chad, her best-looking waiter.  With his thick black hair, square jaw and blue eyes, Chad looked like he could be giving tennis lessons at the country club. Usually she enjoyed talking to him because it gave her the opportunity to stare at him, but now he was irritating her. He stood there, drinking her cognac, at her invitation, telling her that he liked the cheaper one, the Delamain, better than the Vesper, when anyone who knew anything about cognac knew that the Vesper was fabulous.  In fact, someone had stolen a bottle of the Vesper which retailed for over a hundred dollars and Cindy thought it might have been Chad.  She briefly entertained the notion that he might be right about the Delamain. Then she regained her senses. "No, no," she cut him off, "you don't understand, Chad.  It’s the quality of the oak that gives the Vesper that woody flavor–what the French call 'raison' from the aging."

"But the Delamain has a nice, fiery quality."  Chad said.

"Fiery?" Cindy didn't know why she wasted her time listening to these people.  Maybe it wasn’t Chad who’d taken the Vesper since he liked the Delamain better.  She had owned this restaurant with Meyer for ten years and the waiters were always stealing from her.  Here she was actually giving a waiter free cognac, and he didn’t even know what was good.  Enough was enough.  She slammed her empty glass down.  "Why don’t you punch out, Chad."  She managed a wooden smile. Half the time the waiters forgot to punch out on the time clock. She had told them that she wasn’t going to pay them if they didn’t punch out yet they still forgot.

She checked her watch–ten o'clock.  She had to get out–the restaurant was driving her mad!  Meyer wouldn't be done for an hour or two.  She could change and go out before he finished in the kitchen.  Little Noelle would be asleep.  She would have June, the cashier, look in on the kid and baby-sit until she got back.  Cindy pictured June’s cute face–she would have been attractive if she weren’t fifty pounds overweight.  Still, she liked June because June did whatever she was told to do.

David, the manager, stopped her on the stairs.  He asked her, in that whining, nasal voice of his, if she were leaving.

Cindy looked at his long oval face with his drooping bottom lip and nodded.

"I also wanted to ask whether that California wine came in." David smiled weakly.

"David, why do you have to bother me, day and night with these details?  You can't do these things yourself?  And why is Chad still working here?  The busy season is over, right?  We no longer need him. Besides, I think he was the one who took the cognac."  Cindy drew her hand across her throat.  "Get rid of him."  Suddenly she remembered that she wasn’t sure whether Chad was or wasn’t the one stealing the cognac.  So why was she telling David to fire him?  Ugh, there was just too much on her mind. 

"Whatever you say, Cindy," David looked at his new Gucci shoes–there was smudge on them. He frowned.

"No,” Cindy said, “I didn’t get that wine in. Wait a minute," Cindy stopped on the stairs, "I did get it in."  She clenched her hands and stomped up the stairs.  "Come on," she said. “Follow me.”

David followed her up the winding stairs of the Georgian townhouse that Cindy and Meyer had bought five years before and turned into one of the best restaurants in the city.  Prior to that they had been in a smaller restaurant around the corner where David had been a waiter.  When they moved, she had made David manager of the new place.  After Cindy had her child, David had assumed more responsibility.  Cindy didn't really like to work so much anymore.  Neither did Meyer for that matter.  These days Meyer spent only one or two nights a week in the restaurant.  The rest of the time he was working on other projects.  Most nights, Meyer let the Sous-Chef, Nick, run things.  Meyer had opened a gourmet store on Tremont Street; he had a concession at Tanglewood for music festivals and concerts, and he had a cafe opening in the fall at the Four Seasons hotel.

Cindy and Meyer have done very well, David was thinking, as he followed Cindy up the stairs. For an Israeli with a Liberal Arts degree from Dartmouth and no formal training as a Chef, Meyer had done incredibly well, and for a girl from Revere with a high school degree and one year of community college, Cindy had done quite well too. All David had to do to keep his job was to jump when Cindy said jump.  David already had bought a three-family house in Dorchester and a Condo in Boston; he planned to get out of the restaurant business in five years.  Until then, he would eat humble pie when he had to.

With a grunt, Cindy picked up and handed David a case of Cabernet Sauvignon which had been sitting just outside the door to her apartment. David was walking back down the stairs to the restaurant, struggling with the case of wine, when he heard something crash in the kitchen.  He hesitated at the bottom of the second floor.  The restaurant was on two floors and the kitchen was on the second.  David heard a rasping voice screaming in the kitchen.  It was Meyer.  David put the case down on the stairs and peeked in the kitchen.  Meyer had his broad back to the kitchen door so David sneaked in and hid over by the bread, near the walk-in cooler, to see what was going on.

     "What do you call this shit?"  Meyer was yelling at one of the young cooks.  "Look at this. Look at it. I should rub your face in it. You can't do the simplest Goddamn thing.  We go over this day after day."  Meyer walked over to where the young cook stood at the stove and grabbed the frying pan off the floor.  He put it back on the stove and tossed a handful of julienne vegetables into it.  He opened the broiler above the stove and put a filet of veal in.  "Damn-it," he said.

Chad came walking up the service stairs toward David with a tray full of dirty dishes on his shoulder.  He was carrying the tray with one hand, and with the other hand, he was eating a tenderloin of lamb that a guest had apparently failed to finish.

"That's it," David said putting his hands on his hips. "That's the very last straw, Chad."

"Oh, come on, David–everybody eats." Chad took another bite. 

"It's against the rules." David said. "This isn’t the first time.  Besides, she knows you've been stealing cognac.  Just get your things and leave."

Up in the apartment, Cindy laid two lines of cocaine on the glass table in front of the television. "So you're addicted," she said to herself, "so what?" Some people were addicted to coffee, some to booze.  She liked cocaine. She had managed to stop for the last month of the pregnancy.  Besides, she had been eating healthy and going to the aerobic classes.  Her weight was down and she looked good.  She was a nervous wreck, but what could she do?

She had MTV on with the sound off.  J. Lo was selling her perfume. After Cindy did the lines she felt better.  Much better.  It was part of the business, wasn't it?  Meyer did it, the waiters, cooks, everybody.  Jim, her current flame, would have some tonight.  Jim always had good stuff, the bastard.  She laughed. Speaking of bastards, she should check on the kid.  No, he must be all right or there would have been some noise.  Cindy and Meyer weren't married.  Cindy didn't care either way.  She would have preferred being married, sure, but not being married was fine.  She didn't trust Meyer anyway.  As if you could trust anyone.  She lit up a cigarette, sat down and watched the MTV announcer sticking out her tongue and lewdly licking her lips. Cindy stuck her tongue out back at her.

Chad changed his clothes in the bathroom upstairs on the second floor.  It wasn't David who fired me, he thought, it was Cindy.  He took a bottle of Delamain out of his locker and put it in his backpack. He liked the Delamain better than the Vesper.

 "Well boys," Chad said as he walked past the waiters on his way out, "I've been fired."  He stood in the doorway.

“You’ll be back,” one of the waiters said.

Chad smiled.                                 

"There's a call for you," the cashier, June, said to him when he got downstairs.

Chad squeezed into June’s cubbyhole.  She handed Chad the phone.

 "Chad, hey, this is Jim.  Wondering if I can hook up with you tonight."

 "Sure," Chad said, "I'll see you at Division. In fact, I can be there in ten minutes."  Chad handed June the phone. "June," he said, "it's been a pleasure."

As he walked out the door of the restaurant Chad was smiling, shaking his head, thinking about Jim and Cindy.

Division was a short distance from the restaurant.  Chad nodded at the doorman and walked past a dozen people in line in front of the club.  The doorman was new, but he waved Chad in because one of the owners had introduced Chad to him the night before.  Chad squeezed into a space near the corner of the semi-circular bar.  The bartender put a gin and tonic in front of him. "This is on Jim," the bartender said.

Cindy looked through her closet.  She felt as if she were looking through the clothes of a much bigger woman.  She pushed the hangers around and knocked a couple of dresses on the floor.  "I have plenty to choose from now, ma," she said aloud.  She settled on a jumpsuit, but when she got it on and stood in front of the mirror she could see that it was too long.  She stood, frozen for a moment, in front of the mirror.  She always bought clothes too big.  She must have been a bigger person in a former life. She rolled the cuffs up and put on a pair of heels.  Her throat still hurt.  She went into the kitchen and got a bottle of bourbon out of the cabinet and took a swig.

Downstairs, Meyer was in a good mood because it was busy and he had just sent out the entrees for a party of fifteen.  "Oh, I'll tell you something pal," he said to Nick, "I haven't given it to Cindy in a while, but tonight I'm going to stick it right up in there."  He grabbed his crotch and growled.  "I'm going all the way up in there."

Nick, was laughing.  "No. No," Nick said.  "You can't.  She's too small–your wife.

 "Oh yeah," Meyer said, "I'm going to split her in half tonight."

Nick was holding his stomach and bending over he was laughing so hard.

"Well," Meyer said.  "Maybe you're right.  Maybe I'll give it to the cashier instead."

Meyer left Nick laughing in the kitchen and walked down into the dining room.  He leaned over a table, hands clasped behind his back.  "How is the food?" he asked, "you like it?"

"Fantastic," the woman said.

"Wonderful," said the man.

"You know I just won an award for culinary excellence," Meyer said, "but I think they picked the wrong guy by mistake." He was smiling.

"You deserve it, really," the man said.

Meyer laughed and moved on to the next table.

Cindy looked out the window. It was quiet on the street.  All she had to do was get down the stairs and out.  She picked up the phone, dialed the cashier and asked June to check in on the kid every once and a while.  Cindy thought about checking in on Noelle. Maybe later. She hurried down the stairs, slipped outside and walked quickly to the corner of Boylston.  She surveyed the long line in front of the bar.

Chad downed his gin and tonic while he scanned the crowd.  He caught Jim's eye, and started pushing his way across the room.  He edged along the pink walls.  All the bars were pink and gray and green.  Chad was surprised that he didn’t feel as if he had been fired. He felt as if he had been let go, released. He could always find another job. Meanwhile, they were playing the new song by Offspring, one of his favorite groups. Chad edged into the Men's room where Jim was waiting. "What 's up?" Chad said.

 Jim had to hunch in the Men's room, he was so tall.  He reminded Chad of David Bowie.  Jim acknowledged the resemblance, but insisted he was better-looking.  He had on one of those long, white, flimsy, cotton coats popularized by Bowie in a video he’d done with Mick Jagger. The one that practically screamed they’d slept together. "Got anything good?" Jim asked.

"Hot date?" Chad smiled, leaning back against the wall with his hands in his pockets. "Cindy?"

"Keep it quiet," Jim said.

 "Oh, everybody knows about it." Chad lit a cigarette. "Yeah," he said, I've got something.  Let me just talk to someone and I'll be back to you in about," he looked at his antique gold watch, "twenty minutes."

