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Hamilton Stone Review #32
Spring 2015
Fiction
Meredith Sue Willis, Fiction Editor

 

 

Peggy Backman
The Cleaning Lady's Assistant

Having someone clean my apartment is one of life's luxuries that I allow myself. I never did like housework, and now that I work long hours every day the help is even more welcome. So you can see how distraught I was when Ana, my housekeeper for the past eight years, told me she was going home to Costa Rica. Thus began my search.

Finding someone to clean your apartment in New York City is not easy. When I asked friends, they would describe their workers as "not too good," "a bit quirky," or having no available time. The bulletin board in the apartment building's laundry room was the next best bet. Buried amongst the hand-made ads for dog walkers, nannies and furniture for sale, I found several postings from housekeepers looking for work. I called a few but no luck.

Then I came across this:

Cleaning Woman Available.

Meticulous.

Reliable and Efficient.

Good rates.

There was both a phone number and an email address. The email address was encouraging, as it meant she was pretty modern and up to date. On the other hand some of the best cleaning women I'd had—those who really knew how to make an apartment sparkle—were minimally educated.

As soon as I could, I emailed Yura631@gmail.com, and to my delight, later that afternoon, an eager reply awaited me in my Inbox. Yes, she was quite available, and indeed her rates for New York were not bad. I wrote back that my place usually took about 3 hours to clean, but before we got together I'd like to have some references from people she'd worked for. A couple days went by with no response. I was beginning to give up, but decided to make another try so called and left a message. A day later I got a call back.

"I'm sorry for not answering sooner. I've been trying to contact people for my references. I wanted to make sure it was OK for you to contact them. I'll email their phone numbers as soon as we hang up."

Then she added: "I really don't have any references about cleaning. These will just be character references."

I held my breath. "You see I'm not a cleaning woman by profession. I'm an engineer." I was a bit startled. But I knew we were in the middle of a recession and suspected this was someone out of work trying to make a buck. Although she was well spoken and her English was perfect, I detected a slight accent.

"Where are you from originally?" I asked.

"I'm Israeli," she answered, "but I've lived in the States a long time, and, don't worry…I have American citizenship. I studied at Cal Tech and Carnegie Mellon."

Hum. How would she feel about cleaning my apartment? I'm a professional woman too. I think I'd feel funny if my friends cleaned my apartment. Yet I had waited tables when I was younger, and had often thought that if the recession did me in, I would not hesitate to wait tables again (though I wasn't too good then and may not be up to it now—but my fantasies did not take me that far.)

"After you check my references, we can set up a time to meet," she instructed. "We'll have to see if our personalities get along."

Oh, boy, I thought to myself, she's looking me over! And what's this thing about personalities? This doesn't bode well. But somehow I was up to the challenge—or maybe desperate to find a good cleaning woman.

After hanging up, I quickly checked my email and there, as promised, were Yura's references. Efficient, I noted.

 

I waited a day then called Irene, Reference Number 1. Irene answered immediately. It was obvious that she was expecting my call.

"Yura's my best friend," Irene announced proudly, thinking that would really add weight to what she had to say—though not exactly an unbiased reference.

"I've known her since we were at Cal Tech. I'm an engineer, and you know she's an engineer too and quite a good one," and Irene went on listing all Yura's many degrees and the prestigious places she had worked.

I wanted to ask her why Yura was out of work, but thought I might save that question for Yura herself, should we get to know each other. Irene was quite a talker, so I figured let her go on; maybe I would learn something.

"You know, my husband was quite against her doing this cleaning bit. He felt it was beneath her. He's really quite upset about this. But I think it is great, and anyway it was Yura who said that's what she could do. You see, we had gone over a number of options with her, and this was the one she chose. I know she'll do well. She is very meticulous."

I noted the use of the word meticulous, the same adjective that was in the notice on the bulletin board. They probably had worked on the ad together too. I could envision these school friends laughing, while at the same time being serious as they plotted Yura's near future.

"She is very exacting and pays attention to detail. If you'd ever see her apartment, it is very, very neat."

That made me a bit uncomfortable. What would this neat lady think of my dusty clutter? Would I pass her test?

"We told her not to rearrange your furniture," Irene said laughing, "And she promised she wouldn't."

I don't know if Irene heard my nervous laugh. The idea of Yura penetrating my life was a bit daunting, but on the other hand I never really liked the way my apartment looked. But coming home to find everything in a different place might be a bit annoying or at least confusing.

Someone who used to clean for me would put things away in the most unlikely places…only to have them be discovered accidentally weeks or months later: a wooden cooking spoon in a bedroom drawer, a treasured vase in the back of the little cupboard under the bathroom sink. But moving my furniture: I didn't know what to think.

"Will she feel OK working for another professional woman, particularly cleaning?" I asked thinking about status and stereotypes.

Not missing a beat Irene, her cheerleader, responded: "You know, she was in the Israeli army and also lived in a kibbutz."

I wasn't sure if that was to make me feel more comfortable, or how it answered my question. I had only met two other women who had been in the Israeli army and they were both pretty tough cookies. Maybe she would not just rearrange my furniture. Maybe she would rearrange me, my life. And the kibbutz, I had no idea. Maybe it means you are a team player, maybe you do all kinds of chores. That must be it. Kind of like camp.

I was about to say thank you, when Irene started asking me questions about who I was. She thoroughly interviewed me and then announced that she would look me up on Google. I was feeling a bit exposed. This was not going to be your typical employer-employee relationship. In fact it was going to be a group endeavor.

"Please feel free to call me again, if you have any questions or if you just want to ask me anything. You know I'm an engineer too but I have a very practical bent and know about how everyday things work. "

I thanked Irene and with a sigh hung up the phone. Dare I try the next reference? I needed a few minutes at least.

 

Reference Number 2 was Kathryn. Yura had told me that I would probably get an answering machine, but that I should say my name and keep talking, as they screen their calls. So I did as instructed, and midway into the message Kathryn picked up. "We were expecting your call," she said.

"Yes, I'd been told that you screen calls and to keep talking."

"We do," she answered in a curt official manner. I wasn't sure what this was about, but obviously this woman was very private and not going to be as easy to talk to as Irene.

There was a long silence. I told her that I knew that Yura did not have much experience housecleaning, so I wanted to get some personal references.

"She's very meticulous," Kathryn answered.

There's that word again. Kathryn must have been part of the coffee klatch when friends were sitting around discussing how to help Yura move on with her life.

"Since she apparently doesn't clean for you, what more can you tell me about her?" I asked.

"You won't have any trouble understanding her, if you know what I mean. She speaks English and can read and write English, if you know what I mean. I've had people clean for me and it was very hard to communicate."

I knew what she meant on a practical level, but I also wondered if she was trying to communicate to me in code, that she is not Spanish or Polish speaking or whatever.

"I know she's an engineer," I said, figuring that this would help Kathryn open up. But how do you talk to someone who's supposed to be giving a reference but who does not want to tell you anything?

"So how do you know her?" I asked.

"Well 'err, we know her. We're friends. Actually my husband used to work with her."

"Where was that?" I asked feeling intrusive, but hey, I was trying to get a reference, god damn it.

A brief pause, and then she replied: "Cal Tech." But here Kathryn opened up a bit more. "She's very good in her field and I'm sure she'll find a position again. She probably won't work for you very long."

I couldn't decide if that was reassuring or not. "That's fine," I said, starting to become part of her support group. "I hope she gets back on her feet soon."

"She has written a lot of papers in her field. She used to be at Los Alamos. But there are the powers that be…. I don't want to sound paranoid, but some people are against her research because it will change everything if people start to follow her lead."

My curiosity was piqued but I feared asking too many questions, for fear of upsetting this cautious woman. I had learned more than she was probably expecting to share. We signed off cordially.

 

Now on to Reference 3. Did I really need to call her? I'd already learned quite a lot. But now my curiosity was piqued. Reference Number 3, Alice, was all the way in New Mexico, Los Alamos to be exact. She was very cheerful and she too was expecting my call. Alice's boss and Yura had worked together for a few years on a research grant. Alice and Yura had stayed friends.

"Whenever we're in New York we stay at her place. I know she'll do a splendid job for you because her apartment is beautiful, very well appointed and clean, meticulous."

Oh boy, wait till she sees my place. Maybe she won't even want to work for me. Maybe she'll suggest that we go to Bloomingdales and buy new furniture. Or she'll want me to throw out things that I like: my old guitar, the three-panel screen with the broken hinge that I found at the flea market 20 years ago, the too-many tchotchkes.

Trying to keep the conversation going I told Alice that I figured Yura was between jobs and that she probably wouldn't stay cleaning forever.

Defending her friend, Alice replied, "Oh, she's very energetic, very energetic. She's done many things and I wouldn't be surprised if she just went on to do this on the side. She has no ego problem about cleaning."

She too did not give me any explanation of why Yura could not find work in her field. And why do she and the others repeat that Yura had done many things. I was beginning to wonder why has her life not been straight arrow?

I had been listening to hear if maybe the gap in her employment had something to do with her mental state. Were they helping a friend out of rehab or someone who'd had a mental breakdown?

"She's honest and has a lot of integrity," Alice added before we hung up. "And she's very energetic."

The use of that word again was making me feel very tired. Could I handle all that energy? Well, except for the first day, I didn't really need to be there with her all the time. And hopefully there wouldn't be a lot of in-between-cleanings phone calls.

I thanked Alice, and said I'd look forward to working with Yura.

 

The day came. My new cleaning woman was to arrive any minute. She had asked me, no, instructed me to be with her the first time—and the second time too—so she could learn how I liked things. A bit strange I thought. Most cleaning women I'd known preferred to work alone undisturbed. And I personally would rather disappear while someone is cleaning my apartment, though some of my friends like to be there, guiding the effort. Perhaps that was the better way, I convinced myself reluctantly.

Usually it would only take someone two to three hours to clean my small apartment; Yura wanted four hours to make sure she did a good job. I acquiesced agreeing that for the first two times to get it in shape we'd do four hours—despite the fact that that is a big chuck out of my busy day, a big chunk of time to hang around and watch someone else work.

Promptly at two o'clock the doorbell rang. There was Yura in her fur hat, full-length black coat, large dark glasses, carrying a small suitcase.

"So where should I hang my coat?" She promptly asked, without even a hello.

"Well, you could put it here in the hall closet," I replied trying to force all my winter, fall and summer coats to one side to make room.

"Oh, that's OK, I'll just hang it in the bathroom. Where's the bathroom, I have to change into my work clothes?"

And so it began.

After emerging from the bathroom in her baggy pants and large t-shirt, Yura marched into the living room. Seeing her eyeing the parquet floor, I promptly announced: "Don't use wax on the floor. I only use a damp mop and vinegar."

"No, no," Yura scolded. "Murphy's Oil is the best."

"No, I don't like that. It leaves a sticky film." I said defending myself—and remembering the smelly, sticky floors left by my last cleaning woman, who had consistently used too much.

"Trust me," Yura said firmly, with great confidence.

"I'll have to run out to get some; I don't have any on hand. Maybe today you could just use the vinegar; I have a large bottle of that in the closet."

"Trust me," Yura said giving me a firm look.

Then seeing her eyes circling the living room, I added my other special request: "Please vacuum the couch each time. I have allergies to dust and it's important that you do this."

"We'll see," she said not looking too happy. "I'm not sure I'll have time to get to that today."

"But it is one of the things that I really need," I protested.

"Not this time. Next time. I want to do a through job this time."

"At least let me show you where the vacuum cleaner is." I interjected moving to the little utility closet in the hallway.

I could see that Yura was dismayed when upon opening it a broom fell out. Everything else stayed in place, tightly packed together in the little closet. Small apartments in New York City do not come with adequate spacious storage.

