Shards [Anthology]

© Copyright DLSIJ Press, 1999 ISBN: 1-928973-06-X All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the authors and publisher.

Published by DLSIJ Press Appleton, WI USA www.dlsijpress.com [email protected]

Profits from this book have been/will be donated to The Breast Cancer Fund (TBCF). TBCF is not affiliated in any way with the publisher. TBCF neither endorses nor controls this work. TBCF logo used with permission.

this book is dedicated to the soldiers in the fight against breast cancer

a letter from the executive director of the breast cancer fund

Dear Friend, Thank you for supporting the efforts of The Breast Cancer Fund. I am very grateful to you for your interest; to DLSIJ Press for making this wonderful project come to life; and to the more than thirty outstanding authors who contributed their work to SHARDS to help bring an end to breast cancer. The Breast Cancer Fund was formed in 1992 to raise awareness and funding for cutting-edge projects in research, education, patient support and advocacy. Since then, we have distributed $1.1 million in grants to start-up programs and early, promising research. The issue has come a long way since 1992. Breast cancer is out of the closet, at least in this country. We are slowly but surely getting new drugs for treatment—and some of them are biologic and not poisonous. It looks like some women with metastatic cancer may actually be living longer, with some quality of life. Breast cancer activists are participating in every level of decisionmaking that affects how this country deals with the disease. But: Breast cancer incidence continues to rise steadily—here and around the world. It is the #1 killer of

women age 35 to 55. Mammography is even more entrenched, while more accurate, safer detection methods are still out of reach. Vast numbers of women have no access to treatment. We and our daughters continue to be exposed to chemicals and practices that we know are contributing to the spread of the disease, while industry, government and the scientific establishment remain in denial. Above all, women with breast cancer are still dying, right and left, long before their time. We still have our work cut out for us. The Breast Cancer Fund pursues its mission through research, action and policy initiatives that support the following objectives: DETECTION replace mammography with a more accurate screening technology that does not expose a woman's breasts to radiation, even in low doses, over decades of her life TREATMENT shift from a reliance upon toxic chemotherapies to the use of less- or non-toxic treatments that enhance the body's disease-fighting capacity PREVENTION uncover the environmental links to breast cancer and eliminate preventable causes of the disease ACCESS TO CARE achieve universal access to the best available detection, treatment, and prevention strategies Every initiative The Breast Cancer Fund undertakes makes an effort to change the way people think about

breast cancer—from personal tragedy to public health crisis—and promotes an approach to wellness and healing that encompasses the mind, body, and spirit of every woman. Again, I thank you for your support which will enhance and extend the lives of countless women—today and for generations to come.

With warm regards, Andrea R. Martin Founder and Executive Director

PS: I invite you to learn more about The Breast Cancer Fund by contacting us or visiting our website.

THE BREAST CANCER FUND 282 Second Street, Second Floor San Francisco, CA 94105 phone: 800/487-0492 fax: 415/543-2975 www. breastcancerfund.org [email protected]

Authors Elizabeth Pulford ..............................................................9 Diana Rose Hartman.......................................................17 Patricia Denny Purvis.....................................................29 Cheryl Cooke Harrington ...............................................43 Darlene Duncan ..............................................................45 Susanna Williams ...........................................................54 Dawn Carter....................................................................67 Charlotte Boyett-Compo.................................................78 Roberta Nolte..................................................................83 Diana Baird.....................................................................86 Rhonda Nolan.................................................................95 Jennifer Caress..............................................................102 Nadine Hielscher ..........................................................106 Caron Drake..................................................................123 Melissa Beynon ............................................................129 Artemis Wilson.............................................................137 Sherri Jilek....................................................................146 Lucy Wade....................................................................155 Mary Lynn ....................................................................167 Diane Payne..................................................................175 J. Butler.........................................................................181 Pamela Jasper ...............................................................188 Paula Felps....................................................................193 Carla Ledbetter .............................................................204 Kelli Walsh ...................................................................215 SuzAnne Cole...............................................................220 Deborah J. Lindsey.......................................................227 Litzi Hartley..................................................................230 Robin Bayne .................................................................237 Rosalyn Wraight ...........................................................243 Kay Jimerson ................................................................251

Shards pieces of the whole, a reflection of us all

Elizabeth Pulford Oamaru, North Otago, New Zealand Winner of Four National Short Story Competitions 1997 Children's Book Award Finalist Author of Twelve Children's Books

The Sound of Unpacking The door closes. Now the woman is alone, standing in the hall for a moment, listening to her husband's car puttering down the drive, off to his new place of employment. There is silence, except for the drip drip of the rain falling through the rotten spouting outside the front door. The girl has been left in the day nursery. Her mother goes away down a rain-covered street. The girl thinks she is never coming back. Her father went away and never came back. She stays at the window until a strong pair of hands pull her away and she's ordered to have a slide and be a good girl. She does as she is told. The sitting room is crowded with furniture and piles of cardboard boxes. All the stuff that looked so nice in her other house—now it looks old and dead. Twenty-two years in the same place…twenty-two years up and down the same path to the same back door…all those years of knowing where everything was… In the beginning the girl lived in Canada with her Ukrainian father and grandparents. After the death of her father, her mother bought her home to New Zealand, leaving New York in a war boat in 1945. 10