"OK," Jim said.  He walked out of the Men's Room to the table he kept reserved.  There was a bucket of champagne beside the table and on the table a vase with blood-red roses.

When Cindy got to the door, a doorman she didn't recognize stopped her.  He looked about twelve years old.  He had a flat top and a diamond stud in one ear.

"Sorry," the doorman said, "you have to wait on line like everyone else."

"You don't understand," Cindy said. "I own the restaurant around the corner.  I'm meeting…” She didn’t want to say who. “I'm meeting someone here and he's waiting for me inside.  No way I'm going to wait on line, I mean in line."  Cindy clenched her fists. She hated the expression on line. Why did people say that? Did they think they were being original or something?  "I don't know who you people think you are," she said.   She stamped her foot.  "Who do you think you're dealing with?  Do you want to keep this job?"  She realized she was shouting, but she could barely contain herself.  She wanted to rip his little flat top head off.  "Do you like working here in Boston?  I'll have you black-listed.  I'll make it impossible for you to get work anywhere."  She was having difficulty breathing.  She felt as if there were something stuck in her throat.

The manager appeared at the door to see what the commotion was. "Cindy," he said, "Come on in.  Sorry about that.  The kid is new."

"Get rid of him," Cindy said, drawing her finger across her throat.  She walked past the manager into the bar.  She glanced around the room and spotted the empty table with the roses on it.  She needled her way through the crowd.

Chad, who was leaning against the wall, watched Cindy as she sat down.  He had just spent five minutes crushing up tabs of Ex-Lax and baby laxative. Chad put his drink down on the bar and edged his way over to the hall that led to the Men's Room.  He found Jim leaning on the cigarette machine.  Chad handed him a small, folded packet of paper.

"A hundred?" Jim asked.

Chad nodded and Jim handed Chad a single bill.  Jim took the packet and squeezed through the crowd to the reserved table where Cindy was waiting.  “Hey,” he said and kissed her on the cheek.  Jim had one of these little mechanisms–drug paraphernalia that make it possible to do cocaine right at the table–just put it to your nose and discreetly snort.  He loaded it and handed it to Cindy who took a couple of hits and then sipped the champagne—Crystal—Jim's favorite.  She preferred the dryer Dom Perignon, but she was willing to give in once and a while.  You had to, just to keep them.  She knew she could find someone else if she had to, but why bother?  Meyer either didn't know or didn't care about her flings.  There wasn't anything he could do about it anyway—they weren't married.  Cindy wondered if it would make any difference if they were.

“What do you think of the coke?” Jim asked.

“Good I guess. I can’t really tell, I’m so wound up. I need to relax.”

“Let’s go upstairs,” Jim said.

Jim kept an apartment above the bar.  They went up after they had finished the champagne.  They attempted sex but Jim said he was having trouble concentrating. He couldn’t seem to get it hard.  Cindy finally gave up on him, got up and got dressed.  She checked her watch.  It was just after two.  She'd get home a little early.

She tried to be quiet on the stairs to her apartment just in case Meyer was already asleep.  He was always asleep by the time she got home but then she didn't usually get home before four or five.

There wasn't anyone in the living room although the television was still on.  Cindy thought she could hear someone exercising.  Could Meyer be playing with the kid this late?  Well, maybe the kid had woken up.   Cindy walked down the hall to the bedroom.  The door was half open and Meyer was banging the cashier June.  Meyer was on top–the only position he knew.  June had her eyes closed.  Sweat streaked Meyer’s broad back.  He was grunting.  Cindy hesitated at the door.  She could burst in and kill them both with her bare hands.  She took off one of her shoes and held it up.  She could bury her heel in Meyer's fat head.  She saw herself hitting him repeatedly until he lay dead while June screamed hysterically.  Just then June turned her head and looked at Cindy.       

Cindy took her other her heel off, put them in one hand and with her other hand brought her finger to her lips and made a “shhh” face. She backed away and quietly tip-toed down the stairs. At the bottom of the stairs she put her shoes back on.

She walked up a block to Charlie's, a small bar that stayed open after hours.  She ordered an Absolut vodka on the rocks and sipped it.  She wanted to be mad, but she wasn't mad.  She didn’t really feel as if she had the right to be mad.  She suddenly felt a pain in her stomach.  She barely made it to the Women's Room in time.  It seemed as if everything inside her emptied out.  She had a dull headache too.  That cocaine was not good.  For some reason, as she was sitting there, she thought about Chad.  Maybe she shouldn’t have fired him.  He was a good waiter.  Maybe he hadn’t stolen the cognac.  Maybe it was David.  She did not want to fire David.  She needed someone like David. She thought of waiters she had fired over the years.  She could see their faces but she couldn't remember any of the names.  No way could she fire June.  She needed June to babysit.  Reliable babysitters were worth their weight in gold and June weighed a lot.  Cindy laughed and shook her head.  She stood up and flushed.  She felt dizzy.  She'd have to give up the cocaine.  She couldn’t think straight anymore.  She went out to the end of the bar and called Meyer on her cell.  He said Hello in a sleepy voice.

"I'm going to be a little late," Cindy said.  "I thought I'd give you a call."

"Oh, thanks," Meyer said.  He was breathing heavily.  "When do you think you'll be home?"

Cindy looked at her watch.  She thought about having another drink.  "In about ten minutes," she said. 

"No rush."  Meyer said and hung up.

Cindy sat there, with the phone in her hand.  Her breath came in gasps.  Her throat was so dry she couldn't swallow.  If she could just get one more drink, she'd be all right.  She glanced up and saw her reflection in the mirror behind the bar.  She really did have a small head. She drew her finger across her throat. What if she slit her own throat? Who would care? Jim? Meyer? June? David? Would they cry at her funeral? June would cry. Ma would cry. Tomorrow she’d have David call Chad. She’d unfire him. She liked Chad actually. Jim was the one who had to go. She grabbed one of her ears and twisted it. She laughed at herself in the mirror. “Right ma?” she said.    

One to One

by Jay Merill

Señor José Fuentes sits with a folded smile today.  You cannot read his eyes.  They are not exactly closed not exactly open.  He is squinting and all you can see are the many tiny creases that lead inwards to where the eyes are hiding. It is Seven O Clock in the morning.  Señor Fuentes waits for the daily newspaper to be brought; he is impatient for his morning tea. There is a gleam inside him as he anticipates the smell of the print, the rustle of the paper, the comfort of the gossip he will find in it, the sharp taste of the tea he will wash it down with.  As I shift the bucket to the other side of the bed I sense his hopes.

I wash the floor around all the beds in the ward.  Señor Fuentes is in the bed next to the door.  When I take the bucket out and pour away the washing water into the drain I think of how he lies in his bed waiting for the arrival of small things.  These are what hold his life together now.  I imagine him attached to the world by a thin strip of sticky paper.  If it comes away he is left in pieces. What will happen if the things he waits for do not come?  Will he crumble?   When I return to the ward with the antiseptic spray and a soft cloth I see that there has been a development.  The face of Señor Fuentes is concealed behind his newspaper.  I hear that soft cluck clucking sound he makes with his lips when he is half contented.  When the tea appears there will come from his throat a little rasping croak of a noise.  This is his sound of full happiness.

Now I begin washing the doors of the six bedside cabinets starting with the one to the left of the door and returning last to Señor Fuentes whose bed is on the right.  When I have finished them all I pass out of the ward.  Still his tea has not come.  He is not clucking any more; he is as quiet as possible, listening for the sound of the trolley in the corridor, his longing now acute.  I see the silver gleam of the tea urn coming towards me like an old ship.  The trolley groans with its weight.  The nurse guides the wheels round the doorpost and into the ward, stops by the bed of Señor Fuentes.  I picture the joy he will feel at this moment and I wait at the door for the sound of his delight.  It comes, the strange croaking, more froglike than human if you stop and listen.   I laugh when I hear it and think about the predictability of things, how necessary this is for him, and maybe for all of us.

Soon I move on to the next ward with the antiseptic cleaner and my cloth.  There more patients lie in their beds, some propped on pillows, some concealed in blankets.  I suppose they are all waiting; that everyone in the hospital is waiting.  Some have passed beyond the small saviours of Señor Fuentes.  They are the ones who are only waiting to die.

For two weeks I have worked as a cleaner here at the hospital in Cusco.  There are many patients but Señor Fuentes is the one that I notice.  Even as I clean the floor on the far side of his ward and with my back to where he lies, I can’t help being aware that he is there. When I walk out again through the door I pass close to his bed and glance across quickly. I sense his thoughts.  When his bed has been made, he has had his shower, eaten lunch, they have switched on the tv for him to watch and there are no concerns to trouble him, his forehead is smooth with acceptance. Yet there is not a look of pleasure.  I understand that as all these things have taken place there is now nothing more to look forward to.  He does not cluck his lips or make the croaking sound low in his throat he simply closes his eyes and sleeps. He will sleep on for most of the afternoon.  His snores are a quiet soft purring.

In the evening I work in the paediatric wing and I will not see him again till the morning.  I do not know how he passes the late hours of the day. At eight pm after we have cleaned out the fridges in the kitchen we can leave.  I am staying with two girls of about my age, which is better than sleeping in the courtyard at the back of the hospital as some of the cleaners do.  It is said that it isn’t safe as there are many gangs in the neighbourhood and if they pass by in the night some will rob you as you sleep. Mayssa and Belén are the names of the girls and they live not too far from here.  We walk there together.  When I started working here Mayssa, who is fifteen, and a little older than me, asked me if I’d like to stop with them as they often have someone to stay as a lodger and their mother would not charge me very much.  Mayssa said since their father had left them two years ago, their mother was always in need of a little extra money to help out.  I share a small room with them and also a younger sister but it is not so bad as I have my own mattress next to the window and also it is clean. The three sisters sleep together in the double bed.

When we arrive at their place in the evenings we have some supper, usually Jaucha or tacu tacu or sometimes a dish of hot bean stew.  As the mother bustles about, preparing places at the table for us to sit down I find that I look forward to this meal very much and then I again think of Señor Fuentes and feel a sympathy for the pattern of his daily need.