"Here it is, down here," I gestured, bending over to remove the basket of rags that was blocking the sight of the Mighty Mite vacuum cleaner.

"Don't bother to pull it out, " Yura instructed. "Ah, good you have rags, she added sorting through the basket of old torn clothes and towels, some of which she discarded with distain, though she did manage to find a couple that met her standard.

Some might ask, why I didn't at this moment just tell her to go away, but I actually wanted this to work out. I wanted to give her a chance. In fact, I wanted her to like me. And the fact is it's not easy to find a good housekeeper in New York City. And after all wasn't I part of her support group?

Moving on to the kitchen, Yura pointed out that she'd also need "one of those green square pads to scour the stove." My Doby pad with its Teflon netting would not do.

"But won't that green pad scratch the stove," I asked nervously.

"Trust me," was what I heard. And did I also catch a glimpse of scorn in her eyes?

"Now what is it that you want me to do?" she asked.

"Dust, vacuum and wax the floors, wash the bathroom and kitchen floors? What else?"

I was a bit taken back. I wasn't used to being asked such specific questions. Just clean the place, I thought to myself. Most women just came in and sort of did it. But I reminded myself: she was new at this, so I would work with her.

Yura started cleaning the bathroom, while I ran out to do the shopping for her. That is one of the nice things about New York City: the shops are there right outside your door. So in about 20 minutes I was back with a small bottle (I was not going to invest in a larger one) of Murphy's Oil and some kind of green pad or sponge. I really had no idea what kind of pad she had wanted but this one said "non-scratch", so that seemed like a good comprise.

As I came in the door, Yura emerged abruptly from the bathroom, a look of panic on her face. How am I to rinse the tub? she asked in an hysterical voice. The shower hose doesn't work. I can't figure out how the shower hose works!"

"Well," I said in as calm a voice as I could muster, "It's slightly broken. I have some instructions that I can show you on how to turn it on and off." At the same time I was wondering: What if I didn't have one of those long hoses connected to the shower; what would she have done?

Just as quickly as she had emerged she disappeared back into the bathroom and then yelled out: "I've got it. I've got it working."

An hour later she reappeared from the tiny bathroom. She had finished scoring every tile and all the grout work, mopped and scrubbed. I guess that is what had taken her so long. I reassured myself that she probably had cleaned nooks and crannies that no one had touched for years. But the rest of the apartment, the bedroom, living room, hall, kitchen still remained to be done.

Her eyes sparkled as I showed her the bottle of Murphy's, but a look of disapproval descended upon me when she saw the green sponge. It was the wrong green sponge…but it would have to do, she assured me, as she moved toward the kitchen.

Yura tackled the kitchen as she had the bathroom, no spot left untouched. I noted that she avoided using the "wrong" green sponge, instead opting for one of my regular sponges to clean the stove. Every surface and cranny and shelf in the kitchen was tended to. She even went into the cabinet under the sink. Well…first I was instructed to go under the sink and remove all the old bottles, sponges, brushes and you name it. Then I must say I was impressed when she stooped down and practically climbed inside the cabinet to scrub down the sides and bottom. My job was to wipe all the bottles. Yura, after extracting herself from the bottom cabinet, showed me how dirty the rag was from wiping away all the dirt that had collected over the years. My feelings were mixed. I was grateful that someone was really giving my apartment a deep cleaning, but I was also aware of the clock: We were moving toward the fourth hour.

She now used my bucket and string mop to wash the kitchen floor. Although I had told her that there was a janitor's sink in the closet in the outside hall near the elevator, she promptly carried the bucket to the bathroom and poured the dirty floor water down the newly cleaned toilet. (I'm sure all cleaning people do such things when you are not around. Better not to notice.) When she saw the look on my face, she reminded me that she is very clean, and added that should she use the toilet herself she would not sit on it, and if she did she would clean it again. What that had to do with the floor water, I was not sure, but I guess she was telling me: Trust me.

Then I watched Yura sit the empty bucket in the bathtub, the newly cleaned bathtub. Hum… She put the mop in the bucket and, as she was filling the bucket with water to soak the mop, she turned to me and kindly asked if it would be too heavy for me to lift later, that is when I had to pour the water down the toilet after she left. I tried to lift the heavy bucket and indeed could hardly budge it without possibly straining my back. My military lady promptly tipped it over and emptied some of the water down the bathtub drain. "You can wring the mop out later," she instructed, "after it has soaked for a couple hours." I saluted—mentally.

I felt like a slacker if I stopped working, so while Yura continued to clean the kitchen I removed all the books from the bookcase in the living room, thinking I was giving her a head start on the dusting. I was really getting exhausted. Yura, however, was still energetic.

Kitchen finished, Yura looked around, assessing the living room. "I'm only doing a superficial job today, as there is no time," she announced.

"Superficial is better than nothing at all," I responded, trying to be supportive. But the look of distain she threw my way pointedly let me know that superficial was not really her thing. She took her rags and made her way meticulously from lamp to desk, to end table, to chair, stopping periodically to show me how dusty each rag had become.

After a while, I realized that we had passed the 4-hour limit and were moving into a fifth hour. Time was indeed running out. It was getting dark outside. So I dusted the bookshelves that I had emptied earlier, and then dusted all the books, putting each back where it belonged. Yura had been too busy to do this.

The vacuum cleaner was never used. The couch was still dusty. Her last act was to wax my floors with the Murphy's oil—a product I had told her I didn't like. "Trust me," she said as she spread it around.

She, that is we, had been working for five hours and had not even made a dent in the bedroom.

"I'll finish the rest next time I come, she stated. I'll need four hours then as well. And I'll need you here too. Got to run. I have an appointment."

"I'll call to let you know when to come back, I don't know when I can take another afternoon off, " I lied.

Later that night I would reflect. My hands were all wrinkled and dried out from cleaning and wringing out the mop. I had expected her to work and me to be the lady of the house. But we had become a team—like on a kibbutz, I guess. I appreciated that someone had really thoroughly taken charge of my place. But I was exhausted.

As days went on, I put off calling her to come back. Yura never contacted me, and I never called her. Perhaps she found a job in her profession. I hope so. I'm still looking for someone to clean my apartment. Know anyone?

 

 

 

 

 

Dreama Wyant Frisk
Chapter 5 of Before We Left the Land

 

June

It was the bottom of the last inning.  June looked past the crowded bleachers to the scoreboard at the end of the field as the numbers flipped through and stopped at 5-4.  He hated seeing Clarksburg ahead, not when the Jane Lew girls—especially Bonnie—  had played their hearts out.  Her home run in the first inning was something to see and he was hoping for another one. The sun was directly in his eyes, and besides, he couldn’t sit still any longer.  Even the steps were crowded, and people had to squeeze over so he could side step his way down.  That last run shouldn’t have happened.  And, damn the Louther girl for dropping the ball, but at least it wasn’t Sistie.  Moving quickly, he found a shady spot away from the crowd where he could stand in the field not far from third base, but right away one of the umpires — a new guy — whistled in his direction and stuck his thumb out for June to move on. 

Searching about, he made do with a pocket of shade under a Green Bean tree along the board fence–damn yellow and black caterpillars would be dropping down his neck.  He had driven down here half expecting the Clarksburg girls to win, but now he seesawed back and forth since the Jane Lew girls had held down the scoring.  Damn right.  Of course, the Clarksburg team was larger and they could make more substitutions, but they just weren’t as fast and they didn’t have the teamwork.  One thing, it was cooler under the tree than in the stands and leaning back against the fence, he shot a long spit of juice from his chew.  He could see everything, and Sistie was first up and that gave him the jitters.  She warmed up and moseyed to the batter’s box — not a competitive bone in her body. 

After two strikes, Sistie hit a fly and June followed the ball until the left outfielder reached high to snap it in her mitt.   He forgot everything —look at that round butt and those legs—better than Betty Grable.  Yes, mam.  When he dragged his eyes back to Sistie, she was sitting on the bench with Emogene beside her — watching the world go by.  Cripes.  He and Bonnie needed to drill her.   Keeping an eye on the new umpire—June moved away from the fence to get a better look.  If they could win this game, they would go to the playoffs.  Even with their first out, June was thinking ahead to going to Morgantown to the finals.

The Louther girl — took the first pitch and then, struck out —one, two, three.  With two outs, boys from Jane Lew began whistling as soon as, Berle’s sister, Loretta, started warming up.  Most times she was either at the top of her game or the worst player on the field, and today she was cooking with two runs.  After the umpire called one strike, Loretta bent her long legs deeper, and hauled back the bat — wham—hit a liner past first base.  For a second, she ran past first, but had to backtrack and June almost had a heart attack.

Bonnie had been warming up and she moved in the strange way she had — of loosening up her legs by kicking them from her wide hips. The new umpire motioned her to the batter’s box, but she took her sweet time finishing up her routine.  Only when one of the old umpires who had taken a time out to get a chew gave her a slight nod did she begin to walk to the plate.  She stood there for a moment, her stance looking natural, but on her face a hard look of concentration had settled.  God, if people only knew Carl was telling her what to do.  June couldn’t help smiling to himself—hope you know what to tell her, brother, with two out, Loretta on first, and 5-4 in the last inning.  Cripes, now he was talking to Carl.   

Bonnie bent ever so slightly over home plate, and June stuck two fingers in his mouth and whistled loud enough to shatter eardrums.  Those big muscles in her arms —he knew them from watching her hoe corn—gave her the power to knock a ball half way to Georgia.  Barely had she set her eyes on the pitcher, when the ball came hurtling toward her.  Crack— she hit it and slung the bat hard.  At almost the same moment one leg stretched out to begin her run while the ball like one of those German rockets in the newsreels soared high overhead.  The infielder looked up at it helplessly until it fell just inside the fence.  Her natural stride was wide and her hips controlled the whole movement.  Her head and torso moved slightly forward, but her hips fired her legs to move faster and faster, shortening her stride, but propelling her continually forward.

June loved watching her.  It was like her body was her mind and it kept saying faster and faster, and she followed.  It wasn’t anything like his catching a football and swiveling this way and that.  Her path was dead straight ahead as it was in everything she did.  Loretta ran to second and then third, but was forced to stop when the outfielder with the cute butt scooped up the ball and threw it to the catcher.  The crowd was shouting, “Run, Bonnie.  Go Bonnie.  Hold up, Loretta.”  Under the bright blue sky with hardly a cloud in sight, Bonnie stopped at second, and June saw her set her body toward third, leaning forward, ready to dash as soon as Loretta moved.  The next batter—a girl with stumpy legs from over at Horse Run— if she got a good enough hit, could bring Loretta home, and at least tie up the game.  Instead, right off, two balls, and a strike.  June got so mad he spit out his chew — still some flavor in it, too.  Then, a slow ball, and she got a good hit.  That was all Loretta needed to head home, and behind her Bonnie running like wild fire.  She passed third and never let up as Loretta crossed home plate.  Bonnie took a long slide on her butt, one leg stretched out ahead and the other halfway bent, and made it home.  The dust she kicked up floated in the air as the sun moved to the center of the field.

They won, 6-5 no matter what. The girl from Horse Run — her name came to June’s mind — Clara Mae — was ready to follow Bonnie, but stopped at third.  Then, he saw the catcher holding the ball tag Bonnie’s shoe.  Uh-oh.  The umpire—the new one, all dressed in clean clothes and not like the regular guys who wore their dirty workpants and tee shirts— pointed toward Bonnie, and crossed his arms above his head.   “No run scored.”  He pulled his cap down tight against the sun.

A silence fell over the bleachers until the Clarksburg fans erupted with cheers at their good luck.  June snarled, “You bastard.  You don’t know your ass from a hole in the ground.” All in one movement, Bonnie got to her feet.  He couldn’t see her face for the mass of sweaty hair.