Hovering inside the doorway, the woman feels completely bewildered, feels like she did when she stood on the station at the age of nineteen, leaving for a trip to her homeland. Now some thirty-odd years later, she can't even remember who was with her on the station—except for her mother handing over a Little Red Riding Hood basket of food to eat on the way, as though there were going to be no goodies where she was going. The woman kneels down and opens the lid of the nearest box. Books, she should have known, her obsession, pages of words, books old and new, bought and held and fingered and read and read. Sitting back on her haunches, she flicks through a few pages, then suddenly slams the novel shut. "What's all this clutter about anyway?" Her voice chips at the silence; anger swells in her head. It had all seemed so necessary last week when she'd been packing. Sheets of newspaper are crumpled carefully around the glasses and crockery, blankets over the pictures, folds of tissue paper cushioned in between the ornaments. Nothing must break. Nothing must spoil. She kicks the box; the books spill out onto the threadbare carpet. For a while the girl and her mother live in a grand house with a curly drive, a long greenhouse, and sprawling gardens. It is the English grandfather's house. He is married to Aunty Jean. The woman goes out to the kitchen, which is painted a hideous blue. No sky was ever this colour. Yet, when she 11

had first seen it, she had laughed and said it wasn't all that bad. Now looking at it, she knows it is worse. Waiting for the kettle to boil, she wonders what it'll be like living here, a different town, different people. What's outside the hedge? She pours the water onto the coffee. It foams for a moment and sends out its strong familiar smell. Taking the cup, she wraps her hands tightly around its warm and comforting middle. Yesterday she had been at home, with her mother and two children still close, and she knew where everything was in her life. Then one day the girl and her mother move from the grandfather's house into a dilapidated two-storey place. They live on the ground floor and when the girl hears the upstairs people walking about, she thinks how magic it must be to live in the air on top of someone else. Returning to the sitting room, the woman sits in the wooden rocking chair. She tries to rock, but the chair is jammed between the sofa and a bookcase. She knows no one in this small country town. She has lived in cities all her life. Two weeks ago her husband was given a choice: a transfer or redundancy. Choice, she had screamed as her mother poured them both a cup of tea. Bloody shits, she screeched, before bursting into tears. Her mother wept with her and comforted her and said, "Don't swear, dear; it's not becoming." It is Saturday morning and the girl is at the library. She takes down a green covered book 12

and as she begins to turn the pages, she changes into the hero with golden hair. After finishing the coffee, the woman gets up and winds her way through the clutter and over to the window. The rain has stopped. Grey air hangs like wet washing down the overgrown drive. Perhaps there might be some mail? From someone who knows they are here. Perhaps? Sodden leaves squelch under her feet as she tramps towards the letterbox. After finding there is nothing, she goes out onto the footpath. Cars and trucks thunder past, so hell bent on getting to where they're going, that they don't even notice her. It is the main highway into town. In the distance she can see the shape of mountains. That's nice. She's never been able to see mountains from her house before. Turning away from the road, she trails back down the long drive. Far away she hears a phone ringing—next door maybe, or the next. It's not her phone; she knows that, for theirs hasn't been connected yet. A lady with fluffy brown hair and white wobbly arms is writing in a book with coloured pencils making coloured words for the girl to say. She is the speech therapist and the girl goes to her once a week after school. "Pull your tongue in and tuck it behind your front lower teeth," says the speech lady. "Yeath." "No—like this." The girl watches her tongue curl into a neat roll. "Now you." 13

She does the same. "Good. Now say sausage." "Thausage." The next box the woman goes to says "Kitchen gear." Her wild handwriting is scrawled across the lid, written late at night in a dark blue marking pen. Giggling, her daughter had hurled all sorts of leftovers from different corners of the house into it. She hauls out a stapler, three chopping boards, a pile of plastic bags, a nut cracker, a farewell bottle of wine from a friend, two toilet rolls, a half-written story, and a file which holds her son's school reports. The girl's grandmother is married to Uncle Jonathan. Grandma Gibbons is soft like a large, white powder puff. The girl watches as she does her tapestry, her short bent fingers pushing and pulling the needle in and out of the fabric. "Your back should always be as tidy as your front," Grandma Gibbons says. The girl wonders how that can be, thinking of the sacking table mat she is making at school. "And so the same with your life. Your inside should be as your outside." A sudden noise penetrates the silence and makes the woman jerk. Is that a car coming down the drive? She strains and listens carefully. No, it's next door, beyond the thick hedge. Doors bang and children's voices, young and 14

excited, chirp and chatter. Her mother is knitting a bathing suit. The girl needs one for the health camp where she is going to learn about not wetting the bed. Once there, she excitedly jumps in the warm water, wearing her brand new togs. Suddenly it begins to grow. Soon it is pulling her under, drowning her. Quickly she wiggles out of it, then drags herself naked to the edge of the pool. All the kids laugh. The wine—she'll have a glass of wine! Reaching over, she clutches at the bottle, secretly, almost as though she shouldn't. Shouldn't what? Shouldn't drink in the middle of the day? There were too many shouldn'ts. The cork screw—where? She digs down in the "Kitchen gear" box. Please, it's not much to ask! They have three cork screws. Just one will do. Her fingers curl round a plastic bag filled with cutlery. She pulls it out. Yes! The woman opens the bottle and pours the wine into the coffee cup. Then she takes a long sip and shudders at the dry, almost bitter taste. The rain has started again, closing in against the windows like curtains, making the big room dark. One day when the girl comes home from high school her mother is in the sitting room with a strange man. "This is Jim," she says. 15

And the girl knows they are going to get married. Sitting on the floor amongst the tipped out books, the furniture, the junk, yesterday's shadows, the woman drinks the wine, slowly, sipping. It is raining and the girl is in Grandma Gibbons' bedroom. "You have glasses now," says the grandma, who suddenly seems to have become very small, peering out from under the quilt. The girl nods, knowing it isn't really her grandmother lying there. For this someone is dying. "Be a good girl and always do as you are told." "Yeath, Grandmother." She is warm now, wrapped in the core of silence, amidst her unpacking. It'll be all right living here, thinks the woman. Like everything else that has happened in her life, it will be all right. Tomorrow she will make a garden—just a small one, enough for some primroses. She will find her raincoat and shovel, and dig a garden. The primroses will be yellow ones, as yellow as the sun.