Sometimes at the hospital I have to go and clean out the rooms where they store the laundry.  Today I must take the piles of bed linen and night clothes out of the cupboards and put fresh paper on the shelves.  It takes some time and I am late arriving at the wards. Señor Fuentes has already received his newspaper and his tea.  The paper is rolled up and lying on one side of the bed, the tea mug is empty. When I pass near him with the cleaning fluids and the buckets I am almost sure that he winks at me. The creased pouches beneath his eyes quiver.  I stop walking and hover near the foot of his bed.  Mother has always said it is rude to stare at anyone so I try to look at him discreetly from the side of my eye. No, there is nothing.  I believe he is sleeping.  I go over and wipe the paint work on the window sills and then I must clean the windows themselves.  They are always coated with a brownish dust even though they are washed every day.  At last I carry out the buckets and cleaning rags.  As I pass Señor Fuentes I see he has the rolled up paper in his hand now as though about to swat a fly.  There are no flies to be seen and I can’t help smiling.  Then, as I watch him I see him lift up his hand as if bearing the burden of a great weight.  I notice how huge his hand is, and how little energy there seems to be in it. After a minute or two I realise he is trying to attract my attention.  Surely he can’t be meaning me.  I look around.  Perhaps he wants to speak to one of the nurses.  Now he is waving the paper in a slow arc to left and right above his head like a man might do if he were drowning.  So I go across to him.                                                                                                                                     

‘Can I be of assistance Señor?’ I ask him in my most careful Spanish.                                                                  

‘What name do you have?’ Señor Fuentes asks me back.                                                                                         

 ‘I am called Chaska, Señor,’ I tell him.                                                                                                              

‘Please would you speak a bit louder,’ he says.  ‘My hearing is not so good.’                                                 

This is the first time a patient has spoken to me and it takes me a little while to feel at ease.                     

‘I am José Fuentes,’ he then tells me.  He lowers the paper now and releases it from his hand.  Then he nods to me and I understand he was just introducing himself.  I nod back and walk on out through the door.

This is the start of a recognition between myself and Señor Fuentes.  Each day when I come into the ward he nods to me and I am watching out for this.  We smile in a polite small way like acquaintances at a social function. And I have noticed that we acknowledge no one else like this.  Also it is unusual as in general we cleaners are apart and do not mix.  The patients in particular, are aloof from us. Now my head is ready to nod as I come through the door into the ward in the mornings and I am never disappointed for Señor Fuentes is always ready too and earnestly looking out for me.  I have come to see that my salutation is a thing of importance to Señor Fuentes; an extra thing he waits each day to receive.  I am honoured and also made nervous by this. My contract at the hospital is for a three- month period only.  Then I must go home to Cajamarca. I am working here for this time so I can save enough to purchase my ticket.  My mother will need me then.  In January Mother is expecting twins.  She has asked for me to come and it is the plan that I will go to her. As I cannot remain here after that time I feel a little sorry.  Señor Fuentes has no idea my stay will be so short and yet I do not wish to discourage his friendliness. I see his eyes anticipating me as I enter the ward in the mornings.  Before the paper, before the tea arrives, his waits to greet me with a wave of his hand.

There is a morning that he calls me over.  It surprises me to hear my own name on his lips although I gave it him myself.  As I go to him I have the strangest feeling. As if he is not really there where I can see him and I am not here where I walk across the floor.  I have this sense of being in another era, or rather in a dimension where all of this we are going through is occurring after all in a different time and place and is not now happening.                                                                                         

‘Good morning Chaska my dear,’ Señor Fuentes says to me.  I wonder if you would do a little something for me today.  Just an errand.’                                                                                                               

‘Yes,’ I agree.                                                                                                                                                                   

He then reaches out for a small packet lying next to him on the bed.  His hand shakes very much today I see.  He then passes this packet to me.  It is only a tissue paper wrapping and I open it easily.  Inside is a small gold crucifix and I see that the link with the chain has broken.                                                                                                                                                 

‘So Chaska would you take this crucifix for me to the menders and ask them to fix the chain where it has come apart.  There is a good place very near the hospital.  Let me show you.’  He has a map and points out a street on it, which I see is only one block away.                                                                               

‘I have a break at mid day and I will take it then,’ I tell him.                                                                          

‘You are a kind girl Chaska,’ Señor Fuentes says.

At the menders they tell me that they can let me have it back tomorrow.  I ask if it will be ready by eight o clock tonight because tomorrow I do not think I can come for it. They agree to this.  The reason is that tomorrow is the day my brother Uchu is to meet me in Cusco and we are spending the whole day together and are going to all the best places in the city, like tourists.  We will have lunch out somewhere not near the hospital. I let Señor Fuentes know about this when I get back and he does not mind.                                                                                                                                                                

‘The next day then,’ he says.  And he is very interested to hear about my brother, what he looks like, what kind of a guy he is, how long a time it is since we saw one another.                                                       

I tell Señor Fuentes of my excitement at seeing Uchu and that I do not know how I will go to sleep tonight.  He smiles in a sad way and I sense that he feels himself old, suddenly aware that he has lost much enthusiasm for the things of life.

I’m up early on the morning I am to meet my brother.  I did not sleep much during the night, as I had expected.  But even so, I could not force myself to stay in bed once I saw the flush of dawn at the window.  I have already been in Cusco for a few weeks but Uchu was not able to come sooner than this.  The first day I arrived I walked round many small hotels and guest houses asking for work and was told that they were looking for cleaners at the local hospital. I went there and they were happy to take me on. So here I am.  Cusco is a large city.  Since Lima I have not been in such built up busy places. I feel all tremorous about meeting Uchu as I have not seen him for quite a while.  Will he be very different?  I know one thing about him, the main thing, I should say.  Uchu is a serious minded guy and I am sure this cannot have changed.  My instinct tells me that I will know him as soon as I see him.  He may look a little altered from before.  He will be older and with much more experience, which also changes one’s appearance I think. But I am confident that even so I will recognise him the minute he appears in this room. The room is the café adjoining the railway station. It is here that I sit and wait for him.  I am far too early.  It is in my character to be always at a meeting place some time before the meeting is to take place.

When Uchu arrives in the doorway it is as if we were never apart.  He is taller and older but I would know him anywhere.  I am happy about this.  As I rush towards him across the floor I see him hesitate.  Perhaps his hesitation is a good thing.  It is what restrains me.  After a second or two he does look pleased to see me. I should not feel anything negative about his moment’s circumspection.  It is in Uchu’s nature to be cautious, I already knew that and must not be at all dismayed therefore.  If he had run to greet me, as I to him, that would have been the remarkable thing, wouldn’t it.  I know I am far more immediate in my senses than my brother and I should not feel hurt.  He is just himself.  After I have given myself a moment’s talking to I feel quite comfortable again and I go across to him, almost as openly as I began.  I take his hand in both of mine and smile into his eyes.                                                                                                                                                                        

‘Do you find me changed?’ he at once wants to know.

‘No,’ I tell him. ‘You are exactly the same careful person, only more handsome.’

‘And you dearest Chaska are more beautiful,’ Uchu says.

We laugh together.  My forgetful laugh and Uchu’s self-reflecting one.                                                                           

‘What would you like to do?’ he asks me.

I had told him by letter that I wished to see certain important places in Cusco so he would be prepared.  I’ve already planned where I would like us to see.   ‘Koricancha,’ I say.  So that is where we go.

Earlier in the year I went to Machu Picchu and since then I’ve developed a taste for visiting archaeological sites.  I am enchanted with Koricancho, which means Temple of the Sun.  We look at the round and perfect wall which still remains.  It is said there was a courtyard of gold and the walls were built of golden plaques.  The thought of such opulence amazes me.  I see that Uchu is looking thoughtful.

‘What is it?’ I ask him.

He does not reply at first then says,  ‘And where, little girl, are the Inca now?’

I say nothing.  He is entitled to his ways of seeing but I myself do not wish to lose my sense of enchantment.

Uchu continues in this thoughtful mood and doesn’t say very much then he suddenly comes out with, ‘Even a room entirely filled with gold will not save you.’ 

And I know he is speaking of Atahualpa the last Inca king who it is said had such a room to offer to Pizarro when the conquistadores came.

We then walk round the church of Santo Domingo mostly in silence. This is Our day together and I find him a little on the miserable side.  I admit this privately to myself.

Coming later to the main square of Cusco, Uchu cheers up a little. We have some snacks. Rocoto relleno, plus one or two other favourites. I have not tasted empanadas more delicious. It seems a long time since I have eaten any of these.  Uchu tells me that he is not himself returning to Cajamarca, not yet at any rate, and I feel surprise as I thought he was planning to go home at last. I ask him if he doesn’t miss being home.  He does not speak for quite a few moments and I am just thinking he intends to say nothing when he suddenly takes me by the hand and looks at my face intently.

‘Little sister,’ he says, and remembering how he used to call me that in the old days we both smile.

‘Everything changes,’ he says.  ‘We can therefore never go back anywhere.’

I say I do not think things change so much as he is telling me but Uchu says that I am sentimental and it is wishful thinking in order to protect my dream.

We walk round the centre of Cusco.  There is the sound of much traffic, the calls of street vendors, the chatter of those passing by.  ‘Let’s go to drink coffee,’ I say and I feel I’d like to talk some more in a place which is quieter. 

‘In a minute,’ Uchu says.

‘It’s just that I want to talk,’ I admit to him.

‘Walking thoughts are not the same thing as sitting thoughts,’ he tells me quickly.  ‘I can speak more truthfully while we’re on the move.’ 

So we walk on and on, moving to a less busy street and finally ending up on the Plaza San Francisco where we stroll along together by the fountains.  The sound of the water pleases me. 

‘Anyway,’ I say to Uchu, ‘Water is very helpful for speaking and I am sure the best thoughts of all will come to us while we are here.’

He agrees then after a pause says how he feels he has to keep moving.  I ask him if he thinks this constant movement is such a good thing.  Uchu says he supposes it would be better to have balance but tells me he just can’t seem to stop. 

‘Why is that?’ I ask him.  My voice must be very serious for he laughs and calls me ‘Little Sister’ again.                                                                                                                                                                               

‘I think it is because I am afraid,’ he confides suddenly, his voice gone quiet, and I squeeze his hand.  For a moment I think he is going to cry but he does not, he just clears his throat and speaks a little bit louder.  ‘It is true.  I am afraid,’ he repeats, his voice now more clear.

I go through this in my mind, then I say to Uchu, ‘Yes, I understand what you are saying and the thing that makes you frightened.’ 

He looks at me with surprise I see, as though he does not expect to hear anyone speak in sympathy, least of all his little sister.                                                                                           

‘Change is the thing that you dread.’

‘Yes, you’re right,’ he agrees then goes on to tell me that he is afraid of getting too attached to anything because it will only let you down.  ‘And the more you pursue it the less you will find what you are looking for. Nothing is lasting. And you’ll find you have suffered in vain because what you seek is nowhere to be found.’

I notice that now his voice has some excitement in it and I realise that though he has this fear he likes to talk of it and is pleased to share these thoughts with someone.

‘That is why I want to keep travelling,’ Uchu says.  ‘To keep on travelling without looking back is the happiest way to be. Believe me, that is the way of least regret.’

I remind him he spoke earlier of having balance and I say I do not think someone would achieve balance if they followed his advice. I become quite angry for a second saying this is the real world where people have real feelings.  I can’t finish and end up by crying. 

Uchu thinks for a minute and then he tells me he will reflect on this.  After a short silence he says he is already sure what I say is right and he well knows that he is in danger of being one sided and rigid in his views. 