Jeers started from the Jane Lew crowd.   “Bum.  Shithead.  Blind as a bat.  Boo!  Boo!  Boo!”  The umpire motioned with his thumb for Bonnie to get off the field, but she pushed back her hair and stood there staring at him.  Loretta, still close to home plate, was screaming, “She’s safe!”  

The umpire and Bonnie faced each other.  They were about the same height and the bill of the umpire’s cap was just inches from her face.  June saw the umpire say something and noticed Bonnie drawing herself up.  Good God, she’s going to hit him—gonna make a load of trouble — and he began to run toward Bonnie.  For a moment the sun blinded him.  When he got closer, he saw Bonnie’s eyes shift away from the umpire to him for a split second.  June, I’m not backing down, her small, fierce eyes said.  The umpire touched her shoulder as if to turn her to get out of the way—and she hauled off and smacked him—June heard it.

At first, June thought he was first on the field, right behind the coach, but there was no way to tell.  The father and brothers of the Sutter girls were coming from the bleacher steps, and he heard the other umps shouting for them to clear the field.  Then, all hell broke loose.  Most of the women were trying to get their daughters off the field, but the fathers and brothers were everywhere.  Even little kids were fighting.  June saw Berle.  Towering above the crowd, he had a bat in his hand and he swung it back and forth in front of him as he walked.  Right away, June grabbed for Bonnie’s arm, but somehow also managed to shove the umpire away from her, and sent him sprawling on the ground.  Pulling Bonnie behind him, he ran to the bench and hoisted Emogene under his arm.  Sistie followed as they ran around the ruckus and toward the street where the car was parked. When he looked back at the field, the free-for-all was going strong.  The crowd had swelled and there were too many fights to count.   

 

“Dammit.  I shoulda filled up before the game. Now, look, the tank’s setting on empty.  Seeing a couple of police cars headed toward the ball field, June kept muttering, “Got to find a gas station.”

“Do you ever think ahead of time?”  Bonnie complained from beside him. 

“You’re a good one to talk.”  A layer of dust covered her clothes and her legs were caked with dirt, now crumbling onto the floor.  The car would have to be cleaned, especially the seats.  Emogene and Sistie huddled together in the back seat looking worried while the car circled the back streets of Clarksburg.

He checked the rear view mirror.  “And roll the windows all the way down.  The car’s like an oven.”

“Mine’s already down,” Emogene said.

“Wanna stay away from the police.  They’ll be making arrests.”  Really, he felt proud of Bonnie, but he didn’t want to let her off the hook yet.  “I’ll go over to that Esso station in Nigger Town.  You know, that place Carl where goes — buy enough gas and they give you dishes —Mom has some of them – plenty cheap, too.”  He did a U-turn, coming within inches of a parked car on Bonnie’s side.  “Lucky I know my way around.”  Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Bonnie give him a dirty look.  June stepped on the gas and drove across town through endless side streets and Stop signs. 

The car rocked as they crossed old train tracks and into the station. Ducking his head to look through his window and into the dark garage, June saw Sherm rolling on a creeper from under a truck.  “Hey, Sherm, come on out here and get me some gas.”

Sherm peered in the window, and paused a minute. “You driving?  Not your brother?” 

“Carl?  No.  He enlisted.  Been gone since right after the war started.”

“Now, I knowed I seen him here ‘round Easter, or pretty close to then.  You weren’t with him.”

“You’re right.  He was home on furlough.  Probably was in Clarksburg and he always did come here.”

“I thought so.” Sherm followed the slowly moving car to the gas pumps. June was surprised to pick up so easily with Sherm — really it was Carl who knew Sherm and his brother, too. They clustered with a couple of buddies along the sidelines when they came to watch the white teams.  Sherm had a hand on the gas pump.  “Got your ration book?”

“Yep.”  June got out of the car. “Got to get used to the coupons.  Here it is.”

“A dollar fifty is all I can give you.  That should get your mom a dish.”

So, he remembered.

Sherm got the pump going and kept an eye on the gauge while he talked. “Well, June, you playing this fall?”

“I sure am.  I’m first string.” 

“Still half back?”

“Right.” June pulled the money from his pocket and studied Sherm for a moment.  “What about you?”

“My brother and me, we got to keep the station going.  I tell you, if the war keeps on, he’s probably going to sign up afore he’s drafted.  That would leave me—no way I could play.”

“Be a shame, Sherm.  Everybody knows you’re the best quarterback in your league.  Look how many people come to your games.”  He meant white people.

Sherm stopped writing up the bill and held the stub of a pencil aloft.  “Mighty nice of you.  I seen you at our games.  Everybody seen you guys.”

It made June laugh.  “I guess so.”

Emogene leaned from the back window. “Hi.”  Sistie pulled her back in.

Sherm smiled at Emogene.  “Hello, little lady.”  He put the pencil behind his ear, and scratched his head.  “Okay, June.  Take the bill and look at the chart inside the station, but I think that might gitcha one of those fancy dishes—you know, got little separators for pickles and stuff.”

“June,” Sistie spoke through the window, “Did he say you bought enough gas for us to get a dish?”

“There’s enough for something.  Don’t take all day picking it out.”

“I hate to get out.  I look awful.  Besides, I’m wearing shorts.”

“Cripes.  Just go on.  Nobody’s going to see you.”  Bonnie was already outside the car. 

The plate glass windows of the yellow brick station were coated with grime and June could see only moving shadows of his sisters and Emogene holding up one dish and then another. Outside, the whole area around the station was covered with car parts of every size and shape—a mountain of them to rummage through and another of fenders and bumpers—find what you want and get a good price.  Once Carl got a rusty heater for the truck.  It was something to have seen Carl have patience enough to sort through all the junk and find just what he wanted.  There were stacks of tires, barrels of used oil, and a couple of rusting bicycles leaning against the building.  The smell of gasoline was overwhelming.  After June pulled the car a short distance from the pumps to make way for other cars, he walked to the edge of the narrow road —they were in a narrow, dark valley and he had to tilt his head back to see the tops of the mountains.  It felt like he was in a hole and it would take a long time to climb out.

When he returned to wait beside the car, Emogene came outside the station and leaned against him while she stared at Sherm who was cleaning the windshield of a car. 

“One of your sisters?” Sherm asked.

June shook his head. “She’s my oldest brother’s girl.”

“How many in your family anyway?”

“Twelve.  Only three plus my grandpa are at home.  Her dad works in a steel plant on the Kanawha River.  They moved down there over a year ago.  Live near Beckley.  Ever been there?”  

“Are you kidding?  We only go as far a church.”  Sherm dropped the cleaning rag in a bucket.  “No, wait a minute, we did go to Baltimore once’t to a funeral.” 

“You’re ahead of me.  I never been out of West Virginia.”  June watched as Emogene wandered away to look at the junk.  Taking his Redman from his pocket, he offered the bag to Sherm.   

“Don’t chew.  Don’t smoke.  Just rub snuff.”  He pointed to his lower lip.  “Easier to spit when I’m working.  Sherm shifted his eyes toward Emogene, “Best you don’t go behind the station.  We gotta dog tied up back there, and he might snap at you.”  He started back to the garage.

“What the hell.”  June was busting to talk about the fight.  “The real reason I came around this way is I wanted to stay out of trouble.”

“Hmm?”  He wiped hand over the shiny grease on his face. 

“We’ve been at the girls’ softball game over at the ball field.  “Jane Lew played Clarksburg.  A fight broke out, and I shoved at the umpire and the sonna bitch fell down.”  He stopped.  “Let me back up.  First, my sister—the tall one—she slapped him and pretty hard, too.”

“No shit.”

“Sure.  She could have won the game.  Ump called her out.”  June walked over and spit in the weeds at the end of the cemented area and checked on Emogene.  “She slid into home BEFORE the catcher tagged her foot.  The sonna bitch — a new guy— called her out.”

“You crazy white boy.”  Sherm smiled broadly.

June shook his head in agreement. “You’re right about that.  Had to grab my niece and we ran.  Everybody was coming out on the field fighting.”

“Those crazy Italians.  Clarksburg’s full of ‘em.  They’re down in the coal mines most of the time and the rest, they’re drinking and fighting.”

“Police cars were heading to the ball field.  So, I’m taking the back way to Jane Lew—that old road, just in case, but I needed gas.  In Lewis County, nobody’ll bother me.”

“And, you taking time for your sisters to pick out dishes?”

June laughed.  “That’s right.  I’m getting my mom something.”  He let himself swagger a bit.

“Umm umm.  No wonder you such a good running back.”  Hunkering over an imaginary football, he shifted his feet from left to right, and stiff-armed an on coming player.  “You do just what you want.”  He drew his arm back and threw a pass.

Not missing a beat, June reached to catch it.  They both had a good laugh, and, June felt glad they had come this way.  Sistie, was opening the door for Emogene and in the front seat, he noticed Bonnie was frowning at him.  “Should’ve already been on the road.” 

“Say, June,” Sherm lowered his voice.  “Heard sometime in the winter about you and some of your buddies coming down around here on a Saturday night.”

June had already opened the door and stepped one foot on the running board.  He lowered his voice, “What’re you talking about?”  He was floored.  Did Shem know about them coming down here to Florentine’s?  Would he hear about them coming to the whorehouse? 

Sherm laughed it off.  “I never heard nothing.”

June tried to read Sherm’s face, but couldn’t.  He eased into his seat.  God, don’t let Bonnie have noticed him lowering his voice to Sherm, and start asking her infernal questions.  Please, God, no.  He pulled quickly onto the street and got behind a noisy truck.  In no time they were making their way through the maze of narrow streets and finally wound up on the old road, not very wide but passable enough to drive at a good speed.  For a long while they followed the West Fork river.  He put aside his worries about Florentine’s — it wasn’t that close to the garage.  Was it?

“Emogene,” June said,  “That’s the very same river that flows around Jackson’s Mill.  Know that?”

“No.”

In the rear view mirror, he saw her angling the new dish this way — looking at Sistie through the clear, pinkish glass.  “They all keep on flowing into each other until they get to the ocean or down on the Gulf where Carl is.”

She was paying him no mind, but holding the dish closer to her eyes and giggling as Sistie made faces back at her.  It struck him.  Carl was down on the Gulf and not in the car — driving — and they were getting used to it.  A familiar pang hit him in the stomach.

If they didn’t take a wrong turn and the road didn’t peter out somewhere, they should get to a paved highway soon.  He slowed down until the car was creeping along, but hit a big pothole anyway.  As he tried to come out of it, spinning the wheels, he shifted into reverse jerking Bonnie’s head against the window as she leaned to look at the back wheels.  Not a word.  Bonnie knew how far she could go and she stayed quiet.  June stopped for a moment before he shifted back into first—he’d hate to lose a wheel— and heard the tires grab the rocks and dirt and then sputter.  Suddenly, the car jumped forward.

When the road was less demanding, June grew bored and thought back to Sherm.  “Hey, how come y’all didn’t say hello to Sherm?”

Bonnie right away said,  “Why, I don’t know that guy.  I don’t know everybody you do.”

June waited.

Sistie answered from the back seat.  “Oh, June.  He’s colored.”

“What’s wrong with you, June?” Bonnie snapped.  “Talking about did we say hello.  I might have other things on my mind.  Like, are they going to throw me out of the league? Did you ever think of that?”

“I don’t know.  Just wondering,” June answered easily.  Bonnie was still all tied up from the game.  Getting stuck in the pothole didn’t help. 

“I said hi,” Emogene piped up.

“I know you did,” June approved.