16

Diana Rose Hartman Bellevue, Washington, USA Current Publications: REBELS AND DEVILS (an anthology) HARD ZEN, SOFT HEART

Magda and I Remember to Forget Lifeha / deathha / joyha / sadha / mamaha / papaha / youha / weha / theyha / Come to think of / it / all is Haha. We are brunching at the Good Earth restaurant in Encino when Magda hushes Kevin's gesticulate description of Jay Schroeder's pass, and unashamedly eavesdrops on the man sitting in the booth to the left of us. We can see only the back of his head—short, brown hair, a backwards Raiders® cap, and Gold's Gym® biceps— but he talks too loudly to a friend wearing a similar cap and having even bigger arms. He says: —She lost the baby, got her car stolen, and was robbed all in one month. Magda and I eye each other askance, aghast at the jerk's insensitivity. She is especially repulsed by his lack of compassion for a woman who's had a miscarriage, and she moves backwards in her memory where her three lost babies swim. And I am overcome by that strange pining which childless women of thirty-something years feel in the pit of their stomachs and the core of their hearts and especially in their nipples. A stocky, moon-faced waitress serves us burgers composed of organic wheat, soy, and sunflower seeds. We think we save a cow's life and a rainforest, so Magda says: —We're so virtuous, aren't we? Not like them… She motions to the jerk and his friend who hungrily tear the wings and legs off of two roasted chickens. I am only sometimes a vegetarian, but Magda makes 18

vegetarianism a religion, refusing to wear leather or wool, or taste the sweet honey of bees. She devotes herself to the living because death performs a lead role in her life. She says to Kevin: —What do you think of adopting? The seriousness of the question is reflected in Magda's brown eyes and Kevin is thinking how to answer without getting himself in trouble. Now Magda's imagining what a good mother she'd make: she would give her child an elk skin drum so he might play the song which makes the Universe expand, and home-school him to protect him from the deadness of the world she knows. Of course, I am reading her mind like best friends often do, or perhaps this is my own fantasy. Kevin finally answers, while kissing his wife's pronounced cheekbone: —Um. You never do know what you get when you adopt. Maybe we should try again. Only two miscarriages ago and Magda would have nodded yes and pressed her husband's hand to her breast, but today, the slight lines on her forehead deepen into creases. A tear wets her burger, and she pushes a million more back, knocking the pain senseless with a truth so black it chokes her. She shrieks: —You don't know what you get when you adopt? You don't know what you get? Look what we got by trying ourselves: two plain dead and one headless. She takes a deep breath as if she is surprised at the words that broke from her tongue. Taboo words, talking about dead babies like that, and we are momentarily frozen; then, false, black laughter erupts from our skulls, 19

sour as cranial vomit, and we clutch our breasts, trying to stop the expulsion lest we get headaches. Our food is getting cold and life lacks guarantees. Later that night, Magda sits in my living room and we toast with Cabernet to our memories and our lives. We drink to the birth of babies, dead and alive, human and animal, and we drink to birthings of beauty in painting and poetry and love, and we drink and we drink. We are part-time witches and sit by a makeshift altar created in celebration of the New Year. Tonight is the Twelfth Day of Christmas, the Feast of the Epiphany. With the house lights off, Magda and I spill salt, circumscribing ourselves, shouting in minor keys, summoning the aid of Diana, Isis, and Hecate. We write our wishes on slips of paper, certain that we know what will make us happy: a lover and no more laziness for me, but Magda wants money for rent and a stable job for her musician husband. We play at witchery, wanting to make change in conformity to our whims. We want the Universe at our feet. We breathe deep, drawing the moon into our bodies and filling the circle we've delineated for the purpose of our ritual. It doesn't even matter if the power is real or imagined because we feel something vital crawling up our spines; we suck it like eccentric vampires or powercraving vacuum cleaners from either heaven or hell. When we've drunk our fill and can feel ourselves shining, we conjure symbols, calling out our wishes, hoping to imprint them on some liquid Other World, one which holds all futures ripe for manipulation by witches like 20

ourselves, or so we think. Afterward, we feed our wishes to the fire. The art of spell-casting says, "Will your desire, then forget it." After the ritual, Magda cries because she has no babies, but she won't dare throw that wish into our fire. Some wants are too dangerous to wish for. Instead she weeps and tells me the story of her second child which came out headless: —I was stoned in pain, but I saw Kevin grimace and heard the doctor groan in disgust. Kevin wouldn't tell me until four weeks later that the baby had lost its head. I try to sympathize, but cannot imagine how Magda feels. The only death I've experienced to date is my grandmother's, and she hated me because I wasn't raised Jewish like her son, but Catholic like my mother. At her funeral, I felt nothing but anger that she'd chosen my twenty-third birthday to croak. Now Magda continues to spill her memories and I don't mind if she spills them on me. She plays with the candle flame, first dipping her finger in wine so it won't burn, and she speaks of her second baby who was born dead as well, but this one had a head and a soul or something like that: —We were required by law to name this dead baby and we had a funeral. The first baby wasn't a real baby but just a fetus, they told us. But this second baby was legally a baby, and it was so hard to lower such a tiny casket into the earth. We had to choose a name for the death certificate and we called him Timothy. He never saw day nor breast nor anything, and here we were mourning his loss…or was it just ours? 21

I am struck by the ludicrousness of society. We live in a funny world, not haha funny but scary funny, like the funny of an asylum for the criminally insane. Scary funny that the tongue of the law can wag and inform grieving mamas and papas when they must attend to proper human burial or when they should flush the clump of bloody protoplasm down the toilet without looking back. How is it that god-lawful authorities like judges and congressmen know exactly when the souls (if there are such things) drop down from heaven, or when real life begins? I don't remember having a say in the matter or voting on some proposition stating that human life officially commences at five months or so, in utero. Neither Magda nor I are having fun, but the conversation lightens up when the subject turns to birth control and Magda gets to bitch about how uncomfortable her new cervical cap is. I say: —At least you're getting laid. I am lamenting because I haven't been laid in six months, not because I've been on an intentional vaginal fast or I'm afraid of AIDS or Venereal Warts or Herpes, but because my damn pelvis refuses to rise indiscriminately. I want something like love, but not so sweet as the movies make it, for I am sure to get sick living exclusively on sweetness, as certain as any hypoglycemic. I want not love's comfort so much as its passion, whatever it is that invites fire to a couple. I might believe that a kind of transitory humunculous is born from the magic of great sex—in an alembic of heat, breath, sperm, and female fluids. This creature is like a gorgeous candle lit by chemical friction, a candle shaped 22