I know he has always been intense and has struggled to have greater flexibility and lightness but still, no-one can achieve perfection, not even him.

So I tell him that he shouldn’t be too hard on himself and to keep on with the travelling if that helps him.   

He looks slightly glad to hear what I say and slightly ashamed at the same time.  He squeezes my hand and tells me I am an amazing girl and I cry a little more then and Uchu wipes away my tears with the corner of his tee shirt sleeve.

That evening he comes with me to Mayssa and Belén’s house and their mother makes us a special dish of spicy pork.  We all talk pleasantly afterwards and all are interested to learn of Uchu’s plan to travel north to Huancabamba to visit a curandero

When it is very late Uchu kisses me goodbye and says he enjoyed our talk more than he can say and it has given him fresh things to consider.  I make myself say that I hope he will come to Cajamarca to visit; that he will do this for me if not for himself.  I stand at the door with him and then he goes away into the night.

Next morning we three girls walk to the hospital at 7am to begin our morning work.  I feel the little gold crucifix in the pocket of my overall and am happy to think of how pleased Señor Fuentes will be when I give it to him.  I practically run into the ward with the crucifix in my hand and then I stop.  His bed is empty, stripped even of the blankets.  Also his name plate is absent. The head nurse sees me and comes over and says that Señor Fuentes died early this morning and that he told her he wanted me to have the crucifix.  She asks me if I understand what he meant?  I explain what had happened and show her the crucifix which is hanging down from my hand by its chain.  My hand is trembling, my whole body is shaking.  The ward around me is turning dark.  And then I am sitting in a chair in the corridor, the nurse telling me I had fainted.  She says she is sorry.  She says it is not really a good idea to get too emotionally involved with patients but she understands.  I am still very young.  She admires the crucifix, which is beautiful, delicate.  Then puts it on for me and strokes my arm.

Christmas at Norma’s Pizza

by Manek R. Mistry

She knows her staff steals from the register.  Not a lot—surprising, because stoners can’t always manage subtlety—but enough to be noticeable, even though she doesn’t actually balance the till. 

She’s inclined to let it slide, if it doesn’t get worse.  They’re all just kids, and she pays them shit, and besides, what’s she going to do—make them spy on each other?  Set up video cameras? Hire a detective?  She hasn’t talked to Mark about it, but she knows what he’d say: fire them all.  Wouldn’t do any good though; she’d just have to start watching the new ones.

She lights a cigarette and leans back in her chair, blowing smoke into the pizza-tinted air.  Her office—a cramped, windowless firetrap at the back of the restaurant—is messier than usual, filled with Christmas presents waiting to be wrapped.  She could make one of the girls do it, maybe.  Kelly’s neat and organized; she looks like she’d make nice crisp packages.  Have to pay her extra, though, because she wouldn’t get any tips, stuck back here instead of out front.

She regrets buying the big flat-screen for Mark, now that he’s acting like a jerk.  She knows he’s having an affair—with the skinny bitch who does the books at Cartwright’s—but she doesn’t care, so why does he have to take his guilt out on her by being such an asshole?

Ok, maybe she cares a little bit, but it’s not like she hasn’t cheated on him, too, before the kids were born, so she can’t confront him— that would open a whole can of worms.  Maybe she can return the TV; the receipt’s got to be around here somewheres. 

She rests her cigarette on the ashtray— a mess of clay and glaze Petey made in third grade— and shifts papers around on her desk.  Most of them are invoices she hasn’t paid yet— some green, some pink, some white, all different sizes.  Why can’t they make them all the same?  She comes across a letter from her lawyer— have to deal with that, sometime— and the notice from the health department.  After a minute, she gives up looking.  Let him have the damn TV; he won’t be a jackass forever.  The affair will fizzle—like they do—and he’ll get all sweet and affectionate for a while.  That’ll be annoying, too, but then things will go back to normal, and he might as well have a nice TV then.

She retrieves her cigarette, picks up the newspaper, and turns to the puzzle page.  This Sunday morning ritual proves she’s middle-aged: the younger Norma would have ridiculed any of her friends who wasted time on the crossword, or the jumble, but she’s come to like it, and it doesn’t hurt anyone.  This morning, she can’t find a pen, though.  How can there not be a single pen in here?  She shifts the papers around again, hunts through the desk drawers, and checks her purse: nothing. 

Annoyed, she gets up and walks through the kitchen.  It’s all stainless steel, but not one bit of it is shiny like it was when she and Mark bought the place all those years ago.  What the hell had they been thinking?  Still, dumb as they were, it had worked out, and the pressure’s less, now that the kids are grown and the house paid off.  Maybe she can hire someone to come in here and scrub everything so it shines again, just to make it look nice and clean, like it was back then, before the residue of a thousand pizzas had accumulated.

She pushes out through the swinging door and threads her way between close-packed tables—the waitresses have always complained that there are too many—to the corner where the register sits.  The cup where they keep the pens is empty.  Damn it!

Just then, someone knocks on the front door.  Through the tinted glass, she sees big snow boots, a burly parka, and a scraggly snow-covered beard sticking out from inside the puffy hood.  It’s Ugly Beans, a guy who sometimes stops by for large quantities of pot that he deals to the college kids down in Amherst.

She gets her keys out, unlocks the door, and opens it, letting in a swirl of snow.  “Hey,” she says. “Need something?”

He nods, and she lets him in and locks the door behind him.

“Don’t have much on hand,” she says.  “You gotta call ahead.”

He stamps snow off his boots and pulls his hood off, revealing a bleeding lip and a pair of black eyes so fresh they look painted on.

“Holy crap, Beaner!”  She examines him.  “You want some ice for your face?  What happened?”

“Yeah, I know.”  He touches his lip with his fingers.  “Pretty bad, huh?”  His voice is thick; his words difficult to understand.  He holds one arm flat across his body, but she can’t tell through the thick coat if it’s his arm or his gut, or both.

She leads him into the kitchen and turns on the tap.  “Maybe some cold water first.”  She finds a rag under the sink and holds it out.  “Wash some of that blood off.”

“Is it still bleeding?”  He touches his lip again, then takes the cloth.

“You got blood in your beard, too.  What happened?”  She grabs a bowl, walks to the ice machine, and fills it.  “Here.”

He thanks her, takes a handful, and holds it to his eyes.  “Fuck, that hurts.”

He smells rotten, like he’s slept in a tub of rancid meat for a week, and his fingernails are black with grime. “Who was it?” she asks.

“Tiny and them guys.”

“You owe him?”

“He thinks I do.”

She nods. “I guess that’s what matters.  Wanna sit down?”  She guides him out of the kitchen to her office and clears papers off a chair. “I’ve got a story about Tiny. It’s a Christmas story, sort of.”

Ugly Beans tilts his head back, a cube of ice held to each eye with red fingers, the bowl in his lap. He’s undone his coat, but he still pins his left elbow to his ribs, like he’s wearing an invisible sling. “The one about the Santa at the mall?”

“Better.” She sits down at her desk across from him. “Your arm ok?”

“Yeah.” Dark threads of blood dribble from his beard down his neck and disappear into his grubby clothes. “What’s the story?”

“Back when his kids were little he had a Christmas party at his house—he had this big old house he got when his mom died.”  She remembers Tiny’s mom—short skirts, long legs, big boobs.  Rumor was she slept with all the dads in town.  “This guy Jimmy—you know Jimmy?—he got wasted and stepped on some presents under the tree. So Tiny’s all pissed off, and he pulls a knife and pokes Jimmy in the gut.  The cops come, and Jimmy goes to the hospital and gets stitched up and he’s fine.  Then—”

“Tiny go to jail?”

“Yeah,” she says.  “Just a year in county.  It was his first felony assault, I think.”

“First time he got caught, you mean.”

“Probably.  But listen to this: the cops can’t find the knife, so they seal off the house and come back with a warrant, and they go through the whole place, the garage, the yard, everything.  No knife.” 

He shifts in his chair, head still tilted back.

She can see a vein thumping in his neck, like there’s something inside trying to get out, and she wonders what he’s on.  Not just a little weed; something harder, she thinks.  “Turns out he put it in the tree like an ornament, just resting on a branch next to Santa and Rudolph.”

Ugly Beans snorts.  “What an asshole.”

“Yeah,” she agrees.  “Smart, though.  He went to college.”

I went to college.”  He drops the ice cubes back in the bowl.  The area around his eyes has grown darker and puffier. “UCLA.” 

“No shit?”

He nods.  “Engineering.  Anyway. How much you got for me?”

“Ten ounces, maybe. If that.” She opens a drawer, finds her scale, and sets it on the mess of papers.  Then, bending over in her chair, she reaches into the low cupboard behind her and takes out the locked metal box that holds her stash. When she turns back to face him, he’s looming over her with what looks at first like a machete. The blade is long and rusty with one bright sharp edge gleaming silver in the dim light.  His coat is unzipped, and his b.o.— rancid meat—is stronger and more oppressive than before.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“What the hell?”  She stares at him, more annoyed than afraid, her box of pot resting on her lap.  It’s not a machete, she realizes; it’s a lawnmower blade, with duct tape wrapped around one end to make a handle.  “Seriously? This is what you want to do?”

“I’m sorry,” he says again.  The tip of the lawnmower blade dips toward the floor, and he jerks it back up again.

“You’re a dick,” she says.

“I know. I’m really, really sorry.”  His hands are shaking, and he grips his makeshift weapon so tightly that his red fingers turn yellow-white.

“I could prob’ly get that away from you.” She’s got a baseball bat, but it’s behind the stack of unwrapped presents.  There’s also a revolver in the bottom drawer, missing its firing pin; now she wishes she’d got around to fixing it.

He waves the lawnmower blade at her face. “Don’t try. I don’t wanna hurt you.”

She puts the box on the desk. “Get out of here.”

“Open it,” he says.

“You open it, asshole.” She throws her keys at him. He has to bend over to pick them up, but she doesn’t bother making a move.  She’s pissed, but she feels sorry for him too, she realizes as she watches him fumble to unlock the box.  Stinky, smelly, beat-up loser.

“Where’s the cash?” he asks.

“In my hairy cunt.”  She bites the word out, so the ‘T’ stays in the air between them.

“Come on, Norma.” He holds the weapon up, but he’s still focused on the box. Finally he gets it open. “I need that cash.”

She glares at him and folds her arms.

He scoops ziplock bags of weed out of the box and shoves them into the pockets of his parka. The blade flops sideways and hits her on the cheek, and she jerks back, lifting her fingers to the spot, eyes stinging with the sudden pain. “Ow!”

“Sorry!”  He jams the last baggie in his pocket. “God, Norma, I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to…”

“Asshole,” she mutters.  Her cheek is numb and wet with blood, and her right eye is tearing up. “Fuck!”

“I swear I didn’t mean to…  Just give me the cash, and I’ll get out of here.”