“Is he a colored person? ”

“You know he is.”  He looked into the rear view mirror at Emogene.  She was biting her fingernails as she always did when she was pondering something.

“Down in Oak Hill.  You know?  Well, we live right beside the post office.  We go over and get the mail.  There’s steps up to the post office.  Well, there’s always coal miners sitting on the steps. They catch a bus.  They sit there with their workbuckets.  Some of them are black as can be — they don’t wash off from the mines. They’re all covered with coal dust.  Just their eyes sticking out.  Looks funny, those white eyes.”

“And, you wanted to take a good look at Sherm?”  June asked.  “See if he’s a coal miner.”

“He’s not, is he?”   

“No, he’s a colored man.  It won’t wash off.”

Emogene waited for a moment, looking very serious, “I know that.”

“Hey, got KDKA.” Bonnie looked up from the radio.  “Surprised we can pick it up here. Now, be quiet, June.” 

“Yes, mam. You listen to the radio.  I’ll concentrate on staying on the road and out of the potholes and out of jail.  Next time you want to get to Clarksburg?   Tell me to be quiet right away.”  Bonnie paid no attention.  The road had smoothed out and was wider, too.  It suited him to go faster.  Winding around the mountain with a creek rushing along the side of the road and his sisters, and Emogene quiet or singing along with the radio, settled him.  Like the creek, following its own way in this backwoods, he was always running on his way somewhere.  God, Sherm was fun.  He might be a nigger, but what’s so bad about that?  Imagine him knowing about Florentine’s whorehouse —if he did.  It was outside where the coloreds lived.  Cripes, anybody would notice Fatty.  Better not think too much about it in case Bonnie could read his mind.  Why couldn’t it always be like this?  Woods and a creek running along beside them and home waiting at the end of the road.  The war would be over soon.  He might go fox hunting tonight. 

They drove through Jane Lew before he started to remember the ballgame, and he felt like talking, too.  He looked over at Bonnie, “What was it you said to the ump?”

“Said I was safe.”  She pushed her hair back from her eyes.

Sistie spoke up, “I could see you were home before the catcher got to you.  But you have to say that girl was one of the best catchers around.”

“No, I don’t.”  Bonnie frowned and turned her head to the backseat.  “Don’t have to say anything of the sort.”

Even though she almost never did, for a second it crossed June’s mind that she was going to give Sistie a hard time.  She might even bring up her striking out.  “Didn’t everyone start coming down on the field right then?” June asked.

“They did.  For a second I thought it was because the inning was over and we had won.  Then, I saw a the Louther brothers running and shoving.” Sistie said.

“Cripes, too bad we couldn’t stay for the whole fight.”  They were starting the long downhill drive toward Clyde’s Run and before them the huge pastures of the bottomland spread out, green and dotted with cattle.

 

Emogene

Emogene must have missed it, but Bonnie had combed her hair.  Not the same mess, but it still hung scraggly and limp.  Where were her hairpins?  Beside her, Sistie turned to look out the window, and Emogene appreciated the way her shiny dark waves moved — kind of like Wonder Woman.  She leaned forward and saw the loose, yellow dirt on Bonnie’s scalp and smelled the sweat, but she didn’t smell cigarette smoke.  “Bonnie, are you going to wash your hair as soon as we get home?”

“Sure am. You can smell it, can’t you?”  She reached back to give a tug to a strand of Emogene’s hair. “We can wash yours, too.” 

No way—Bonnie combing all the tangles until she cried — not that it did her any good.

Let Bonnie wash her own hair.  She’d wait for Sistie.  What she really wanted — when she thought ahead to their passing her Aunt Milly’s, was to stop and play with Jeannie —she began to make plans.  As soon as they turned off the main road and passed the church, Emogene nudged Sistie and asked under her breath, “Think I can play with Jeannie?”

“Ask Bonnie.”  She looked toward the front seat.  “Maybe.”

 By the time they stopped at Milly’s for the mail, it was now or never.  Besides, Jeannie was on the porch swing, watching June pull the car to the mailboxes.  “Bonnie, can I play?”

Bonnie didn’t answer —didn’t even turn around— probably thinking about sneaking a cigarette as soon as she got home.  She was always changing where she hid her Lucky Strikes.  All Emogene could see was her scraggily hair.

Out of the car, in the blistering late afternoon sun, June stretched his back and hiked his shoulders up to his ears for a moment, before he pulled the newspaper from its tube, The  Exponent Telegram, and a letter from the mailbox.  “Nothing from Carl, but here’s a letter for Grandpa—his check from the gas wells,” and he handed it through the window to Bonnie.  Unfoldingthe newspaper, he glanced at the front page for a second. “Hey, will you listen to this—a ship’s been sunk down at Virginia Beach—hit a land mine from a German U-Boat.”

“Virginia Beach?”  Bonnie gasped.

Sistie was all ears.  “What happened, June?  Is it real bad?”

“You betcha—German subs down in Virginia?  Planting land mines right off the coast! They’re hitting us right here at home,” and he read to them:

 

The Robert C. Tuttle Hits a Landmine

 

     The 11,615-ton tanker, Robert C. Tuttle struck a mine on its starboard side June 15, 1942 and settled to the bottom in 54 feet of water just off Virginia Beach.  One crewmember died and 46 were rescued. It sank in 54 feet of water after it struck a land mine near the approach to the Chesapeake Bay. The landmines were planted by German U boats.  The crew rowed six miles to Little Creek, Virginia where they were taken in tow.

 

“We’ll hear more about it on the news tonight.”  He pitched the paper through the window. “Wait ‘til Grandpa hears this.”

By this time, Jeannie had wrapped her fingers over the edge of Emogene’s window. “Ask if you can stay.”

Waiting while they talked on and on about the U-boat, Emogene fidgeted and chewed on her thumbnail, trying to get her nerve up to ask again until Sistie whispered, “Merciful heavens.”  Then, calmly but firmly, she ventured,  “Bonnie, let Emogene stay down here to play.  She’s been sitting still all day.” 

“It’ll be dark before she gets home.”

 “No, it won’t.” Jeannie and Emogene answered together.  “Jinx,” they said to each other and giggled as they hooked pinky fingers.

“Tell you what — if you two are going to start all that carry on — how about just promise to start up the road as soon as supper’s over.” 

“June, you know Milly’s too busy to look after her.” Bonnie flicked her eyes toward Milly who was walking toward them from the yard.

 Milly patted June on the arm.  “I’ve been wondering when y’all would get here. ‘Deed. I’ve been worried half sick.  Berle’s been back for ages.”

“Is he okay? ” Bonnie said.

“He’s fine. Mad as a hornet about the game, but said nobody had anything on him.  He took Loretta to his mother’s and came on home.  He’s up on the hill, getting some of our early corn for supper.” Moving closer to see inside the car, Milly sighed and covered her mouth. “Look at your hair, Bonnie.” 

Emogene slouched into the seat and threw her head back and rolled her eyes.  Kool Aide in Aunt Milly’s refrigerator and heading to the creek with Jeannie — that what she wanted.  She stiffened herself against crying.  Bonnie’s hair.  Berle did this.  Berle did that.  Jane Lew should have won the game. What was going to happen to the league?  The more they talked, the later it got, and the better chance, Bonnie would say no.  Even Sistie was talking, talking — they got a relish plate at the filling station, June took the long way home.

 “Come on, June, let’s get home.”  Bonnie’s voice sounded final.  “Too darned hot to sit around in a car.”

Jeannie jumped in, “Mommy, please tell Bonnie to let Emogene stay.”   

Milly raised her hand to shadow her face.  “Sure, let her stay.”

“I can’t come after her —got too much work.” June was leaving it open, and Emogene didn’t want to count her eggs before they hatched —Bonnie could still say no.

“She’ll get home and, on time.” Milly looked toward Emogene and sent her a look of certainty.  Then to Bonnie, “Now, don’t you worry. You’ll be old before your time.”

 June opened the door and bowed as Emogene alighted from the car.  

 

The sounds of the cows, chickens, goats, and dogs gradually faded as Emogene and Jeannie walked across the meadow until all they could hear was the creek rippling.  With a hard rain, the creek could overflow its banks and flood as far as the road in front of the mailboxes.  Sometimes it even got into the house.  On the yon side of the creek, mountains rose high against the sky.  First thing, Emogene and Jeannie climbed up a small ledge of rocks and checked a secret nook for their collection of bird feathers.  They sat at the edge of the creek fanning them out.  There were tiny gray, downy ones; long black feathers with fat, round quills; and a few middle-sized of white and blue-black; the most prized, two blue and rusty colored thin, silky ones.  They changed the fan shape and made it into a circle, and began changing it again, ending up with a funny kind of diamond design.  Emogene noticed again the wart in the middle of  Jeannie’s thumb—an ugly bump of hills and dales.

“I know how you can rid of that wart.”  

Jeannie pulled her hand to her lap and hid her thumb.  “How?”  Even in the shade from the large trees beside the creek, Jeannie’s dark hair was filled with light.

“Somebody has to buy it.  My daddy bought mine. I got some money in my suitcase, and I could buy your wart, but I might get it.”  She knew there was something not right about this—her daddy never got her wart.  “Maybe June will pay for it, and he’s too strong to get it.”

“How much?”

“I don’t know.  Ten cents?”

“Will you ask him?”

“Okay.  Come on, let’s wade in the creek.”

“Not going to swim?

“Tomorrow.”

 

  They hardly got their clothes wet, and made it to the supper table where Emogene sat down beside Jenna Lee who was slapping her hands in the applesauce on her plate.  Across the table Judy, the baby, was propped up in the high chair, same black hair as Jenna Lee.

Always a baby in the crib and the smell of baby pee in Milly and Berle’s room. 

“Here comes the potatoes, Jenna Lee,” Emogene was waiting with another spoonful while Jenna Lee mulled the potatoes around in her mouth.  Dutifully, she wiped up the spills while Jenna Lee, her mouth tightly closed, kept her eyes on her.  When Emogene began to circle the spoon around and around in ever widening circles, repeating, “The bumblebee says buzz, buzz,” Jenna Lee opened her mouth to laugh and Emogene landed a spoonful.

Biscuits, butter, fried pork shoulder, green beans, mashed potatoes and gravy were passed around the table.  Bent from the weight of a large platter of steaming roasting ears, Milly came in from the washhouse, her second kitchen in the summer, and hurried to set it on the table and sit beside Judy.  Her soft voice was barely heard, but she shushed the table, and the twins kept whispering until Berle slapped Jim, the one closest to him, on the back of the head.  Finally, the kitchen was mostly quiet. “Let us bow our heads in prayer.  Milly kept a hand on Judy’s highchair tray.  “Dear God, watch over our country and spare our service men.  Protect my brother, Carl and bring him home to us.  Thank you for our food and good health.  In Jesus’s name, Amen.”

The noise built up again, especially endlessly calling for more sweet iced tea —Emogene held a glass to Jenna Lee’s mouth for sips and decided she wanted another cob of corn.  Would someone ask if her eyes were too big for her stomach?  In a flash as if she had read her mind, Milly dropped an ear on her plate.  The churned butter turned white and silky as it melted and ran down the kernels before she tasted its sweetness.  The orange-red oleo they used in Oak Hill tasted like lard, she remembered.    

Berle holding his cob between both hands grinned at her and asked her, “Not like this down in Oak Hill, is it?  All the good roastin’ears we got here?”  He looked in the direction of the boys, and his voice hardened,  “And, don’t leave a kernel neither.  Hear me, now?”