like a tit of God/dess from which lovers can suckle the milk of the Universe. This creature like a holy spirit or a hallowed dove falling from the heavens and inspiring holiness. I tell Magda that the word lust once meant religious joy, but she just says: —I get laid all the time; I'm married. Sometimes when I don't even want it, like at four in the morning when all 160 pounds of him rolls over, and later he swears he was sleeping. However, she knows what I mean about the lightness—that Menage `a Trois with a force transcendental, a commingling with a disembodied thing, a child-in-waiting, or perhaps an angel looking to hitch a ride to a new world. Pleasure undefinable. Pleasure I miss desperately. To the fire, Magda speaks: —Kevin and I have felt the lightness many times, but after nine years, we are at the end of our wicks. The light no longer comes; it has given up. It wanted manifestation. It wanted to be a sensible thing, a living baby. It wanted to grow up and taste life, to smoke cigarettes, and fuck in dangerous places, and steal twenty-dollar bills from its parents for marijuana and psychedelic drugs which will help it remember itself for the light it is, to practice magick. We have disappointed it, don't you think? She fears that the lightness will never return if it does not get what it yearns for. She is afraid for her marriage, her future, her joy. But that first miscarriage, which could have made her a million bucks if she'd sued for malpractice, has scarred her insides, and the babies—try as they might—are not tenacious enough to hold on; they 23

slip and fall down her tubes. I say: —One day I would like a baby, too, but I just want sex now. Magda looks at me with her deep brown eyes, wishing I could understand her plight, yet knowing I cannot, not totally, not really. Death stands not as close to me as it does to her. She says: —Sometimes I think it's me. That the babies don't want me for a mom. —No, not you; if anything, this world. I don't blame the babies for rejecting their chance at life, for not wanting to come and play in a world that's losing the song and shade of its old growth forests and where babies are known to starve daily by the thousands. It is the Feast of Epiphany and my friend Magda and I sit—melancholy and silent, staring at a fading fire, doubtful that our wishes will come true. I gaze at the pentacle decorating our altar. From where I sit, it appears reversed—two points up, the sign of black magic—and suddenly I feel fear and long for the security of my childhood religion. Nostalgia triggers the replaying of images from my past, creates passageways from the bricks of memory, bottomless wells into which I fall haphazardly, like a game of Chutes and Ladders with too many chutes and not enough ladders. I don't remember Hail Mary or the Act of Contrition, and the only reason I remember the Lord's Prayer is because I attended Alcoholics Anonymous for a year and we said that prayer at the close of every meeting. I pray that prayer and try to forget floating images of babies, 24

upside down witches' stars, and sex with angels. But the words leave my tongue revised: Brothersister holy ones / who are in air and soil / holy happy are your names / your praise be sung / your bells be rung / in spirit as they are in body. I say to Magda: —Do you think we'll go to hell and burn eternally because we don't believe in Jesus Christ as the one and only begotten son of the one and only God who's very, very jealous, as you've probably heard? She is thinking: Bye-bye babies, whether you're legally human or not; fly into the sky, sink into the ground, come back, come back and see in a hundred years if the blue green planet you want to play on, lives. I am probably reading her mind again, but she seems glad to change the subject, stop her obsessing, and she answers my question: —Of course not. —But wouldn't it be so comfortable to have a God Father to obey or to pray to? Someone we could give up our wills to? We wouldn't have to blame ourselves when our wishes come true and we regret, or when they don't come true and we fail. I am remembering younger days when truth was something tangible, like the Bible, or the talk of professors, or the gestures of parental approval. Magda drinks the last drop of wine and looks me straight in the eyes, communicating by telepathy. She says: — We've ten minutes. We are stopped at the traffic light on Reseda and 25

Ventura Boulevards, and Magda points to a man standing on the corner, half off the sidewalk. His face is painted like a circus clown's, but he wears the garb of a priest and is shouting and gesticulating furiously. Magda rolls down her window so we can hear his mad screaming: —Banish By Laughter! Banish by Laughter! Banish the Devils! Banish by Laughter! Magda yells out the window to ask the clown/priest what he means, but he just repeats: —Banish by Laughter! Banish the Devils! The cars behind me honk impatiently so I press the gas pedal and leave the clown/priest's chant behind. Then Magda asks me: —Do you really believe in the Devil? —I think I saw him when I was sixteen. I'd smoked some Panama Red and there he was, sitting on the hood of my boyfriend's Chevy®. He pulled on my ear and told me that they'd lied to me at catechism, that he was more of a ghost than a demon, and not even a ghost of a person, but a ghost of a rope or a chain. Then he, the devil that is, showed me how each link of the chain was like a tiny VCR playing the loneliest, most miserable, proudest, meanest times of my life, 24 hours a day, and I felt like Old Marley in Scrooge, dragging about the chains of my past or something. Isn't that funny? —Yes, it's funny. Not haha or anything, but strange funny because for someone like the crazy man, it is true. The crazy man can hear the demons without being stoned. And he's right: We must banish them. —By laughter. —Yes, by laughter. 26

—We'll be real witches then, won't we? I say. I drive into the parking lot at Trader Joe's grocery store, while Magda fumbles through her purse. She pulls out two rubber children's masks and asks: —Which one do you prefer? I choose the cat face because I'm wearing leopardprint pants and Magda's left with the green snout of an alligator. At first the mask makes breathing difficult, but I soon get used to it. As we walk into the store, people stare at us as if we are mad to wear masks. (It is not Halloween.) We shrug off the looks while going about our shopping and soon forget that we are a disguised as a cat and an alligator. I pay the cashier for Cabernet and cookies, and while waiting for my credit card approval, I notice a sign on the coffee grinder which states: Do Not Grind ChocolateCovered Espresso Beans. I tell the cashier: —How silly! Who would ever think of grinding chocolate-covered espresso beans? The cashier nods and winks at her coworker, and says: —You'd be surprised at what people will do. Then Magda and I stroll out of the store thinking that people are weird, but when we remember our masks, laughter explodes and we can't stop haha haha hahaing. We laugh with our bellies, jiggling billions of cells, and our laughter resonates outward, tickling all the atoms of the Universe. We feel like we've swallowed the stars. And all the tears we hold for dead babies and loneliness, for 27

planets dying and mean grandmothers, all doubts of sanity and foolishness—all is loosened, all is expelled, while we laugh, yes, while laughing. On Reseda and Ventura the clown/priest continues his ranting, babbling in the tongue of some hilarious deity. My friend Magda shouts out the window: —Rave on! Rave on! And Magda and I make a tacit pact to practice the art of belly laughter, to make it first nature. We will laugh and it will be as bait to the angels, to the candle-lighters, candle-makers, and wick-lengtheners, and the spirits will come smiling—faster, safer, simpler, and cheaper than by the call of sex or conception or prayer or even Lysergic Acid.