She finds her purse, pulls out a roll of bills wrapped in rubber bands, and throws it at him.

He catches it, crams it in his jeans pocket, and backs toward the hall.  Lowering the fake machete, he hesitates in the doorway.  “You still got that monster bong here? Wanna smoke a bowl with me before I go?”

“No, I don’t want to smoke a fucking bowl with you,” she hisses.  “What the fuck’s wrong with you?  Are you retarded?”

He zips the lawnmower blade under his coat and pins it to his side with his elbow “I’ll pay you back,” he says.  “No hard feelings.”

“Fuck you,” she growls.  “Get out of here.”

He looks as though he’s about to say something, but then he turns without speaking and walks away.  She closes her eyes, and feels sweat prickling her skin. Ten ounces, plus—how much cash?—at least four hundred. He shoulda taken the flat-screen TV; it’s worth more. Harder to carry, though.

She hears a noise, opens her eyes, and sees him standing in the doorway again. “What?”

“I can’t get out,” he says sheepishly. 

“Jesus Christ!” She grabs her keys off the desk, pushes past him, and marches through the kitchen into the dining room. “Give me the cash back and I’ll open the door.”

“Norma, I can’t.” He unzips his coat, reaching inside for the lawnmower blade.

“Aw, fuck, don’t bother.” She unlocks the door, holds it open for him, and smacks the back of his head as he walks through into bright snowy daylight.

When he turns, his whole face is an apology, overlaid with blood and bruises. “Norma…”

“Yeah, yeah,” she says. “Whatever.”

They stand there for a few seconds, looking at each other as snow covers his balding head.  “Merry Christmas,” he says finally.

“Get the fuck out of here.” She wishes she had something to throw at him.

He looks at her for another few seconds, then lifts his hood, turns, and trudges away through the snow, his oversized boots leaving fat footprints in the dirty white drifts.

She closes the door, locks it, and watches him cross the street, then walks down the smelly dark hallway to the bathroom.  She flips the light switch, turns on the faucet, and examines her cheek.  He nicked the skin, and there’s a red spot already darkening into a bruise. “Shit.” She rests her hands on the sink, shaking.  Without any warning, she starts to cry; tears stream down her face, and soon she’s sobbing, wishing she could go home and expect to find Mark there. She’d curl up with him on the couch, and tell him about Ugly Beans and his ghetto sword, and he’d hold her and give her a kiss, or storm out to find the bastard and beat the crap out of him for her.

But she can’t do that, because he’s probably off with the skinny bookkeeper, so instead she washes and dries her face and returns to the office. She pulls the flat-screen out of its box, carefully separating it from the Styrofoam packing, then finds her bat behind the stack of other presents, and takes a deep breath.  The shock of each blow travels up past her elbows as she hammers it again and again, clobbering the screen until every millimeter of glass is cracked. Then, sweating and panting, she repacks the TV, safeguarding it with the Styrofoam, and closes the box.  I’ll get Kelly to wrap it, she thinks, and I’ll put it under the tree.  Mark will love it.  I can’t wait to see his face.

A Day at the Races

by A. Scanlan O'Hearn

When Jimmy said they’d spend a day at the races, Jaycee thought of the expression, It’s a dog’s life, and then, what the fuck is that about? Any dog she ever knew was layin’ in the dirt in a hole-strewn back yard on a short leash next to an empty bowl.  But Jimmy really did mean a day at the races, not like they’d stand trackside or sit in the grandstand looking down on the horses. Definitely not the clubhouse.  He meant the OTB.   You’re my goddamn lucky rabbit’s foot, he said leading her by the arm to put down for the first trifecta, then forgot she was there and left Jaycee to wander off. She might have been the only female in the place, everyone either old or male or both standing around faces bent over racing forms, or staring at screens then running to windows before the bell to win or lose again. Jimmy’d find her when he needed her, so she made her way to the ‘cafetorium.’  At least they had beer.

From her table, Jaycee scanned the crowd, mostly they were looking at her.  She knew she still looked good and tried to stay fit, keep her hair fashionably cut, wore jeans and heels when she was goin’ out. That’s the way Jimmy liked it, too. If I wanted a mother fuckin’ mother, I’da stayed home, he told her.  You don’t got kids, do ya?  When she said yeah, but long gone, that satisfied him. They’d been living together for a year.

A young woman at a corner table caught Jaycee’s eye. A bit pretty, alone.  The girl was scanning the crowd too.  Jaycee tried to picture her man, maybe an older guy who’d treat her right for the day, maybe another Jimmy who needed luck.  Maybe the girl really was alone, too, just here for the beer. The girl continued to look around, then oddly landed her gaze on Jaycee and smiled. Uh oh, one of those. Then Jaycee knew she wasn’t. The girl was on her way over. Jaycee put her head down, pretending to rummage through her bag.  When she looked up the girl was at her table, a real shit eatin’ grin on her face. Like she was stoned, or just coming off somethin’.

 Jaycee wanted to get up and walk away. She wanted to call Dean, the one person she could call at any time and he’d answer. She’d raised him after all. But the girl’s face made Jaycee stick. 

‘Can I show you somethin’?’

‘I’m sorry?’ The girl was prettier than Jaycee first thought, but tired, pale, her eyes heavy, like she just woke up in a car outside. Probably did.

‘There’s somethin’ I need to show you,’ and the girl put her hand on Jaycee’s arm, reaching and then resting it there heavy. They stayed like that a second. Again, Jaycee wanted to leave.

‘It’s this way,’ and with that the girl was looking over her shoulder to be sure Jaycee followed.  Jaycee sat a second.  She wanted to call Dean, reached into her bag. The girl was back.

‘Please.’

Everything told her not to. She’d been that girl, had run that game herself. 

‘This better be good,’ and Jaycee got up from her seat, slung the plastic cup of beer back. 

By the time she had downed it the girl was out the cafetorium door and into the crowd under the monitors, now denser than before, people running from bet to bet as the chances at winning grew smaller and smaller.  Jaycee couldn’t see Jimmy anywhere, but they all blended together, now a few more women, too, all eyes on the screens above their heads.  Jaycee spotted the girl twenty or so feet ahead, looking again over her shoulder to be sure Jaycee was behind her.  She thought for a minute she’d duck out.  It wasn’t too hot and she could wait by the car, although it might be a couple of hours, but the girl kept moving forward, and Jaycee followed.  Jaycee fished around in her bag for the phone.  She’d call Dean.  He’d talk her out of it, or through it.

Ma, what’s the matter? I’m workin’

Dean?

Yeah, Ma, this isn’t a great time, can I call-

Dean, I’m about to get into somethin’

Ma, I can’t talk.  I’ll give you a call later.

Dean, you know when you’re headed for somethin’ you shouldn’t?

Ma, really, I gotta go.

The girl entered the ladies room and Jaycee followed.  Son of a bitch.  He had no time for her.  She couldn’t blame him, though, twenty-five, carefree.  Living the good life, the one she gave him and lost herself. The girl was right inside the door when Jaycee swung it open. Then she was standing firmly rooted right in front of the stalls, her arms nearly wrapped around herself twice.

‘What’re you sellin’?’

‘Huh?’  The girl looked at Jaycee like she’d never seen her; her face had gone sheet white and Jaycee noticed for the first time her clothes were dirty, her hair around her neck matted and sweaty.  The girl started to shake and Jaycee knew she had a drug addict on her hands.  The girl didn’t move, stood stuck with her feet planted on the tile floor.

‘It’s there.’

‘Listen, honey, I don’t want it whatever it is’ and Jaycee reached into her purse.  She’d give her a twenty and get out.  She shouldn’t have come, but it was something about the girl, the way she reminded Jaycee of being young, although Jaycee suddenly wondered if being young had been all that great.

‘Just look at it, that’s all,’ and the girl, her feet still unmoving, her body in a gesture so pathetic, the way she reached, Jaycee thought she’d fall over. 

‘There, in the last sink, ‘ and Jaycee looked down the wall past the stalls to where a bank of sinks ran under some dim lights, the bulbs above mostly dark.  Jaycee could make something out in the last sink.  Was the girl trying to sell her clothes?  It was a dark mass of something and then Jaycee thought for a minute it was moving.  She moved closer to look without getting too close, suddenly afraid of something biting her.  She’d known of people selling exotic pets.  The girl could have brought her boyfriend’s cobra, for Christ’s sake.

Brown and crumpled paper towels filled the sink and now Jaycee knew something in there was moving.  She could make out what looked like the arm of something, dark and wet. No, she wasn’t interested in any reptiles, thank you. The thing let out a cry and Jaycee jumped.   A cat?  Whatever it was it was in distress, the cry a half choking sound, it reminded Jaycee of something.  And then it hit her. It was a baby, the fuckin’ thing was covered in blood, just about dried.  It was dark, maybe black, as Jaycee looked closer, she could see its arms and legs entangled in the towels, its mouth sucking on a wadded up corner, the thing struggling to survive.

‘Are you fuckin’ kiddin’ me?’ she turned to the girl.  But the girl was gone.

Even if It’s Only Me

by Lance Dyzak

Carolyn read somewhere that in the ‘90s mothers were dropping their babies into public toilets. Tiny corpses discovered by the janitors and covered in wet toilet paper, the umbilical cord still attached. And she reassured herself with this knowledge – Steven could have had it worse.

She laid the suitcase at the end of the bed. The hard-covered American Tourister that her father had given her when she went away for college. She remembered the old excitement of snapping open the catches. The hinges yawned as she unfolded it, and the smell of it was musty, like a vacant motel room. Carolyn ran her fingers over the satin lining and felt the current of her adrenaline like an electricity. She’d sent Steven out to ride his bike and told him not to come back for an hour so that she could concentrate. All morning she’d been clumsy with anticipation. When she’d pulled the suitcase away from the closet door, she banged the wooden jamb so hard that it chipped the paint. For the first time it seemed possible. This was step one. Step one was required before you could get to step two. Step one meant that she was on her way. Step one was part of the process.

The sun poured in through the bushes in front of her bedroom window and left their pattern on the wall. The bedroom was spotless; everything dusted and cleaned, the bed sheets pulled taught against the mattress and tucked into the corners. The bedcover, with its pattern of country flowers, was flat against the sheets like a canvas. There were no distractions.

She might have run around the world. Instead, she went to Steven’s room.

Just the essentials, enough to get him through. She went to his dresser at the far wall. All of his winter clothes were in the bottom drawers. She tugged the lowest one open and took out two of his sweaters and a long-sleeved thermal tee-shirt. She gathered them into her arms and went back down the hallway. It would have been more efficient to bring the suitcase into Steven’s room, but it felt better to do it this way; in steps. Every round-trip with another load of essentials was one more step. She went from the lowest drawer to the highest: two pairs of jeans, a hooded sweatshirt, three undershirts, three pairs of underwear, three pairs of socks. She went to his closet: two buttoned-down dress shirts, one pair of dress pants, his dress shoes, his winter coat, a stocking cap, a pair of gloves. She went into the hallway bathroom: his toothbrush, toothpaste, a comb, a container of shampoo. Slowly the suitcase filled. It was so big, and everything he had seemed small in it. She didn’t notice Steven behind her.