Back to Emogene, Berle smiled,  “You just eat what you want.”  She soaked in his attention—always nice to her —nicer than he was to Jeannie — but she didn’t like that.  She looked at the corn stuck in his teeth and remembered his red face as he paraded in the ball field swinging the bat.  She tried to smile back.  Down in Oak Hill?  Their little kitchen.  Her dad just in from work or the pool room and her mom putting the plate of fried pork chops on the tiny yellow table.  This big kitchen?  A baby in a high chair?  Every year or so—another baby? This was the best place in the whole world.  This was the best corn.  The best butter.  The best mashed potatoes. 

Milly raised her eyebrows to Emogene and nodded toward the door.  Aunt Milly knew how to do things—not silly, like throwing kisses.  Quick good byes and the screen door closed behind her.  Blue ran to tell her good bye, and smelling butter, he licked at her hands.  “I got to get to grandma’s.  Promised June,” and she walked to the gate.  Jack opened the screen door to yell after her, “Tell June— if he goes fox hunting tonight, stop and get me.”  Jeannie was behind him.  “Come down early tomorrow.”

 

Emogene turned onto the road into the full glare of the evening sun, keeping her mind on walking gradually uphill at steady pace and keeping her promise.  There was nothing to surprise her along the way and she was glad for the trees making a shade at the edge of the road.  What seemed strange was how long it was taking.  She was beginning to wish she had gone home in the car with June.  Rocks in her sandals, and the waist of her shorts— too tight from eating so much supper.  Eventually, the line between sunlight and shadows grew straighter and she followed it, walking heel to toe; toe to heel, never allowing herself to get off the line and her shadow followed her on the sunlit side. 

In one house — on the shady side of the road — people were on their porch.   “Out awful late, ain’tcha, Emogene,” Ol’ man Sawchucks called, and the line between light and dark disappeared.  Dragging his bad leg and leaning on his cane, he got to the gate.  “How’s your dad?  Will —always my favorite of all those boys.  Worked like a man when his Pa died.”

Emogene eyed the deep wrinkles in his face as he talked and wished she could leave.  June always tooted the horn at him and waved, but he was always on the porch.

“Now, your mother — what a looker.  Regular hell cat, too.  Heard her yelling at your dad one time right outside the poolroom in Weston.”  Someone called from the porch, but he kept talking.  “She was expecting you, then, too.”  A fit of coughing took over.

  Emogene was ready.  “Bye, Mr. Sawchucks.”  She didn’t want to stand there one more minute.

He grabbed a breath, “In an awful hurry, ain’tcha?”

She hurried ahead without answering.  She put aside any zigzags or straight lines and figured she needed to walk faster even if it wasn’t any fun.  The Joe Pieweed — a large patch of them bloomed in the pasture and they were always covered with honeybees.  This time she only took a few steps to see the ones closest to the road and watched —not as long as she wanted — the little hairy bodies climbing pell-mell over each other as they searched for the honey.  It was hard to stop at one flower — she wasn’t going to do this again — stay down the road in the evening.  Mornings were best.

From the plateau, the road began to climb higher and she found the hymn Milly sang so much this summer drifting through her mind.  Emogene sang the most familiar part, “Cheer up, my brothers, live in the sunshine.  We’ll understand it, all bye and bye.”  She could hear it in her ear —Aunt Milly singing with Jeannie, and she wanted to join their harmony— here where no one could hear her.  “Tempted and tried, we’re oft made to wonder,” and her voice trailed off into humming.  She could sing while she was keeping her promise.  The sun was no longer hidden behind trees or mountains but sinking low over a meadow and swirling the sky in reds — bloody red.  In Oak Hill she got scared on evenings before her mother got home from work when the sky turned colors like this.  It happened all the time — the swirls of red — like a fire burning somewhere.  Was the world coming to an end?  That’s what they said when she went to Sunday School.  Catch on fire and burn forever — that’s what happened.

Her mother had told her not to listen to all that stuff and seemed pretty sure about it, and usually that helped— when she finally got home.   But, what about the Germans and the blackouts?  All over Oak Hill.  Everything went dark, no lights anywhere, in case Hitler sent airplanes to drop bombs.  Men walked about and shinned flashlights onto the porch looking for spies.  Not here, though.  Not on Clyde’s Run.  This road was the way it had always been.  She knew this road.  Squeezing her eyes partway closed, she tried to walk and stare at the sun, but she had to stop too much.  Three buzzards were circling in big loops around and around the sky.   

Ahead was Lorena’s small house— no time to play the piano — but the canaries?  Before she knew it, she was calling through the screen door, “Lorena, it’s me, Emogene.”

 Emogene was so taken with Lorena, she couldn’t think of anything to say when she opened the door into the lighted room— her eyebrows, thinly plucked and arched over dark eyes and her brown hair rolled around a netted bun.  In the mornings, pretty kerchiefs wrapped her head, but she always wore lipstick —red or pink or orange.

“What are you doing out so late in the day?  I was just going to turn on the radio.  I let Dale go to his grandmother’s.”

“Have you covered up the canaries yet?” 

“Heavens, yes. Maybe you can see them tomorrow if you stop when you go down the road to play.”

Emogene looked through the archway into the dining room at the three cages on stands, neatly covered with flowered cloths. “Good night,” she whispered, “Sweetie an’ Tweetie.  Good night Tinker Tim, Purty Girl, Minnie Pearl, an’ Sammy.”

“You remembered them all.  I bet they can hear you in their dreams.”  Lorena guided Emogene toward the door.  “It’ll be too dark for you to see if you don’t get on up the mountain.”  They walked past the telephone bench, and Emogene wished she could call her mother and tell her she had eaten two roastin’ ears for supper.

A thin rim of red sunlight was left on the horizon  when Emogene leaned into the steep road to trudge to the top of their mountain.  At the top she saw a light burning in the house —in the dining room, and then, another one came on —in the sitting room.  When she started down the hill, Queenie yelped a couple of times, and she yelled back,  “Queenie, it’s me, Emogene.”    

June called, “About time you got here.” 

She could not see him in the shadows of the back porch, but knew he was washing up and getting ready to go hunting. Nothing to worry about with June, but Bonnie would say she didn’t get home before dark— she was on the hill.  She had to remember to tell June that Jack wanted to go fox hunting.  Anyway, even if it was after dark, she didn’t want to walk home in the evening again.  

 

 

 

Edward Miller
Something Similar

Advancing from somewhere near the doubled shadows at the end of the bar, a languid, sleepy feeling stole across the room.  It came suddenly, this feeling, striking an accommodation between the hour and the day’s long drive. 

We sat enthroned in one of the window booths, glass portals on the pier’s end, contemplating a bay awash in moonshine and stars, small light rolling in, ribboned on the water.  In the narrowing distance a sailboat was lanterned at anchor, the center of a fragile galaxy. 

The piano player leaned evenly into the keys, conjuring something from a timeless past; a well-turned melody, lofty, up-tempo, vaguely exotic, rising, ethereal.

Gosh, I remarked.  He’s pretty good, isn’t he.  This guy.

Elaine agreed.

I just love the old songs, I said.  This one reminds me of that other song—what was it.

Elaine stubbed her cigarette.  Couldn’t say, she said.

After the third tray of drinks arrived, and the more I’d begun to succumb to the music, the more indifferent I became to the journey before us, the division of equities, property, the division of debts.  Litigated matters.  The way out of the maze again.  The second journey.

We didn’t talk.  There would be occasion enough for that.  We just sat and listened.

And the piece kept going, patterns on patterns.

What was that song, I asked myself.  The one I liked so much.

Now I remembered.

In a lifted, charitable mood, I squired my scotch to the lacquered baby grand and tipped a bill into the brandy snifter.  Jimmy, a lobby card said. 

The man at the keyboard was bald, thickset, and wore a bow tie.

He played without sheet music, eyes almost closed.

Would you play Begin the Beguine, I asked.

The man smiled and idled a few more notes. 

Sir, he replied, I am playing Begin the Beguine.

You are, I said.  And I realized, yes, that’s exactly what he was playing—what I’d remembered as something else.  Something similar.

Well, I said.  Keep playing it, then.  It’s really good.

Later, driving back to North Hollywood, up the witchy 5 to my wreck of a bachelor pad, I thought this:  that what informs our most fond memories moves around the mind like a fog; that a moment and a feeling, seemingly as familiar and enduring as the faces of our own children, can drift and commingle and yet carry with them all measures of every good thing that attended or went before.  And I knew also, of course, the reverse had to be true.

 

 

 

 

Caleb Okereke
Terracotta

Red, Blue and light strokes of cyan. Those were the colours on the chiffon gown Dim had gotten me. It was a knee-length gown, not too revealing, yet as I held it in my hands, it got clearer with every passing second that it wasn’t what I wanted.  I didn’t like the properly seamed edges or the tiny belt that was meant to be slung over the gown. I didn’t like the combination of colours, colours I wasn’t used to.  Most of all, I didn’t like the fact that Dim had gotten it for me, I didn’t like that he thought I couldn’t get something nice for myself.  I breathed in the cool air as I hurled the delivery man away with a wave of the hand. He disappeared quickly to my relief, rounding the bend along the corridor like a child scurrying away from a ferocious animal. I wanted to thank him, but I couldn’t. Not because I didn’t want to but because I feared he wouldn’t understand.  The sound of my feet against the hard wood as I ascended the stairs was the only noise one could hear in the entire house. Aside the raised voices from the market women at the end of the street, my entire world seemed quiet. Quiet and still.

As normal, I waited like every day. Waited to hear the sound of Dim’s Volvo skidding to a stop in our front yard. Waited to see him walk up the steep steps onto the veranda and take off his shoes. But today, I didn’t wait idly. Today, I didn’t pass time by counting the reddish-brown terracotta pieces on our glass table, or by singing old tunes I remembered from my youth. A youth bridged not by age, but by the string of happenings. Instead, I rummaged through a huge iron box, a box I hadn’t opened since I had walked in the front door five years ago. It had huge locks, locks that reminded me of what my life was now in contrast to what it had once been. Sealed and protected.  In few minutes, I found what I was looking for; a well finished tie and die material. Staring at it brought back memories, memories of a wrinkled smile on a bride’s face, a bride that had been me. In matching Ankara clothes with a man. A man I had thought I loved. Love I had judged based on my shrugging shoulders when I was told he was the one. Or by the forced smile on my mother’s face when she had walked me to his then Peugeot car that misty January morning, I remember the cool air and peeling lips that announced to everyone the seemingly unwanted presence of Uguru. It was that same day she had given me this material, folded it into three equal squares, wrapped it in a polythene bag and neatly placed it at the side of my box. Then when life had been all smiles, when time hadn’t sagged my shoulders, when there had still been a gleam in Dim’s eyes. A gleam I had mistaken for pleasure, the same pleasure I had seen in other men’s eyes when they had come for their bride. I had likened Dim’s motionless expression, his stutter, the way he refused to iron the clothes meant for the “Igba Nkwu” to pleasure.  I carefully placed the six yard material on the wooden table as though dropping it in any other way would ruin its designs. Designs I loved, not because I understood them. No the scattered parchment of colours made no sense to me; it was rather because of the memories they brought back.

The sound of the front door opening jolted me back to reality. It was then I realised Dim’s Volvo was neatly parked in the front yard beside the Oak tree, it was then I heard the sound of his heavy footsteps ascending the wooden stairs. My heart skipped a beat as I stared at the chiffon gown that lay spread on the bed, I shouldn’t have left it there, it shouldn’t be the first thing Dim had to see. I didn’t have much time to think before the room door flung open. There he was, dressed in a flannel shirt and khaki trousers, his hazel eyes glistened as he stared from me to the Chiffon gown lying on the bed.

“Nno” I said in a low tone, one so low that I doubted it was mine.

He didn’t answer immediately. He didn’t answer at all. Instead he grinned at me, flashed me a quizzical glare before taking his seat on the bed.

“Your food is on the dining table” I said once more, then I started to walk out so he could change.