28

Patricia Denny Purvis London, England TONGUES Columnist for SEEKER MAGAZINE

The First Blossoms of May It is early spring once more. Within these gray, bouldered walls of my home, I have spent many years…far more than I am able to remember. I do not recall how I came to be here and have no remembrance of my infancy. With the passage of years, recollections dwindle and grow dim, but some images remain forever intact and ingrained eternally upon the soul. I still visualize her with amazing clarity…a captured cameo as vital as the first moment I saw her. Doubtless it was long ago, but time is an elusive concept and difficult for me to understand. I only know when the blossoms appear once more upon my boughs, the memory of her returns…and the way she looked on that day, emerging from the gloomy interior of the tower into the dazzling sunlight of the bright May morning. My courtyard, normally used only as a connecting thoroughfare, overflowed with people. Several were familiar to me, but never before had I seen them decked in such finery. The men, magnificent in jewel-studded, brocade jackets, sported sumptuous, velvet caps adorned with exotic feathers, and the ladies were arresting in their satin gowns, worked in exquisite embroidery of every imaginable color. The casement windows, both high and low, were draped with banners of crimson, indigo and glittering cloth-of-gold, providing a regal backdrop for the glittering assembly. I heard murmurings of enormous fountains, constructed in the center of town, from which spouted 30

wine instead of water, and how it had been decreed, on this day of days, that none should be allowed to go hungry. There would be an abundance of free food and drink for all, whether wealthy merchant or penniless pauper. The ravens on the lush, freshly-cut green hopped nervously between the tightly knit groups who had gathered to whisper amongst themselves. I overheard little of the discussions…simply a stray word here and there…and, despite the merriment with which the air was infused, I sensed an undercurrent of foreboding. Perhaps it was this aura of apprehension that caused the ravens to behave so uncharacteristically. They were accustomed to humans and, as is the nature of ravens, invariably prided themselves in ignoring the presence of such inferior beings altogether. That morning, however, if they had been able, I do believe those excitable birds would have taken flight. This was impossible, of course, because the Lord Falconer had already clipped their wings so they could not fly far; nevertheless, on occasion, they managed the short sojourn to my nethermost branches where they perched, squabbling and jostling for the most advantageous positions. By a corner turret, a company of heralds, resplendent in livery of royal purple and black, raised their clarions and trumpeted a ceremonial fanfare. As the door swung open, the men standing about the courtyard swept off their caps with an elaborate gesture and bowed low, while the women gracefully dropped billowing curtsies, spreading their skirts wide upon the grass. With an air of great confidence and gaiety, a stately figure stepped out 31

from the portal and onto the cobblestones. His garb far outshone that of any other there, be it lord or lady. He wore a short doublet of white jacquard, slashed with scarlet, and a weighty gold chain, set with rubies the size of pigeon eggs, rested upon his broad chest. He laughed heartily, a rumble which originated deep in his throat, and with legs astride, planted his hands on his hips. His gaze became fixed upon a set of narrow stone steps which spiralled to a massive oaken doorway high above. His brilliant blue eyes rivaled the intense cast of a sky devoid of clouds, and he struck an imposing figure, obviously well adapted to commandeering the attention and respect of those around him. "I see, as tradition dictates, that the bride is forcing her groom to play the tarrying game," he roared as he twisted a small ring crafted from fine, Italian silver about his little finger. "But, by God, this wait has been long enough!" As though on cue, the door of the lofty tower slowly swung aside and I saw the man, with a regal flourish, doff his white velveteen cap, trimmed with satin and a curling ostrich plume. Bending from the waist, he placed his left hand over his heart. The sun toyed with the gems suspended from his neck, likening them to droplets of rich, red blood, and the light gleamed upon his closely cropped hair, imparting a blaze of burnished copper. I heard the rustle of her flowing skirts before I ever caught sight of her. She made her way carefully down the stone staircase, elegantly lifting the folds of her lace petticoats to reveal dainty feet encased in ivory satin slippers. She was small of build and delicately boned. Her 32

long, thick hair rippled past her waist…hair that was dark and lustrous as the plumage of the ravens, now huddled together in a far alcove, nodding their heads in time to the pixie-faced pansies bordering the green, and strangely mute for birds ordinarily as quarrelsome as these. The woman's gown was styled of multi-patterned damask, the bodice stiff with stitched decorations fashioned in threads of silver and gold, and covered with dozens of tiny, flawless seed pearls. Her silk-lined sleeves were long and almost brushed the ground. I later heard tell she had designed such sleeves herself in order to mask the budding of an additional finger, and that the diamond and emerald choker about her neck concealed a blemish said to be the mark of an illicit liaison with the devil, but I know nothing of such things. To me, her appearance was least akin to that of an evil spirit than any I have ever seen and, had I been blessed with the gift of speech, I would have declared her to be more angel than demon. As she glided from the last step onto the uneven cobbles, the man came forward and took her hand. He was the taller by far and looked down at her with undisguised adoration. "There is no man in the realm who can consider himself luckier than I this day," he whispered, raising her upturned palm to his lips. Her smile was enchanting and her oval face, while not exactly beautiful, was somehow fascinating with its own unique brand of captivation. I yearned to make her aware of my nearness, filled with a desire to have her bestow upon me such a charming smile. A wayward breeze danced blithely through the courtyard and I captured it with my fluttering leaves. Giving an 33