“You’re acting weird,” he said. The noise made her jump.

“Jesus kid, you scared me,” she said, and tried to smile. “What did you say?”

“Why are you acting weird?”

Carolyn went for her bathroom.

“I’m not acting weird,” she said, over her shoulder. “I thought I told you not to come back—”

“It’s been like two hours. How long will we be gone?” He stood in the doorway, thumbs hooked into the front belt loops of his jeans.

“I told you, I don’t know yet.”

She’d told him the week prior that they were going away on a long trip to see some friends. It was such a simple thing to tell him then, this shapeless thing that they were going to do together. But when he’d walked in just now she was unguarded and lightheaded from the idea of it. She didn’t trust what she might say to him. Everything rang in a high pitch. She knew he’d want more details, had prepared for more details, but now she pushed the details away. Carolyn shut the door right in his face. He knew which lines not to cross. The floor tiles were cool on her bare feet.

“What about school?” His voice reduced, dribbled in through the cracks. His feet little dark spots at the bottom, flitting in and out of the grim light beyond the door.

“We’ll worry about all that later.” The shower walls were lined with ceramic tiles just like the floor, all blues and grays. “This is summer vacation,” she said, speaking to the tiles. “School isn’t going anywhere.” She waited in the bathroom until she heard him leave. Then Carolyn went out and closed the suitcase, snapping everything shut. It wasn’t like him to interrupt. She saw that he was spooked, and that she needed to be careful.

He came out of his room a few hours later. Carolyn made turkey sandwiches and served them with corn chips and cherry Pepsi. They sat at the kitchen island under the dull glow of the pendant lamp. Steven ate slowly, taking small bites as Carolyn studied him. He was fidgeting with the digital watch that she’d given him for his birthday, breathing through his mouth like he did whenever he was concentrating. The questions from that morning had all dried up. The watch didn’t keep great time and he was always adjusting it. She listened to his breathing and the little electronic chirps. She cleared the dishes (the little bites up to the edge of the crusts), and Steven wiped down the table.

That night they watched a rerun of All in the Family on the Me-TV channel. The one where Edith asks Archie how he wants his bowling shoes laced and Archie tells her what’s the difference? Steven went to bed without being told, something that Carolyn had instilled early on. All the lights were off in the living room; there was just the flickering and the steady murmur from the television. Carolyn watched as he slid down from the recliner and disappeared into the hallway. Carolyn turned off the television a short time later. As she passed Steven’s room, she could hear him moving around on his mattress.

She was glad that she’d decided to put fresh sheets on her bed. It was satisfying to feel them fold away neatly as she turned them down. They were cool on her feet just like the bathroom tiles, and she loved the way they made her feel enveloped, neatly folded. But Carolyn’s mind wouldn’t slow down enough for sleep. She’d taken a pill, but her thoughts still somehow slogged through and ping-ponged around in her skull.

She and Marc on a day trip to Door County. They’d taken the ferry out to Rock Island and hiked around the lighthouse. Early October and the temperature just above freezing, but warmed by the sun inside of their ski jackets. Marc with his beard grown out for the deer season. Inside the little tavern with the worn leather and the ancient dark timber.

 Hey… he’d said, after she finally told him. Hey, hey, hey… Just kept saying it over and over again, like a lullaby. Kept wiping his beard with his thumbs. The tears leaking out as if she were cracked open. Keeping it is the right thing to do he’d said. I love you he’d said. I’ll be a father for you he’d said. We can still get through school. You can still have a career. This will all work out.

The bizarre way Steven had seemed to her as a baby. Sexless in the beginning. The nose and the ears too big for the face. The skin dry. The strange way it would slough off around the scalp. An old man, shrunken and useless.

It. That’s how she’d referred to him during those first days. There were two times she’d said it out loud. The doctor presenting him like a waiter with a bottle of wine. Why is it so red? Her limbs distended and obscene against the whiteness of the recovery room. Marc reading off baby names. I don’t give a shit, Marc. Call it whatever you want. The nurse excusing herself and the click of her shoes. She had to train herself to call him by his name. It became a taboo word, like fuck or cunt. But it’d taken months before she could cleanse the word entirely from the way she thought about him – Steven.

Outside her door she heard the sharp snap of the hallway light switch, and a cold anxiety passed through her. It meant Steven had had another nightmare. He began calling for her, as he always did. His voice, tinny and stranded in the hallway, normally irritated her during these episodes, and she would yell to him from under her bed sheets to go back to sleep. But tonight was unlike those nights. A few empty seconds passed. Carolyn took a deep breath and held it against the weight of the silence. Then she heard the soft thud of him backing up against her door and the hiss of his body sliding down the length of it. She rose slowly and crossed over the room toward him. When she opened the door she could feel his weight pushing it inward, as if the hinges were spring-loaded. He rolled back slightly – crouched into a ball with his arms slung over his knees – and lolled his head up toward her. He was wearing the footed pajamas again.

“I thought I told you to put those in the Goodwill box,” she said. “You’re twelve years old now.” He was picking the lint balls off of the sleeves.

“It was the guy with the big head again. He was standing in the doorway.” The big-headed guy was a frequent visitor. Carolyn looked down the hall toward Steven’s bedroom and knelt down beside him.

“Look at your door,” she said. “Is he there now?”

“No,” he said, into the crook between his knees. She nudged him on the shoulder. “C’mon then. Back to your room.”

“Can you tuck me in?”

Carolyn stood over him and ran her hands through her hair, holding it in a heavy, wiry ball above her forehead.

“Yeah, I can do that,” she said, and started down the hallway toward his room. She turned back toward him at the doorway. Steven was trailing timidly behind, using one hand to trace the length of the wall with his fingertips. “C’mon kid, I’m tired.”

She opened his closet door and yanked on the pull chain for the light. The metal grommet leapt up and rattled against the bulb. She pushed the door forward with the tips of her fingers and let it swing slowly open to let the light pour out. She’d forgotten that his closet was now mostly empty and the sight of it caught her for a moment.

“Hey mom…”

“Hmm? Yeah?” She looked back over her shoulder. Steven walked to his bed along the far wall and went back in stiffly under the covers.

“What’s it like in Nebraska?”

She didn’t mean to laugh, but it was so absurd. She’d never really thought about it. “I just—” she started. His expression shifted and she knew that he was puzzled by her reaction. He’d assumed she’d deliver something a bit more standard. Rolling hills? Omaha?

She made a gesture toward the closet door. “Look, he’s not in here either.” Steven rolled toward the wall, which gave Carolyn an odd sense of relief. “There’s nothing to be afraid of, it was just a dream.”

“I’m not afraid,” he said.

“Then why are you bothering me?” She stepped past him. “We’ve got a big day tomorrow so you should get some sleep.”

“Hey mom…” Carolyn paused at the doorway. “I mean I’m afraid at first, and then it goes away. It’s like I’m still dreaming when I first wake up.”

“Yeah, I know.” She sighed and rubbed her eyes. “I have nightmares, too, kiddo. You just get used to it, Steven. It’s part of growing up.”

Carolyn left his door open a few inches, just enough to let the light from the hallway fall over his face. He wasn’t a bad kid, just so goddamned needy. And she was so sick with it; too sick most of the time to give anything away anymore. The pill was making her feel groggy and swollen; she could feel her pulse in her lips. Sleep wasn’t an option, so she went into the spare bedroom and sat behind the small, laminated computer desk to wake up her laptop. There was the light from the screen.

She’d mapped the route over a month ago. But back then it was just a whim, like when she would pretend to sign up for classes at the UW-Extension. It was roughly seven hundred miles from the house in Marinette, on the thumb of Lake Michigan, to Douglas County, just over the Nebraska border. She studied the screen without blinking, and read the estimated time and distance, over and over. Ten hours, twenty-seven minutes. They could drive straight through and be there the same day. The route looked tedious, a diagonal slice through the Fox Valley (Kaukauna, Winnebago) along Hwy 151 toward the Mississippi River (Mineral Point, Platteville), crossing over it at Dubuque, and then through the entire length of Iowa.

There were similar laws in other states. Texas called theirs the Baby Moses Law. But the one they passed four months ago in Nebraska was different because they didn’t set an age limit. They called it the Nebraska Safe Haven Law, which for some reason made Carolyn think of a bird’s nest. Thirteen Nebraska babies had been discovered dead and abandoned within a span of ten months. A genuine epidemic. One was unearthed by a dog, wrapped in aluminum foil. So they passed a law. Meredith, one of the girls from Cosmetics, was fanatical about it. She was always yelling about the latest details as she flipped through the newspaper in the break room. Jesus, Carolyn. I mean shit! Did you hear about this guy that dropped off his entire family? It seemed like there was a new story every week. Carolyn would always nod and make an impatient expression, a halfway smile. Another one, Carolyn! Another one! Did you see it?

Carolyn had kept the idea incubated in her mind, quarantined to barracks unpatrolled by her conscience. She had kept the idea and used it in the same way the terminally ill keep a suicide cocktail. For comfort. But then the news stories had kept coming and coming and she knew they would ruin everything. She knew she would have to decide.

#

The morning arrived cloudless and stifling, but the house was surrounded by tall evergreen trees, which kept it cool and dim. She’s meant to get them on the road before noon, but she couldn’t shake the feeling she was forgetting something Steven might need. She kept drilling him for answers. Do you have your extra pair of glasses? Where’s the wallet I gave you? And so they left later that afternoon. When Carolyn finally stepped out the front door and out of the shadows, the shock of the sun temporarily blinded her and she squinted her eyes against it. With the weight of the suitcase, she stumbled from the narrow walk onto the grass. August had been dry – it hadn’t rained in weeks – and so the grass was brown and the blades crunched with each footfall. After a few steps she stopped and slowly widened her eyes as they adjusted. Everything was drained of color. She turned and saw Steven as he struggled with the door, a dark lump against the shade of the house. He had to tug on the knob to force the door shut. The keys jangled as he pried the tumblers of the lock into position. Carolyn winced when the deadbolt finally snapped and wished she’d thought to let him out first – to be relieved of this spectacle. It was just last year that she’d handed him his first key ring with the set for the front door.

He had his backpack slung loose, and the bottom of it hung down below his belt, weighted down by whatever he could fit. She’d told him to bring along his favorite things. As Steven jogged toward her, it jostled up and down on his narrow shoulders. Carolyn opened the rear door of the car, and he heaved it into the backseat. As Carolyn pulled away from the curb, an elderly woman with a watering can flapped her arm at them.