His voice stopped me in my tracks “Did you get the package from the delivery man I sent?”

I nodded, in response to the will of that baritone voice. A baritone voice I had come to know years ago when mine had been a whisper. A voice I had learned to love, hard as it seemed, I had tried to get used to the fluidity in its speech. I tried to read love from it, the kind of love I knew. The kind that existed between my parents, a love born out of mutual understanding, a love expressed in the way they talked far into the night, in the way Mama kneeled to serve Papa his meals every night. In the way Papa would let her sip from the full cup of palm wine before he began to drink, most of all in the way Mama would drink whether she was thirsty or not.  Their love was so austere that I sometimes thought I imagined it. I sometimes thought I imagined the low cackles that had then drifted me to sleep every night, or the hush voices speaking in Igbo from the front house about everything.

“It’s for tomorrow” he pouted, like I didn’t already know.

Dim had gotten me the chiffon gown for the workers formal of his company which held annually. I never attended; Dim hadn’t ever bothered asking me to. But this year, he so badly craved for a promotion that he thought it worthwhile to bring me along. He knew such managerial levels didn’t come to unmarried men, so he intended to flaunt me at the event for that purpose only. He knew I was aware, he knew I was aware I was just a business asset but he didn’t care. Nor did I, I would have but I lost the right to a long time ago. Not by doing anything wrong, on the contrary, it was by doing nothing at all.

When Dim slept off that night, I got to work sewing previously cut pieces of the tie and die material together to make a dress. A dress I intended to wear to the formal, one I had learnt to sew from my younger sister Nkem. As I passed the needle through the material and drew it back to tighten, a smile formed across my face. It taught me a lot about life; the little time in which the unfinished edges became properly seamed gave me a hint of how my life was to God. Little rough pieces becoming properly sewn.

The next day, I had as always waited for Dim. But unlike yesterday, I waited idly, I waited dressed in the tie and die material I had sewn, my hair was done in the only way I knew. I sang no songs, nor did I bother counting the terracotta pieces, I just waited till I heard the sound of a car pull up in the driveway. Dim’s figure appeared in the doorway few minutes later. He barely stared at me after dropping his keys before he started to make his way up the stairs in his regular fashion. Stomping his feet hard against each stair with enough force to slit them in two. The sound of his feet stomping against each stair reminded one of the village drums, the ones played every year to herald the mmuo’s at festive celebrations.

Dim came down the stairs after a long time, bathed and fully dressed.

“We’re late” He said to me picking up his keys from the glass table beside the terracotta pieces “I thought you’d be dressed by now”

My lips quivered, probably from fear of what I was about to say “I am dressed”

“What do you mean?” he asked me, his eyebrows were raised and his shoulders sagged in disappointment “Where is the dress I got you?”

I wanted to speak but the words won’t come, I wasn’t sure how long I stood motionless but I was sure of Dim’s figure coming towards me, I was sure of the sound of his metal belt leaving his trousers. I was sure of the reddened scars on my body from which blood gushed out with no effort, I was sure of the gliding of my sinews as I landed against the glass table shattering the fragile terracotta pieces. I was sure of the strange whimper I heard, I knew it was mine but every nerve in my body doubted it. Most of all, I was sure of the hot tears that streamed down my cheeks.

That day, Dim and I still drove to the formal. I was still dressed in the tie and die material I had sewn with its rough edges pointing out like hunters aiming at a prey. I sat beside him in the Volvo, I never sat there.  Except on Sundays, and at Family reunions when he wanted to make an impression.  As we pulled over, I could see other men with their wives dressed in exquisite gowns of varying colours, none was dressed in handmade tie and die. Dim began to make some phone calls when we had alighted and I excused myself to the bathroom. I cried, I cried because I knew Dim wouldn’t get the raise, I cried because of the pains I felt at every part of my body. As I cried my mind wandered back to the shattered terracotta pieces. I thought of how much I was like them, easily shattered but carefully moulded.

When I dried my eyes and walked out the bathroom, Dim was talking to a woman. Something about her seemed familiar but I couldn’t make out what. It wasn’t her face, for I had never seen them anywhere. It was her dress. A chiffon gown, Red, blue, and light strokes of cyan.

 

 

 

 

 

Michael Price
No Substitute for Terror

His new wife tried to talk him out of it.  “Sweetheart, listen... I have a good job,” was how it began.  “You really don't have to do this...”

“No,” he said, smiling stubbornly. “I'm the husband now.”

“But you just got out of school,” she reasoned.  “We'll be fine.  You'll have lots of offers next year, I'm certain of it...”

“I need to get started.”

“... or you could do something else.”

“Not a chance,” was the firm response.  “It's my calling, I know it, it's what I was meant to be.  Besides, it's great experience--what better training could there possibly be?”

“Or we could move.  Everybody needs nurses, I could get a job anywhere.  We don't have to live in the city just so I can be close to work.”

 “Honey, you know I love you and I love what you're trying to say, I really do, but... look, you know my father was a teacher, both grandfathers were teachers, an uncle, an aunt, my sister, two older cousins... all teachers.”

 “I know, I know.  But sweetheart, you remember how it was.”

“It wasn't that bad...”

                                                            *

Larry knocked twice on the open door, took one large step into the classroom, inquired, “Anybody home?”--and smiled broadly at the seated students.       

Twenty-two sixth graders stared back at him in silence, blatantly unimpressed. 

“Okay,” he gulped, striding toward the blackboard, stopping directly behind the teacher's chair and over-sized desk.  The term buffer zone bolted through his head, masked by a more normal smile.  “And a good morning to you all, ladies and gentlemen.”

No response.

Larry licked his lips with a dry tongue.  “Okay again.”  He turned and picked up a sliver of chalk.  “My name...” writing on the board, “... is Mister... Maschke.”  He set the chalk back in the tray and faced the class, an assemblage impressively unified in its expressionlessness.  Larry inhaled deeply, exhaled quickly, and utilizing his pleasantest tone, “Now, as I understand it, you've already been informed that your Mrs. Brewer is starting her maternity leave today and won't be with you for some time.”

“No shit, Sherlock.”

Larry discerned the male voice from the back right corner of the room.  It startled him for a second, not so much because of the profanity but due, to a greater extent, to the deepness of voice—for a sixth grader—as well as the turn of the century literary reference—again, for a sixth grader.  There was a sprinkling of youthful giggles.

He reached down and picked up a clipboard of papers from the desk.  “And let's see, back there, you would be Mister...”  He ran an index finger up and down the top page on the clipboard, stopped, and looked up again, concealing a burgeoning grin.  “Huh.” 

Resorting to the first-day-on-the-job, get-off-on-the-right-foot, play-along-with-the-students variety of humor, he straight-manned, “Unless I'm misreading Mrs. Brewer's seating chart, young man, you must be Sabrina Whitehead.”

A maleficent wave of juvenile snickering ripped through the room, lasting several seconds. 

After most of the laughter had subsided, “Probably not, genius,” sneered the same voice from the back corner, a young man's voice severely bitten with sarcasm.  “You're an idiot.”

The room fell eerily silent.

“He's Brock,” sotto voced a smallish girl seated in the first row, directly in front of Larry, displaying the sourest of faces.  “Yucky Brock Drew.  He's older.” 

“Yeah,” nodded Larry, pasting on a smile, “I got that.  Thank you, Miss...” he checked his chart.  “... Miss...”

“Whitehead.”  She smiled, a helpful smile.

Which elicited yet more laughter, including a mostly mirthless chuckle from Larry.  “I see,” he said.  Then, as jovial as he could muster, “Okay Mr. Drew, Miss Whitehead, class,” he nodded, edging his way around the desk, “I can take a joke as well as the next guy...” 

A spitball hit him in the ear.

“Hey!”

He hadn't seen from which direction it had come much less who threw it, but it evidently had traveled a fair distance and with considerable velocity because it stung more than he thought a flying spitball ought to, but he had no real reference in the matter.

Larry allowed himself a few moments to compose himself as yet more juvenile snickering simmered through the room.  “All right... okay,” he started slowly, suppressing mounting gall.  “I hope I don't have to explain why that's the last time that's going to happen.  We've had our fun for the day, now—are we all clear on that?”  He paused in silence, panning the room, feigning extreme exasperation.  Then softer, kindlier, “Okay.  Now… I would appreciate it, very much, if those of you not seated at your assigned desks would take the next thirty seconds to move to wherever you're supposed to be so we can take attendance and get started.”

All twenty-two students stood.  They began to mingle, dawdle about, softly droning at and with each other as if was a post-A.A. meeting smoking and coffee confab, only for little kids.  Larry sat behind his desk and waited patiently for the students to sit, but few did. 

“Okay,” he clapped, “let's everybody take a seat—now, please,” he volumed above the din, accenting the now with theretofore unprecedented sternness, fully aware of how precipitously close he was to slipping into the domain of actual anger, an area he had consciously resolved to avoid on his first day as a professional teacher. 

And again, “Now... please.”

The class dissolved into silence as the students grumpily began to sit: the most uninspired round of musical chairs in history, thought Larry. 

He never did find out if anyone ended up where they were supposed to be.

He knew for certain that at least three boys didn't.  Brock Drew and two other boys, smaller in stature but with bullyish deportment, were standing, scowling, in front of a large side closet, containing, among other things, gym equipment.

“Yeah teach, we usually have gym class first thing,” said Brock, opening the closet door.  “Ain't that right, boys?”

“That's right,” paraphrased the other two boys. 

“Yeah,” agreed a few classmates, softly.

Larry quietly corrected, “The word is isn't, not ain't, Mr. Drew,” then flipped the top page on his clipboard.  “See now, that's not at all what Mrs. Brewer says in her notes,” he said, pointing down, maintaining a peripheral awareness of Drew and his pals.  “It says right here that you have language first thing in the morning.” 

“Bullshit.” 

Giggles. 

“I beg your pardon?”

“Bullshit what Mrs. Brewer says.” 

“Yeah, bullshit!”

Larry felt his stomach flip-flop.  “Please watch your language, Mr. Drew.”

“Or else, what?”  Brock glowered daggers at Larry.   Larry stared back, outwardly firm, Jello on the inside.

Brock lifted a small softball bat from the closet, eased the hallway door shut, and stepped forward, the other two boys flanked behind him.  “Who here wants to play kickball?” he voiced in the direction of the rest of the class, two wildly nefarious eyes burning directly into Larry's.

“We do, we do!” unisoned the class with volume.

“Now just wait...”

Louder, “Kickball!  Kickball!  Kickball!...”

Larry was losing control of the room and he knew it but this was all new to him; he was absolutely, positively unsure of his viable options under such circumstances.  Later, he would recall thinking at that very moment... keep it light.  When in doubt, always go with your strength. 

“Kickball!  Kickball!...”

“But Brock,” Larry stated with an uneasy chuckle, “everybody knows that bats aren't allowed in kickball...”

“Shut up!”

The class was now supremely rabid.  “Kickball!  Bullshit!  Shut up!  Kickball!  Bullshit!  Shut up!...”

With ambush-like execution, Brock and his two buddies strode forward as one and penned in Larry, up against the big desk.

Brock began violently hacking away at Larry with the bat.

“Hey... Ow!  Cut it out!  Hey!” 

Larry blocked the first few swings with his arms; he knew immediately that his left wrist was broken.  Brock's next swing landed in the pit of Larry's stomach, knocking the wind out of him, rendering him temporarily voiceless.  One last swing sent him to the floor, writhing in silent, air-sucking pain.

“Get 'im!  Get 'im!” yelled the students, many rising to join in the onslaught.

Brock dropped the bat and began kicking Larry in the rib cage, over and over and over.  The other two boys aimed for Larry's head, kicking and punching with their little fists in fury, just as Larry began getting his wind back.