imperceptible shudder, I shook loose some of the petals from my trailing flowers, showering her with a scented bouquet. She laughed…a tinkle of silvered bells…and plucked the errant blooms from her hair. Glancing upward into my branches, she stood on tiptoe to deeply inhale the lingering fragrance. "The first blossoms of May," she breathed softly as she led the glorious and stately procession through the wrought iron gates of my courtyard and into the world beyond. The sun nestled low in the sky when the couple returned and a pale yellow moon was beginning to steal over the horizon. The man entered ahead of her, stomping his feet like a sullen boy who had been denied a sweetmeat and had fallen into an ill temper. The woman swept past him, tearing the jeweled coronet from her hair and hurling it forcefully onto the cobbles. "What could I do, Nan?" he asked, attempting to snare her in an embrace. "What would you have had me do, sweetheart?" Displaying grace and subtlety, she eluded his grasp and moved several steps away. "I saw far too many caps on heads," she declared with fire dancing in her eyes, "and far too many whispers of her odious name." Sighing in exasperation, the man spun on the heels of his buckled shoes. "The people adore and revere her," he snapped. "They would make of Katherine a saint, if such were in their power. There is nothing that will persuade them to stifle their affection, but if you made more of an effort to endear yourself, then perhaps—" 34

The color in her cheeks heightened and she laughed bitterly. "Endear myself? Pander to the whims of the rabble in an attempt to placate such peasants? I think not! Sooner or later, they will have no choice but to accept what cannot and shall not be changed. Maybe then they will realize how generous and charitable I can be when I am loved!" She strode purposefully toward the stone steps which she had descended only hours before, but she caught the toe of her slipper on one of my roots protruding from the soil. Breaking her fall, she stumbled heavily against my trunk, disturbing the roosting ravens and causing them to flutter protestingly to the ground with angry squawks. I was overjoyed that I could be of assistance, but cursed the fact I had been the source of her demise. Her hand flew to her side and she gasped. The man hurried to her. "What is it?" he asked anxiously as he supported her about the waist. "Nothing," she said breathlessly. "The child, it became startled." His hand was strong but gentle on her stomacher. "My son," he said tenderly. "Our son," she reminded. "The first of many. All of them hale and hearty…like their father!" He swept her up easily into his arms. She laughed happily as her long fingers reached out to touch my branches…branches laden with the tiny, pink flowers which were the first blossoms of May. Several months passed before I saw her again…possibly even years. As I believe I have 35

mentioned, time has always remained an enigma to me. It was, once again, the month of May. She came into view leading a small girl by the hand. The child was an enchanting creature; a tiny replica of the woman, but with hair the color of brightly polished copper. The woman seemed tired as she wearily seated herself on a marble bench in a shaded corner of my courtyard and took the little one upon her lap. The girl squirmed uncomfortably within such confines, loving as they appeared to be, and struggled for her freedom. The woman lifted the child and held her steady upon the cobblestones until she ceased to wobble. With a somewhat lumbering gait, the girl ran through the flock of ravens who were, as usual, bickering around my roots over crumbs of bread which had fallen from the baker boy's tray earlier that morning as he crossed the courtyard from the kitchen. The tot chuckled with unsuppressed glee and vainly attempted to catch the ravens with her eager, dimpled hands as the birds flew into her face. I was amazed at her daring. She was totally without fear of their wildly beating wings, sharp talons, and open beaks, which could so easily have alarmed a child twice or even three times her size. "She has courage, this little one," said a voice grudgingly from the shadows. The woman arose and sank to a poised curtsey. "Pay homage to your father and sovereign lord, Elizabeth," she instructed the child. Elizabeth clumsily held out her skirt, bunching the fabric in tiny fists, in order to accomplish the given task, 36

but only succeeded in landing with a resounding thud on the scattered blossoms and abandoned breadcrumbs which littered the ground around my trunk. She, nevertheless, refused to cry and merely scooped up handfuls of petals which she crushed in her hands and then let dribble through her small, chubby fingers. The woman, without stirring from her deferential position, looked toward the darkness from whence the voice had originated and replied with a strong and passionate tone, "As much bravery as any male child could hope to possess and maybe even more!" The man emerged from the dim depths. He had changed much since I had seen him last. He was exceedingly heavier and stouter, with eyes which were little more than slits in his ruddy face, and a mouth drawn tight and pursed…almost prudish…belying his general air of debauchery. "But it was sons you promised me, Nan," he accused. "Strong and healthy sons. I have need of sons…for England and for the sake of my kingdom." "Sons!" she exclaimed with derision as she stood to her full height and paced back and forth in an agitated manner. "You might have sons aplenty if you did not while away your nights in the bedchamber of the wheyfaced wench who calls herself my lady-in-waiting! Let us see if that pale and colorless girl can give you strong and healthy sons!" He took a step toward her, his hand raised and ready to strike. Unflinching, she turned to face him and he slowly lowered his fist to his side. "You will go too far with your arrogant ways one day, 37

Nan," he told her, his eyes glittering as cold and hard as the granite walls. "You seem to forget that high as I have raised you, I can also cast you down lower than you have ever been!" "Your threats mean nothing to me, Hal," she said contemptuously. "Do what you must, but remember this and remember it well. Any sons you might have with that Seymour harlot will never compare to Elizabeth. She has both your blood and mine mingling in her veins and mark my words, some day she will make this kingdom of yours one that you, in your wildest dreams, could never have envisioned." His face grew purple with rage and a tiny vein at his temple began to pulse and throb. His hand flew to a small, jewel-encrusted dagger dangling from his ample waist, but it remained sheathed. "By God," he declared, "I was told you were a witch but I turned a deaf ear and would not heed. In truth, a sorceress you must be indeed…for unless you had cast a loathsome hex upon me, I most certainly would never have taken you as wife!" Elizabeth watched with some curiosity and no little caution as her parents exchanged the heated words, but still she did not cry. Struggling to her feet, she painstakingly made her way to her father and raised her arms toward him. His face softened somewhat as he tossed her into the air, but her delighted laughter failed to ease the tension with which my small courtyard was now steeped. She threw her arms around his broad neck and begged to be thrown again. The man covered his eyes with one hand, almost as though he were wiping away a 38