#

On the day the news broke that Nebraska was going to set an age limit there was a related story in the paper about a woman – out of work and a thousand miles from any semblance of her extended family – who took her daughters to the hospital. She told the ER staff that the girls had a strange rash and didn’t know what to do. Then, while the nurse knelt down to look them over, she excused herself to use the bathroom and didn’t return. So simple. So clean. One moment she was a mother. And then she wasn’t anymore.

Meredith had been beside herself. The headline read: Another ‘Safe Haven’, and directly underneath it there was a full color photo of the mother. The reporter had dredged up a mug shot, a DUI judging from her glassy-eyed expression. She looked too young to have children, and Carolyn had wondered absently if either of her daughters were around when the picture was taken. She didn’t look crazy or vengeful, just confused. Maybe a bit naïve. Her eyes averted the camera.

Carolyn imagined this woman holding one of the babies with the same glassy-eyed expression that she wore in her mug shot. She wondered if Meredith considered herself a good mother. Probably. Meredith was just as full of shit as everyone else. Carolyn had never claimed to be a good mother. But she had been a guardian. Keeper and provider. She gave her son food when he was hungry. She cleaned him when he was soiled. When he was cold, she put more clothes on him. But there was an emptiness in the way she did these things, and she derived no pleasure from it. It was as if he were assigned to her.

“Six and eight years old. Can you even imagine it?” Meredith had asked.

“No, Meredith. I can’t imagine.”

“Where do you think they get—”

“The first of September it all ends, Meredith. I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

#

They were just a few hours from the Nebraska state border when last gasp of sunlight disappeared behind the horizon. There was no moon. Ahead, beyond the pallor of the headlights, there was darkness. Darkness like Carolyn had never seen. It seemed to have a thickness, a heaviness that weighed down on them.

“Where are we?” Steven asked. In the darkness, Carolyn could only see his face, lit by the electric blue lights of the dashboard. He looked frail, corpselike.

“We’re almost to Des Moines.” Her voice was monotone. She looked at the clock. It was almost ten. “I thought we could make it there, but then the sun went down and it sapped everything out of me. I have to stop for a bit. Just for a bit. We’ll pull over so I can sleep.”

There were no other cars on the road, but out of habit, Carolyn flipped the turn signal anyway. The amber light flashed against the pavement as she veered the car over to the shoulder. The tires whined against the pattern of the rumble strip, and then whispered over the gravel shoulder as she brought it to a stop. The night had grown cold – cold enough that she’d switched off the AC and had the heater running.

In the trunk there was an old woolen blanket that she kept for emergencies. She took it and climbed back in behind the wheel. Steven was slumped back against the window. Carolyn reclined her seat as far back as it would go, and she hit the automatic locks.

“I just need like twenty minutes of sleep,” she said. “Christ, it’s too quiet.” She turned the keys forward in the ignition, and the dashboard sparked back to life. “Why don’t you try to find something on the radio.”

He began to play with the dial, but there was only static. It pulsed over the speakers in waves.

“There’s no signal,” he said.

“Just keep trying,” she said, and spread the blanket over her. Steven shifted in his seat and paused with his fingers on the knob.

“Mom?” His voice was just above a whisper, and there was no depth to it.

“What…” She had begun to nod off. The words were muffled under the blanket.

“Why don’t you have a suitcase?”

#

Her sleep was shallow, just below the barrier of consciousness. In her dreams Carolyn was back in her own bed, burrowed under the weight of the comforter with the country flowers. She thought she was alone, but then a small voice from across the room disturbed her. Somehow she knew that it was Marc. He kept asking to borrow the car, a test to see if she were awake. But she pretended to be asleep. When she peeked at him she saw that Marc was a boy, maybe thirteen years old. He was reaching into her sock drawer where she kept the jar of spare change. She became angry, saying, “If you touch that jar, I will kill you.” He paused, caught for a moment, and then turned suddenly toward her. His eyes were full of tears, and there was a curious look of surprise, as if he’d not realized she was there.

“I missed my mother,” he said, the words weighted with sadness. “I miss…”

He came over to the bed then and crawled in with her. But when she felt him – his embrace, his hot tears against her neck – she was not his mother. She sobbed along with him. There was a feeling of admitting, of blissful release. “I know… I know… I know…”

When Carolyn woke, it was cold inside of the car. She could feel it at the tip of her nose and her fingers. The wool fibers of the blanket were damp from her breathing. For a moment she lay still and felt her heart beat against her chest. There was a crackling sound coming from the radio, and behind the static a man’s voice sputtered. She pawed for the edge of the blanket and peeled it away from her face. The pale light of the dashboard reflected on the window. She could see the reversed numbers of the clock. It was after midnight.

“Shit.” Her throat was raw from breathing in the cold air. “Why didn’t you wake me up?” She turned toward the passenger’s seat, but Steven had moved into the back while she slept. Half-dazed, she was momentarily unable to process his absence.

In the back of the car, his form was barely visible in the darkness. He had the hood of his sweatshirt pulled over his head, and his hands were jammed into the front pocket. She leaned in closer, squinting her eyes, which allowed her to see the slow rise and fall of his torso as he breathed. Carolyn gripped the top of the driver’s seat and collapsed over the headrest. She was looking out of the backdoor window, but with the light from the dashboard the window became a mirror. She studied the small, metallic levers on the armrest, the slim cylinder of the door lock, flared out at the top so you could pull it up and push it back down. So simple. Just two options. It was pushed down.

“Steven, wake up.”

“I’m not asleep,” he said. “I have to go to the bathroom.”

“I do, too. C’mon, we’ll go out by the bushes.”

Caroline put the high beams on. They illuminated the terrain just beyond the edge of the gravel. There were no bushes. There was only the long grass in the ditch along shoulder and then the endless fields. She took the blanket and went out to the trunk. She watched Steven walking gingerly away from her, toward where the corn started. He slipped beyond the reach of the headlights, and then she couldn’t see him anymore.

“Steven?” But he didn’t respond. Several seconds passed. Then the splashing sound of his urinating. The splashing stopped, and she heard him struggling in the grass coming back toward the car. He reappeared out of the darkness like a ghost.

“Get back in the car and wait for me,” she said. “I still have to go.”

She’d overslept, but there was still time to make it.

When she got back to the car she saw that Steven had returned to the back seat. Carolyn turned the keys in the ignition. She moved the shifter into drive. The car lurched forward. She pulled back onto the highway. The man on the radio kept talking. A student was shot at a high school in Knoxville. The United States won a gold medal in men’s basketball. Hurricane Gustav was pummeling the Gulf Coast. Carolyn switched it off. Steven lay in the back. He had his head on his suitcase.

The Conclusion of the Species

by Soren Gauger

It was now two hours I had been waiting in the anteroom of Doctor Porcheria's office. There had only been one patient before me, a slight Chinese gentleman whose eyebrows drooped at their outer edges, giving him an expression of continual woe. At the doctor's signal, an irate metallic buzz, he slipped in through the office door and they immediately launched into a loud and impassioned dialogue. This gradually petered into more civil tones, then a confidential murmur, and now, perhaps two hours later, I could hardly be certain, howevermuch I strained my ears, that they were still in the office at all. Through the frosted glass it seemed I still saw the rough outlines of their silhouettes; but these were perfectly motionless, and truth to tell, they could have been anything – a table lamp and a decanter.

My gaze drifted about the anteroom. There was a gilded screen behind the likes of which a woman might have disrobed in some Oriental fantasy, a table fanned with magazines, and a number of pictures in frames: landscape paintings. 

I had come to Doctor Porcheria with a certain ailment of a very private nature, an ailment which my sense of dignity – an outdated thing, my acquaintances kept telling me – had not allowed me to disclose to anyone, not even those nearest to me. I would say without exaggeration that my ailment had given me a renewed sense of the obscenity of the human body. With it came a peculiar sort of shame, a distant cousin to how the pubescent feels upon discovering the new workings of his body; but in place of the young man's accompanying shudder of excitement, I found this horrible discovery had laid a stone in my chest, and one which has lodged in place to this day.

At the time, however, I had experienced only the first forebodings, a dark glimmer of what was yet to come. I had only gone so far as to mention to an old friend that I was deeply troubled by this certain ailment, and with a snap of his fingers he was off to make a few telephone calls; half an hour later he had, much to his evident satisfaction, fixed me up a rare appointment to see Porcheria.

When he was done, he insisted we drink a coffee, standing up in the Waldorf, and he spent a long time fingering his little stubbly mustache before he spoke. The Italians, he said, should never be trusted in matters which require a scrupulous attention to detail; but our Porcheria (he actually said our Porcheria) was in fact from Switzerland, he confided, and this was quite another thing altogether. Naturally, he would not invite a Swiss man over to his home for dinner to meet his family – as he had on previous occasions, I would be astonished to learn, a German urologist, a wiry man with sharp features, whose laugh was a painful, choking thing to behold, it sounded quite as though he were trying to dislodge a fish bone from the back of his throat – much as he would not permit a Swiss man to make serious advances upon his daughter; but he would, for example, allow a Swiss man to borrow his toothbrush, something that would be out of the question with a Greek or a Hungarian (he flinched at the word), and he would most certainly allow a Swiss man to make a discreet medical examination, even an Italian Swiss, though perhaps not a Swiss-born Italian; this last matter required more attention. At any rate, our Porcheria, my old friend assured me, waggling his eyebrows, was simply the most thorough medical professional in the country, and thoroughness, he added, was a doctor's cardinal virtue. In some quarters he was unfairly dismissed because he was incorrectly supposed to be Italian, and not Italian-Swiss, as he, my old friend, had mentioned, and because [here he dropped his voice to a stage whisper, though the two of us were practically alone in the cafe] he is monstrously fat, and to be obese – and with a name like Porcheria, on top of everything – was seen, in some quarters, as a thing that was incompatible with his practice as a doctor, or which even nullified his medical opinion. These people are nothing more than wrong-headed idiots, he said, his face betraying a rare flash of emotion, who have confused form with content to their own stupid detriment. By the nature of things, my old friend confessed, he himself did experience shudders of discomfort around the grossly obese, but this was not because he considered them unsightly – though, he stressed, there was no denying this simple fact – nor because he was continually mindful of their overtaxed hearts and caving muscles, but it was rather a question of the physical disproportion, the sense that he was a dwarf before another man, this was what kept him from feeling at ease, if he was to be perfectly frank. Or then again, perhaps it was the knowledge that this human body, being of the same species as other human bodies, lithe and supple ones that made the heart leap and palpitate in erotic convulsions, showed bodies as such to be a thing of total repugnance when the proportions were only slightly adjusted. Whatever the case, he concluded with a stiff shake of my hand, he trusted that I would not let any of this superstition come between me and the soundest medical advice the country could offer.