“Help!  Somebody... ow!... somebody ... ah, ow!... go get Mr. Lundquist, somebody... ah, God!  Help!”

“Hold 'im down!” bellowed Brock, the driving force of the young mob, over the din.  “Get his mouth!  Shut 'im up!”

Now every student was up, all twenty-two sixth graders, all but a few involved in the fray.  They pinned Larry flat on the floor, face up, three or four students per extremity.  Larry could barely move, only his head side to side, and only a little bit.  One of the smaller boys stuffed an eraser in Larry's mouth; Brock took some white tape from the medicine kit from the same side closet, wrapped it tightly over the teacher's mouth and around his neck, to secure it in place. 

“Uueh!  Uueh!” was Larry’s muted cry for help.

A boy grabbed a stapler off the teacher's desk, opened it flat, and repeatedly punctured Larry's face when it wasn't being pummeled by the students’ battering fists and feet.  The biggest, chubbiest girl in class, hesitant at first, got into the melee by bouncing up and down on his stomach.  Not to be left out, two of the smaller girls collected stick pins from the bulletin board and jabbed him dozens of times, all over his lower abdomen and legs.  Everybody else was, indeed, playing kickball—with Larry's beaten and bruised body in the featured role as the ball—the entire class with wild fury blazing in their eyes.

But it could have been worse. 

During the savage frenzy of feet, fists, and all else, nobody had noticed little Sabrina Whitehead slip out of the classroom.    

“STOP THAT RIGHT NOW!”

She had calmly walked down to the end of the hall--because you weren't supposed to run in the hall, not ever--to inform the school's principal, Mr. Lundquist, very matter-of-factly, that her class was killing the nice substitute teacher.    

“Uueh... Uueh...”

And she was just in time. 

Just as the principal arrived, Brock Drew discovered the desk drawer in which Mrs. Brewer kept her scissors.

“GET OFF THAT MAN!” screamed Mr. Lundquist.

A fractured skull, three broken ribs, collapsed lung, broken wrist (in two places), broken nose, several chipped teeth, countless bumps and bruises (both external and internal), and seventy-seven stitches.

“It really wasn't that bad...”

And a concussion.

                                                            *

 

“Sweetheart, please… you don’t have to do this.”

“Yes, I do, now more than ever.”

“You could do... almost anything else.”

Larry sighed.  “Honey, we've been through this.”

“But... so soon?”

“I told you, it’s what I was meant to be.  It's my calling in life.”

“But sweetheart, you remember how it was...”

“Chalk it up as an experience.  It'll be different this time, I promise.”

 

                                                            *

 

Larry rapped twice on the open door, took one large step into the classroom, inquired, “Anybody home?”--and smiled an unseen smile at the seated students.

Sixteen kindergarten students stared back at him in stunned silence, most of them terrified, thoroughly unnerved at the sight of all the bandages, as Larry strode to the front of the class.

All except one five-year old boy, a child noticeably larger in stature than his classmates, sitting in the first row, who immediately stood and peed on the substitute teacher’s feet.    

 

 

 

 

Patty Somlo
Photograph of a Cemetery

The photograph from Julio was accompanied by a brief note scratched on a thin, nearly translucent sheet of off-white paper.

I visit this cemetery every day and lose myself in the light. I am waiting for the woman to come, the woman who lights the candles. But each day I arrive and find that I am too late, for the candles are already lit. There is some secret here, you see, and maybe if I discover it I can stop this searching. I enclose the photograph for your very capable eye. Perhaps you will discover what continues to elude me.

I placed the photograph on the table and glanced at it as I read and reread Julio’s words, hearing the insistent pressure of his Spanish accent pushing against the syllables. I imagined that Julio was there in the room with me, his dark hand on my pale skin, the contrast of light and dark so startling.

Two months had passed since my last letter from Julio. Two months in which I began to believe that whatever had occurred between us was over.

And now this was what he sent. A black and white photograph mailed from Mexico City. A dark and light photograph of a cluttered cemetery, where moss or rust or a permanent imprint of dead leaves was etched in the stone, and candles thrust their fingers of light into the darkness, dripping wax that mingled with the damp dirt and leaves and silent air hanging over the place. There was a dog too, his front legs stretched out, his head up, alive but somehow part of the stone. A mascot for the dead. A bridge between this world and the next.

I looked at the photograph and read Julio’s words again, wondering what any of it meant. What was I to find in the photograph? Did it matter that flowers were placed carefully among the dead or that candles leaned like unsteady towers, appearing as if they might burn their light straight into the ground? And what about the Indian woman who stood at the far edge, a long black braid falling down her back?

I pinned the photograph on the corkboard above my desk, next to Julio’s photograph of the Mexican café. I put myself in the photograph where Julio must have stood and tried to see the cemetery as he did that dark day. What was it that first drew his attention? Was it the dog or the Indian woman? Which of them held the secret to this place, that dark magnet within Julio that pulled me in and held me?

The night after I received the photograph, I awoke in the middle of the night, my heart beating fast with fear, as if an intruder had entered the room and was slowly making his way toward my bed. There was no one in the room but I lay in bed too frightened to sleep. The next night, the same thing happened and, again, the night after that.

Lying awake that third night, I thought about my last period of insomnia, after meeting Julio. Before that night, I had been content with my solitary life. Or so I thought. Quiet evenings with books. Mornings spent alone, writing the novel I believed would be my ticket out of the delicate balancing act of working just enough to pay the bills but not enough for extras. It had been nearly ten years since I’d felt a man penetrate me simply with his eyes. In that time, I had made a life alone that seemed full enough. But then without warning, this dark stranger appeared in the gallery with his eyes fixed on me.

It wasn’t only Julio that drew me in. There were his photographs hanging on the clean white gallery walls. The eyes of dying men and women in the photographs wouldn’t let me leave them behind. I heard the wind that stirred up the dirt and lifted loose papers in the prints crying in my ear.

After three weeks without a full night’s sleep, I was ready to write. I wasn’t sure if the words were intended for Julio or for me. But it didn’t matter.

I wonder what would happen if I discovered the secret buried in the cemetery, I wrote. Would you be able to stop your wandering and come here to live with me? Do you believe that you will only love a woman if she can unravel the secret and satisfy the longing that keeps you snapping these dark and light photographs in the most remote corners of the world? I wonder if I know the answer but am afraid to tell you. Afraid of what might occur if you were to come back and I made a place for you in my life.

The next morning I sat down at my desk, put a clean stack of paper in front of me and looked for a long time at the photograph. The mist hovering over the cemetery seeped into my mind. I smelled the wax, hot and melting on the damp ground, and the old moss clinging like desperate fingers to the stone. I let the photograph envelope me as I imagined Julio in that place, pausing just at the edge to breathe in deep and smell the odor of life and death coming together. Pausing to notice the way light fell in tentative circles on the heavily stained stone and the thick gray angles the shadows made.

Then I began to write.

I don’t know why but sometimes I feel as if I’m carrying a cemetery inside me.

When I was finally able to sleep again, the dreams came like flickering images rapidly fanned in front of my eyes, nearly all passing too quickly for me to hold onto any thought of what I’d just seen. In the midst of the images was a cemetery, on the other side of a narrow bridge stretched over a mist-shrouded stream. Each time I stepped onto the bridge, hands rose up from the stream and tried to pull me in. I was too afraid of those hands to try and cross.

The next morning I looked at the photograph of the cemetery and wrote, Is that what you’re asking? Is it complete surrender to the hands pulling me into the water? Must I enter the cemetery to know the secret? Must I risk everything, even my own life, to get there?

I started to shiver as I stared at the photograph and thought about one of the last conversations Julio and I had before he left for Brazil.

“I look at your photographs and see death everywhere,” I said. “It seems like you have a fascination with death, that you’re drawn to it in some irresistible way.”

Julio looked at me for a moment, then turned toward the window.

“To walk close to death is to take risks,” he said. “You have to be willing to risk. Otherwise, life isn’t worth anything.”

“But where’s the risk for you? It seems like all the people you’re photographing are at risk and you are safe, safe behind the camera.”

“Maybe that’s what I want you to think,” Julio said and smiled.

“I don’t understand,” I responded.

Julio thought for a moment before answering. “Wherever there is poverty, that kind of extreme suffering, there is always danger. In your country, everyone believes that famine is an act of God. The truth is very different. Wars, injustice and greed create famine. And the people are not passive victims. They always fight back. The photographer acts as a witness to the worst cruelty man do to other men. There are always those in power who do not want the world to see what I capture in my photographs. I am in danger everywhere I go.”

“Why do you keep doing it then?” I asked.

“I don’t exactly know. I know something about it but if I tried to explain it to you, I would sound foolish and you wouldn’t know any more than you know now. Sometimes I think I keep taking the photographs to try and understand why I keep taking the photographs.”

 

In the morning I awoke to the sound of rain thrown by wind against the roof. Looking at the rain running down the window, I was reminded of the first afternoon Julio and made love and afterwards Julio traced an eye in the damp, opaque window glass.

“An eye can penetrate even the thickest darkness,” Julio said, pushing a strand of hair over my eye. “There is always a light and that is what the eye is drawn to. Like the day we met in the gallery. All those pretentious people were there and I could barely breathe. The gallery seemed so dark to me but then my eye found the light.”

“Where was it?” I asked, resting a hand on Julio’s bare arm.

“It was all around you,” Julio said, brushing the hair away from my eye and kissing my forehead.

I listened to the crackle of the rain against the hard glass and the wind whine, as I looked at the photograph and realized I needed to enter it as a man would crawl under a blue sheet and press the warm skin of his lover or the priest would enter his cathedral. I needed to enter the photograph exactly as the woman who came to light the candles, silencing my breath and stepping quietly around the dead, listening to the spirits whispering above that place and the cries of the men and women who couldn’t let go of this life.

My foot sank into the soft earth. I took another step, keeping my eye on the dog. I struck a match and lit one candle after the next, until the match burned my finger. The Indian woman was holding a baby wrapped in a blue cloth.

I watched the Indian woman place the shrouded baby in a small wooden box and kneel for a moment, stroking the baby’s dark cheek. She placed the lid over the box and lowered it into a narrow oblong hole in the earth.

A dark man dressed all in white came over and covered the box completely with dirt. I turned away to strike another match and light three more candles. When I returned my gaze to the man and woman, they were gone. In their place, they had left a doll, on the mound of earth that covered the wooden box holding a baby wrapped in a pale blue shroud.

I think I am beginning to understand, I wrote, after scribbling down the story of the Indian woman and realizing that now I must learn the rest – how the baby died and whether anything could have been done to save it.

 

 

 

 

Peter J. Speziale
Torn

I stood by his bed, close to his head.  He lay on his back. He had no strength to roll over. He could only move his forearms, or turn his head, or squeeze the control switch in his hand, controlling a limited set of morphine drips.  The intravenous bags hung high from a rolling stand on the other side of the bed—drip, drip, drip—ticking in steady short intervals, like a tall grandfather clock without sound. The doctor’s words played over in my mind:  “. . . it spread to distal regions from its point of origin, irreparably damaging his vital organs.” 

There he lay—still with a trace of color in his cheeks, his eyes of blue still undefeatable. I brushed his soft gray hair with my fingers. I ran the tip of my index finger along the rim of his ear. He turned his head and breached a faint smile when our eyes locked.

“Lie with me,” he said. “Lie down in the bed with me.”

His affection startled me.  

Four, maybe five years old, I remember him sitting in his lounge chair at night, reading his newspaper. Climbing up his ottoman, crawling along his body, I usually worked my way to his head, nuzzling into his neck as I curled my body along the side of his chest. He never paused from his newspaper, nor said a word.