tear. "Oh, Elizabeth, you were to be my salvation," he whispered into her ear. "Why could you have not been a son?" He kissed her hair, so like his own, and set her back on the ground, whereupon she ran with teetering steps to her mother. "This is not the end of the matter, Nan," the man said as he clasped his hands behind his back and strode through the wrought iron gates. "You can be sure we shall talk again of this." The woman took Elizabeth into her arms. "But I warrant it will not be on this fine evening, sire," she told his retreating back. "At least not while Mistress Seymour awaits your devoted attention!" He hesitated for a moment. then squared his shoulders more firmly and continued on his way. "Come, Elizabeth," she told the child, "the sun is too hot today to stay outside any longer. Let us go back into the banqueting hall where it is cool and you can play with the new mastiff puppies." I never saw Elizabeth again, but I remember how she stretched out her tiny hands to snatch at the flowers hanging in sprigs from my branches as her mother carried her away. I tried so hard to make her understand that she could take with her as many of my first blossoms of May as she wished, that they would be my humble gift to her…a token or prize that she could come back and reclaim year after year…but she seemed unable to comprehend and simply rested her head on the woman's shoulder as she was taken out of my courtyard into the world beyond. 39

The last time I saw the woman, the month was again May. I have no idea how many of those months had passed by that time, but I do not believe it could have been too many since that first one. On this day, however, the sky was filled with clouds and promised rain at any moment. The walls surrounding my courtyard appeared more gray and dull than they ever had been before and everything seemed to be shrouded in shades of gloom…from the overcast heavens to the dismal cobblestones. My first glimpse of her took me aback. She was even more delicate and fragile than I had last remembered her to be. Dressed in a drab, bombazine robe over a simple kirtle of white linen, she carried a small, black, leatherbound book in her hand, and from her fingers swung a heavy crucifix suspended on a silver chain. Her hair, though still dark and glossy as a raven's wing, was no longer loose and flowing, but piled high upon her head. She had lost weight. Her complexion was so pale as to be ethereal and her eyes were enormous, ebony orbs, contrasting starkly against her ivory skin. In a strange way, I thought she had never looked more exquisite. She descended the stone steps, slowly and deliberately, followed by four ladies similarly attired in black, and a man who was reading from a slim volume very like the one she was carrying. The stubborn breeze whipped at her gown and caused a fluttering of my leaves which was most opportune. "Remember me?" I whispered on the breeze. Her head tilted slightly, much like the posture of the 40

ravens who had settled in a row upon a low parapet and, in an uncustomarily silent manner, were surveying the scene with their small, bead-like eyes. Suddenly, she turned to glance in my direction. I was overjoyed that she had heard. A wan smile played about the corners of her mouth as her eyes drifted upward to my branches, heavy with flowering buds. "A moment, if you will be so kind," she said, seemingly to nobody in particular. The man ceased his reading and inclined his head. Her heels tapped sharply on the cobbles as she approached. The wind was growing brisker with every passing minute, but it was not from the chill in the air that I trembled. She halted only a few paces away and I showered her with a bouquet of petals, as I had on that day in May when I had first seen her. Some of the blooms spiraled to land upon the small book she was holding. It appeared as though she pondered this occurrence for a short while before gently plucking one of the tiniest flowers from the cover and then brushing the others aside. She regarded it wonderingly for but one moment, and then placed it within the gold-edged pages. "We may proceed," she announced, as she straightened her back and settled her shoulders, before leading the small and somber procession through the iron gates. The last time I heard her voice, it was hushed and softly pensive. "The first blossoms of May," she said wistfully. A sudden and violent gust snatched at her parting words, repeating them again and again in a ghostly whisper that resounded throughout my quiet and 41

now-deserted courtyard…until the echoes finally faded forever into the world beyond.

42

Cheryl Cooke Harrington Markham, Ontario, Canada Current Publications: ONE FOR SORROW, TWO FOR JOY, Hard Shell Word Factory SPARKS FLY, Avalon Books

Cold Comfort Second thoughts. She hadn't counted on having any. She was leaving. It was the best, the only choice to make. The only choice remaining that was truly hers alone. So why was she waiting for the kettle to boil, instead of upstairs packing her bag? The kiss. Of course. If he'd made his exit, swift and silent, like every other morning…but, no. Today he'd stopped on his way out the door to drop a kiss on her forehead. Strange. Almost as if he knew. The kettle hummed behind her, a reminder that time was wasting. She pushed to her feet, found a mug and tea bags in the cupboard, rattled through the drawer in search of a spoon. He couldn't know...could he? Hot enough. She jerked the kettle off the heat at the first gasp of whistle, splashing water across the counter and into the waiting teapot. He didn't know. Couldn't. Not until tonight. The house would be dark, cold, the kitchen empty. He'd see her ring on the table and then, then he would understand. No time for tea. Twisting the narrow gold band off her finger, she placed it on the table. Abandoned hope on a sea of blue Formica®. He could have the Earl Grey, too. Cold comfort.