Of course, so far I knew Porcheria only, as the saying goes, by reputation, and by the muffled sound of his voice, and there was no good reason, I recalled, that he should have the little snub nose and the sausage fingers I was imagining; he could be, I reasoned, the kind of fat man who looks neat and prim in an expensive suit.

With this resolved I picked up one of the glossy magazines on the table and found, much to my surprise, that it was filled with nineteenth-century engravings. As if this were not peculiar enough, the engravings were nothing more than a cavalcade of grotesqueries – beasts half-human and half-ape, in various stages of evolution or devolution. A top-hatted man swung from a lamppost by his tail, a chimpanzee turned to stare quizzically at her hairless derriere or painted her toenails. I was beginning to find the pieces rather witty, if in questionable taste, and I turned to read the note on the artist:

Dudley Horner – a 19th-century bookbinder, a tubercular, possibly related to the inventor of the Zoetrope (1833). The vulgar, sometimes degenerate scenes he portrayed in his hundreds of drawings are purported to reflect the viewer's hiddenmost thoughts (a technique which Horner was wont to call “Spectrism.” He died in 1889, alone and rejected by all except his housekeeper.

My eyes drifted to the adjacent page and grew wide – for there I saw two naked humans, faces grimly set with resolve, copulating in the most bestial sort of fashion, the female, it seemed, screeching in pain. The image quite naturally captured my attention, I became quite engrossed in it for several seconds, that is, until I heard a gentle cough from the seat beside me.

Sitting next to me was a rather plain woman in a tan skirt and a frilly top, holding her hat in her lap, looking quite embarrassed for me. Her features were regular but uncomely, her eyes had something vaguely dazed about them, so that even when they looked straight into mine, I did not really feel as though we were seeing each other. I slapped the magazine shut and gave her a look that said I was a decent and respectable man, and that it would be lunacy to hop to any conclusions.

This look, however, missed the mark.

She shrugged her shoulders. It is not as though it is the first time it has happened, she said in a gentle, almost monotonous voice. You sit here for a couple of hours and the trance takes hold. It is in the slow dimming of the lights (this was true: the room had grown darker since my arrival), the insipid music (for the first time I noticed music playing a repetitive piano piece, distorted, as though heard underwater), the furniture, which seems to cradle you in its arms. I've been watching you stare absently at that engraving for almost twenty minutes.

This was a jolt. I took a hasty look at my watch, which made her chuckle. Apart from being a medical doctor, she confided, her voice dropping to a whisper, Porcheria is a marvelous hypnotist. Hypnotism was his first love. All of his things her are just saturated with hypnosis.

Her lips, plump and red, drew so close that they grazed my ear.

No one knows how much he can actually hear through that frosted glass, she continued in her throaty whisper. There could, of course, be microphones.

He is said to have archives in one of these walls, filled with conversations between patients. Piles of old reel-to-reel tapes. Ten minutes of anteroom conversation tells him more, they say, than any conventional patient interview. So of course we must watch what we say.

With these last words I could now feel the moisture of her lips on my ear, which was not altogether unpleasant. She inclined her body at such an angle that I could feel her warmth beat up from under her shirt in pulsing waves.

A sick feeling slid up my throat and I abruptly stood, wiped my palms on my trousers, and strode over to examine the paintings on the walls, inquiring, with an air of idle curiosity, into what sort of disease had brought her to see the doctor. Her look showed me that she found my question rather piquant; she began fiddling with the buttons on her blouse and explaining that such things were of an extremely intimate nature, because, here she tilted her head and smiled, there was something in a disease, didn't I think, which burrowed into the nether stuff, which touched and probed our nightmares, our anxieties, and yes, also our fantasies, though she hoped I wouldn't demand that she explain just precisely what she meant, it was all rather muddled in her head, and as she was thus speaking I bent over to examine a painting to find it was not an undulating landscape at all, on the contrary, it was the naked body of a woman lying on her back, an arm folded over her face as though to block out the sun. The light, however, had grown so dim that I had to squint to make it out. It was an easy, even a natural mistake from a distance, the woman's body rippled and furrowed, quite imitating the supple contours of the hills, the crevices and hazy colors of an autumnal landscape.

I unfolded my reading glasses from a breast pocket, trying to make out her gesture – was she fainting or shielding her eyes? – and found now, to my astonishment, that her features had an incredible affinity to Lisa's. The bend in her arm, the slope of her neck, it was all quite unmistakeable. And what was this memory that foisted itself upon me?

Ah yes, the last time I lay beside her naked, a faraway, perhaps disappointed look in her eye as she shielded her face from the glare slicing through the crack between the curtains, explaining to me that it was remarkable how, given the strength and, she had once erroneously supposed, invincibility of the feelings she had nurtured for me, it was inexpressibly odd to be lying there beside me now without the faintest glimmer of emotion. And I may only be stating the obvious when I say that her words sounded scripted, her voice unnatural and metallic, as though filtered through a machine. I even found myself wondering: Who has penned this script? Or: Who has built this machine? Was it possible either of us was to blame? And, not without a sense of absurdity, I began weeping softly, now, fourteen years after the fact, hunched over to scrutinize this pornographic picture.

I slid my fingers under my glasses to wipe the tears, the world smeared about then sharpened, and I turned to see if the women had been observing the maudlin scene I had been making. She had not – in fact, her chair was empty, and now I swept my eyes around the room a bit frantically to find where she had gone to, terrified for a moment that I had concocted her, that the lights and the music – now a barely audible waltz – had so played havoc with my senses that I had begun seeing things that were pure fantasy. But then, I reminded myself: If indeed I had fantasized a woman, then why had I chosen to make her so thoroughly unremarkable, so unalluring to the extreme, when this choice for once was apparently mine to make. Why had I made her hair so limp, her face so like a horse's?

The thud of a falling shoe made me swivel to face the pseudo-Oriental screen; I could discern through the gap beneath it that the woman was letting her shoes drop from her feet, unrolling her stockings so that they puddled on the floor.

This Porcheria, I thought, he is completely out of his mind.

My thoughts were flying feverishly now, trying to unravel it: Why was this woman undressing? And no matter how I framed the situation, it always came back to the same thing. She was undressing for me.

This was more than I could bear, that they – for there could be no doubt that Porcheria was at the bottom of this – would have me just sit still and allow this to unfold, as if I were not a man with my own drives and convictions, as if all this were a matter of supreme indifference. 

Keeping one eye trained on the pseudo-Oriental screen I began edging toward the door, my shoes muffled in the plush carpet, and I managed to get the door open without so much as a click, then I padded down the hallway and out the front door, not looking back, not even for an instant.

I Hope You Have Now Found The Peace There You Couldn’t Find Here

by James Hartman

A few weeks later I saw her at Kroger near the red delicious apples.  When I moved to Lexington–where I had used to live with my parents for three years when I was nine–I looked up all my old friends, on Facebook, Twitter, I even joined Match.com.  I wasn’t delusional, I expected many of my friends, crushes, etc. to be long gone, married, or unconverted to social media, and I was right.  But I never expected to stumble upon, while hiking, a brown bench commemorated to the memory of one Timothy J. Richardson, my best friend when I was nine. 

He loved wars, and Gettysburg was his favorite movie.  Nearly every Friday night we’d put it on his parent’s big-screen and when watching it no longer tethered our interest, we’d reenact specific scenes.  He was always, always, even when I begged him to switch, the Confederate soldier charging Little Round Top only to fall inches short of the Union line, his chest pummeled by bullets.  He’d variate the ways in which he’d get shot, but most often he’d take a bullet to the shoulder and spin around fast before somersaulting to the floor, his body convulsing as if still being pummeled.  He was, generally, a rambunctious kid, acting up in class and drawing a couple detention sessions a month.  I thought maybe he had enlisted and died in either Afghanistan or Iraq and was struck by such an overwhelming mix of awe and pride that I had to sit down to catch my breath, right there on my best friend’s bench.

On Facebook, I found a memorial page–comments filled with happy memories, wishes he were still here, some claiming to feel him always around.  His Dad, big gorilla of a guy but calm as a rabbit and grilled you an extra burger if you asked, begged for his support and guidance in making important business decisions.  But not one mention of the Army, nor war, nor Afghanistan or Iraq.  I scrolled all the way to 2007, the date on the bench’s gold commemorative plaque, the year I graduated from college with a BA in Journalism.  June 23rd was soaked with comments–“I had no idea you were struggling so much” and “I wish I would have answered the phone.”  A Robert Valentine said, “I hope you have now found the peace there you couldn’t find here.”

Lying in my bed at three in the morning, all the pills and wine boiling me more than assuaging my anxiety, my Macbook on my chest, I cried.  I don’t know why, but that night I remembered the day when Timmy and I had been playing Pongs and none of his would flip but all of mine were, and I looked up suddenly and he slapped me quick in the face, stood without a word, and walked away.  I didn’t see him again until the next night, Friday.  He took a bullet to his shoulder and swung around, smiling as if there were a glorious thrill now to dying, and somersaulted over, his whole body vibrating for a full minute from all the bullets.

The day after I read those comments I friend requested Timmy’s sister Bree.  I asked her how she was, if she remembered me.  Bree was two years older–smart, the biggest tomboy with the sexiest legs, and she had a crush on me.  When my family and I moved Timmy and I weren’t close, but I was in what I thought to be love with Bree.

Didn’t you used to live next door to us in Heartland way back, like 15 years ago???

Her profile photo was of her and a young boy under her shoulder with the same light hair as her own, behind them a handsome guy with black hair and blue eyes.

You do remember 🙂

I wanted to be wrong about Timmy, that the kid who loved Gettysburg and Pongs was not the same young man who could have killed himself so when she asked how I was I gave her my brief history: my parents back in PA, me newly divorced and just moved from Vermont, and my brother, Alex, working and living in Chicago.

What about you?

It was, I believed, a harmless summary and even a more harmless question, but she did not respond.

Exactly 36 days passed when I saw her by those apples, lifting one after the other to her inspecting eye.  Taking one deep breath and then another, I found myself standing right beside her, each reaching for the same apple.  Her fingers skimmed mine, and when she looked at me I was all too ready to smile.  When recognition still did not form in her face I took a step back, regrouped my smile more gently and stuck out my hand.

“Hey, Bree, Michael.  Long, long time, huh?”

She stumbled back.  Her eyes seemed to dart in two different directions at once.  Before she completely swiveled around she strangely grabbed at random a red delicious apple, and when I finally blinked out of my daze she had disappeared.

At home, my Macbook on my chest, full of wine and pills that were having no effect, I typed an apology to Bree but before I pressed send the question nagged at me:  What was it exactly you were apologizing for? 

It’s been eight days and still that message sits in the rectangle beneath our conversation, unsent.

I continue hiking twice a week, sometimes more, always alone, having made no new friendships nor reestablished old ones.  But whenever I pass my old best friend’s bench I automatically jerk my shoulder, twist my body around and around and around and then, dizzy, finally topple to the dirt and leaves.