“Lie down in the bed with me,” he said in a faint, tired voice.

 “Dad, I can’t. I can’t fit.”

“You can. There’s room.” His voice faded to a whisper. His head sunk deeper into the pillow as he broke eye contact with me.

The drip was captivating.

“Let’s close the shop early today, it’s too hot. Want to go for a swim in the new pool in North Woodmere Park? It’ll be closed up in a week, right after Labor Day weekend.”

“Uh, yeah. Yeah definitely dad. Uh, are you sure?”  We went home, changed into our bathing suits, and headed for the park. 

“Feels good, right?” he said.

“Yup.”  I lied.  The pool was freezing and I stood still. I was 7 and a bit insecure in the water—I didn’t know how to swim. I felt out of place. It was strange to see him in a bathing suit. I never saw his body uncovered by his dark blue work clothes—denim jeans and a denim long sleeve button down with a left chest pocket holding a small pad and pencil. His face and the back of his hands were tanned brown.  The rest of his skin seemed milky white. His chest hair was bushy and gray at the top.

“Hey c’mon, climb on my back, like you’re riding a horse—I’ll swim you around. When you see me raise my right arm, take a deep breath ‘cause we’re going under!”

I rode on his back and he swam me around between lots of other kids, from pool end to end. My body was like a periscope on a submarine, surfacing the water, then disappearing beneath, swallowing my giggles so I could take deep breaths. That was the only time we were in a pool together. I don’t remember if he ever left work early again. I don’t think so.

 “Dad, I’m not allowed to lie in the bed,” I said, as I turned to look at the doorway to see if anyone could see in. “The hospital must have rules against that.” 

“So what?” he said.  “Just lie with me, son. It’s okay.” His head sank deeper into the pillow.

Drip…  Drip...  Drip…

“Daddy, here’s my report card,” Wendy said. “I didn’t do so well in Geometry or Chemistry, but I did well in English lit.” 

“77, 79? Ah no, god damn it.”  I watched him slightly roll his upper lip into his front teeth. His eyes squinted—only slightly—then the blue seemed to light like flames.  Not the first time we saw this menacing look. No telling how long it would last, how far it would go.

“Oh daddy, I’m sorry,” she said as she looked to the floor, away from the flames.

“Well I’m sorrier than you are.  You’re 15 years old for Christ’s sake, and your brother’s not far behind you. This is the one damn thing I ask you kids to do—study and get good grades. That’s your job. I do mine god damn it, day in and day out.” 

And then he stood from his chair. His upper lip curled in tighter. My sister Wendy stepped back, still looking down. My mother stood quietly in the next room while I stood next to her. She chose not to look but I had already leaned my head in the doorway. I watched his face tighten and change. Then he kicked the magazine stand across the room. The wood frame split and the magazines slid out through the broken bottom, on the opposite side of the room.  He sat back down in his chair. His upper body disappeared behind his newspaper. Wendy cried quietly as she turned and went upstairs to her room.  Mom piled the magazines in a corner. I gathered the pieces of the rack. It was beyond repair.

“Mommy?” I whispered. My lips were quivering.

“Leave it honey,” she whispered. “Come, it’s time for bed.”  She cupped her hand on the back of my neck and I leaned my head in to her waist as we walked upstairs. At the top of the stairs, we hugged and she held me tight. Wendy’s door was closed.  I wondered if dad’s upper lip was still pressed hard against his teeth.

I tucked his gray hair behind his ear and stroked the side of his head.

“Lie with me, son,” he said as the effects of the morphine lowered his eyelids and lulled him to sleep. His breathing became heavy and steady, adding sound to the rhythm of the drip, drip...drip…

I stood motionless in the doorway of my bedroom. I looked across the hall, directly into their bedroom. He was yelling. Mom was crying. I think she was on the bed. They weren’t in my view. I could picture his lips, tightening; his eyes, flaming.            

“Why, why did you do that?” he yelled. “I told you never to do that.”

His voice was like thunder. I don’t know what she did. It didn’t matter.

“No” she yelped, in a high pitched voice. And then she darted into my field of vision, running to the back of their bedroom. She turned and leaned against the wall, her back slowly sliding down as she bent her legs.  As her rear touched the floor, she raised her head. Her eyes locked with mine.  He came in to view, his large back facing me. He didn’t know I was there. I couldn’t see her face anymore.  He towered over her. Then he kicked her, twice. He yelled, louder than before, but the indelible image of mom’s face, flushed with fear, deafened my ears to his words. But I heard her.  She yelped and she cried as his foot hit her thigh; his hand, her face. 

“Look what you’re showing our little boy!” she cried.

He turned and saw me, frozen in my doorway. His mouth was moving, but I wouldn’t hear him. He turned back towards mom. I didn’t feel alive. I was just two ears and two eyes—moving side to side and up and down along his massive back, looking and listening for mom.

 “Look what he’ll remember about you!” she pleaded.

He stepped closer to her. And he kicked her again.

She slid herself across the floor, out of sight. He followed. She yelped a few more times, then he walked out of the room, into the hallway.

“Call your grandmother’s house,” he growled. “Tell her to come over here. Tell her your mom needs her.” And he went downstairs, his face fierce—a vicious dog, retreating.

Drip/inhale, drip/exhale.  He lay asleep.

“Is dad coming to the game on Saturday, mom? I’m starting at second base. I’m third in the batting lineup.”

“I asked him honey. I’ll be there, though.”

“Great. I asked him too, mom.  We’re tied for first place and this is the last game of the season. This is it mom—9th grade, end of middle school, final game, last year of Little League ball.”

So nervous I was during the games. Scared of the ball, scared of what my teammates would think if I made an error. I was a fast base runner though. I think I was. He never saw me play. 

“Here’s my report card, dad. One year left of high school, grade point average—93.”  He took the card.  I watched his eyes read it. He handed it back to me as he nodded his head slightly and continued to read his newspaper. 

Drip/inhale. Drip/exhale.  Drip.

Sometimes before I went up to bed, I watched him sleep in his lounge chair.  I wondered if he dreamed.

A nurse came in.  She nodded, smiled slightly, read his chart, then turned a valve on the bottom of one of the intravenous bags. She nodded again as she left and said goodnight.  The other two bags continued to drip at the same pace as before.

Home from college the day before Thanksgiving; sitting with mom on the couch in the den; showing her pictures of my girlfriend—the two of us on campus.

“Oh she’s lovely, just lovely!  Matthew, when do I get to meet her?”

I heard his key in the side door lock. He walked through the kitchen and stood in the archway of the den.

“Hey dad!”

“Hi son, how was the drive down-state?”

“Fine. Good.”

His eye contact shifted to mom.

“Did you call?” he said to her.

Silence.

“Did you remember to call them?”

“No, I didn’t call. I couldn’t call when—.” Interrupted by the smash of a hanging ceramic pot against the stone kitchen floor—it hung in the archway between the kitchen and den, where he stood. He grabbed it with both hands, one on each side, raised it above his head, then yanked it off its hook and cord and shattered it on the floor.  His eye contact shifted to me. His upper lip curled into his teeth.

“Do you know why I did that?” he yelled to me.

Silence.

“I did that so I don’t do anything to her.” His eye contact shifted to mom.

“Now clean it up.”

I helped her. 

He woke with a cough, a weak cough to clear his throat. He seemed frightened. He looked straight ahead—squinting, struggling to focus. I stroked the top rim of his ear with my index finger. I noticed the tone of his gray hair was the same as the tone in mine.

“Dad, you’re okay. You fell asleep. Everything’s okay. The nurse was here. Rest, dad.” 

“Lie with me son. There’s room, see?” His blue eyes shifted back and forth, to the side of the bed and to me; the side of the bed, me. 

Torn, I wanted desperately to do it—to lay with him, the man in the pool. But I lost him when I was a little boy.  And I never could find him again.

 

 

 

 

Scott Wheatley
An Open Sky

Try to understand there were only two sounds you could hear in that plane: the buzzing of the engine and clanging of metal as equipment was refitted into place for the hundredth time. The humming of the plane’s propellers was so loud it made conversation near impossible. The flight into battle was a time for reflection. Your own thoughts, you know? Our silence as a unit was indicative of the shit we’d been through. The close to impossible training sessions at Toccoa, Sergeant Sobel’s chickenshit, and now a final ride in a hollow tin can. Conversation at this point would mean admission to fear. Damn right we were scared. How would you feel if bullets started whizzing by your head? “30 seconds,” we heard the Sarge yell over the propellers. 

Sitting there, waiting, all you could do was check your pack or a bootlace that looked like it needed retying, careful not to make eye contact with any of the brothers. And if you did, a hope that your gaze reflected understanding. This feeling would wash over your body as you were trying to bend down to reach your boots. A feeling like those times you wanted to play in the snow and your mom would dress you up like she was preparing you for the Arctic and you’d have to wait.…anticipating. 

All that crap we thought we’d need made it hard to turn my body. Robbins was good at catching the nervous look men held in their eyes. He looked around and gave them all a thumbs up. Robbins always had your back. You had a sense of family with him; no questions asked. That’s what made that first flight into battle exhilarating as well as scary. We had trained for so long we were desperate for battle. We were ready to get our first official jump under our belts and shoot the Krauts if necessary. 

Before joining the military my dad said, “Be a man. Do somethin’ with your life.” He walked differently when I volunteered for the paratroopers. He walked proudly, said my name differently. As I sat on that plane getting ready to jump, prepared to liberate Europe from the Nazis, I thought about my father. You thought about the people back home and you wondered if you’d ever see them again. 

An intense ringing awakened us from our thoughtful slumber. At least it sounded like ringing. The sound reminded me of when my grandfather taught me how to shoot. “Okay, relax your grip, it’s not your dick,” he’d say in his military voice. I’d aim the 22 carefully and wait for the bullet to rattle the tin cans he’d set up along the fence. Each time the plane would get pinged our ears would ring and we’d duck from bullets, from guns we couldn’t see, and I’d be reminded of those tin cans lined up precariously along my grandfather’s backyard fence. Then the Sarge started to yell. He was telling us to jump. Can you imagine that feeling? Bullets whizzing by your feet, hitting your buddies, and the only way out was a small hole on the side of the tin can we were riding in. Sitting ducks! Just let me jump, echoed in my head, and then I realized I was yelling it.

With a simple “Go!” and a stern push we began filing out of the belly of the beast. The loneliness in the darkness of night was intense. For a few seconds life was silent and so still.

Instantly flashes of brilliant light penetrated that darkness, that peacefulness. Chutes began opening all around me. Thousands of soldiers floating along into the unknown. Clack, clack, clack, brightness of light, clack, clack, clack.

Then a new reality set in. The enemy could easily see us. Here we were, floating along like targets. Giant, white marshmallows. You swung your feet desperately, in hopes of feeling the ground under your feet. It was a real mess when the wind started to blow. You tried to visualize the drop zone, but that damn wind kept blowing you away from anything that looked like ground. The Sarge’s briefing was good. I felt like I knew where everything should be. Each building and road was studied before the jump. Now the whole platoon was heading for a dense wooded area. I was tempted to start yelling just to get an idea if any of my buddies were floating nearby. The wind was pushing us towards silence.

When I finally set my two feet on the ground it was like eating ice cream for the first time. I lied there with an overwhelming feeling of joy until I tried to get up and couldn’t. First, you tried to use your stomach muscles to pull yourself up, when that didn’t work a little panic set in. You tried to bend your legs and they wouldn’t bend. Then you recognized a warm sensation pass over your body and as quickly as it came it was gone, replaced by coldness. You were reminded of home. Of going home. Then you saw the blood and just wanted to make snow angels right there on the ground in enemy territory.