44

Darlene Duncan Daytona Beach, Florida, USA Current Publication THE ORIGIN OF DEANNA DORAK, DLSIJ Press

Make Every Second Count She had promised Lana that she wouldn't notify her family if anything ever happened to her. As Lana put it, "They didn't want anything to do with me when I was alive, so they can damn well stay out of my death." Then the letter arrived from Veronica DumarWilliams. It was addressed to Lana, but for seven years Janice had opened all the mail. She tore off the end of the envelope without a thought. It was an invitation for Lana to meet her sister, on the 24th, at The Mainsail Hotel, room 531. In the letter she pleaded with Lana to come. Tomorrow was the 24th. She knew that if Lana were alive she would go see her sister. She considered calling and telling her about Lana but then decided that this wasn't the kind of news you deliver over the phone. The next day standing in the corridor outside Room 531, she questioned whether she was doing the right thing. She raised her hand to knock and hesitated. A thousand reasons why she shouldn't be there ran through her mind but in her heart she knew Lana would want her to do this. She knocked on the door and wondered if there would be any noticeable family resemblance. The door opened to reveal a woman dressed in shorts and a T-shirt, about 5'6", with short, dark hair, gray eyes, a slight cleft in her chin, and a swimmer's build. "Can I help you?" She swayed and steadied herself by resting a hand on the wall, as she muttered, "Lana?" It had been a long time since anyone had mistaken 46

Veronica for her sister. "No, Lana is my sister. Are you all right? You look as if you've seen a ghost." "I have—seen a ghost that is." She took a deep breath and quickly got herself under control. "I'm sorry. Lana never told me you were identical twins. I'm Janice Shover. I was Lana's partner for the last seven years." Veronica breathed, "Was?" "Lana was killed in a car accident a month ago." For several seconds Veronica stood like a statue, staring at Janice but not seeing her. She was thinking of all the wasted years and acknowledging the painful realization that the chance to make things right between them was gone. Janice drank in the sight of Veronica like a person takes in water at a desert oasis. It was as if Lana were standing before her, a sight she had never expected to see again. Noise from down the hall snapped the two women out of their reveries. "I'm sorry. Please, come in." Janice hesitated. She was torn between the desire to be able to continue to look at Veronica and the need to run from the pain that the very sight of her caused. This was not the woman she loved but simply her twin and as such, a constant reminder of her loss. Still, she couldn't resist the opportunity to once again be able to look at that face. Uncertain of her voice, she cleared her throat and replied, "Thank you." Veronica turned from the door and with a sniffle, apologized for the tears rolling down her face. "I'm sorry. I suppose it seems silly to you to cry over someone you 47

haven't seen in fifteen years." "Not at all. She was your sister." Veronica reached into the bathroom and snatched a box of tissues. She wiped her eyes as she said, "Please, help yourself to something to drink. Have some of the cheese, too." On the table was an assortment of soft drinks, some glasses, a bucket of ice, a plate of cheeses, and some crackers. While she fixed a glass of soda for herself, her eyes were pulled back to Veronica, time and again. She knew that it wasn't right but she couldn't stop thinking about holding Veronica in her arms, kissing her, making love to her. Looking at her, Janice could almost convince herself that Lana was alive. Their eyes met and Veronica held her gaze. After a few seconds Janice dropped her eyes. She just knew Veronica could tell what she was thinking. She had to get away. "I really should go. I just came to let you know why—" "Please, don't go. Tell me about Lana. I want to know the sister I lost. Please." Raising her eyes to Veronica's, she found herself anxiously agreeing to stay. Just as with Lana, she found it hard to say no. She took a chair at the table and contemplated Veronica sitting on the end of the bed. She inquired, "Why, after all these years, did you want to see Lana?" Veronica fidgeted, pulled her knees up, and wrapped her arms around her legs. She took a deep breath and answered, "My husband asked me that same question. He didn't understand when I told him; I wanted us to be 48

sisters again. I needed to talk to her, to—" She laughed and rested her forehead on her knees for a moment. When she lifted her head she looked into Janice's eyes and stated, "I had a very personal and completely selfish motive for wanting to see Lana." She paused, then asked, "Tell me, was she happy?" For the first time since arriving, Janice smiled, replying, "She said she was. I think she was. I used to tell her that my goal in life was to make her happy." Silent tears began to leak from her eyes. Veronica proffered the tissue box and Janice took a couple. With her entire body aching to touch Veronica, Janice was unable to sit still. She rose and walked to the balcony. She squeezed her eyes shut and took a long, deep breath of the salty, sea air while she tried to think of a way to escape without making a fool of herself. In an effort to comfort her, Veronica placed a hand on her back and said, "You must have loved her very much." Janice tightened her grip on the railing to keep her hands from moving to touch Veronica. She silently prayed that Veronica would move away from her before she lost her self-control. Sensing that something was wrong, Veronica suggested, "Why don't you have a seat, Janice? I'll get your drink and the cheese and crackers. We can sit out here and talk." Not waiting for a reply she went back inside the room and returned with food and drinks. She placed the items on the small table between the chairs and seated herself in the chair by the door. Staring through the railing, Janice sat with her 49

fingers intertwined and her hands in her lap. With an effort almost beyond her abilities, she forced herself to not look at Veronica. She could feel Veronica examining her and after several moments, she asked, "Why are you staring at me?" "I'm sorry," Veronica apologized. "I was just wondering why you won't look at me." Janice moved her hands to the arms of the chair and in disbelief, turned to face her. "I can't believe you have to ask." "I do know why, but I want you to look at me. Do I really look that much like her, still, after all these years? Wasn't her hair different? Or maybe she weighed less or a little more than I do?" Veronica's voice had a frantic quality to it as she tried desperately to get Janice to say she and her sister were different. In a factual tone Janice replied, "Lana cut her hair in the same style as yours. You even have the same sprinkling of premature white. If there's any difference in your weights, I don't see it. You could go to her closet and wear anything hanging there. Even your voice is the same." She paused and then demanded, "Why are you so eager to prove you're not identical?" Suddenly the answer to the question dawned on her. "What makes you say that we're identical? I'm alive and she's dead. How's that for a difference?" "No, you're not alive. You exist but you're not alive. You look like her and you sound like her but you're nothing like her. Lana knew who she was. She refused to live her life for anyone but herself. You have denied your true self all of your life. Because Lana had the courage to 50

be herself, she was disowned and you became an only child." Janice knew she should stop, but she couldn't. She continued to verbally batter her. "The dutiful wife and daughter. How do you play a part you're not suited for, day after day? Have you had an affair yet? Or have you turned to booze or drugs? Is that why you came to see Lana, in hopes that she would tell you that you weren't like her? That you were normal? Whatever the hell that is. Or maybe you wanted her to tell you that it was all right to be a lesbian? That's it, isn't it? You wanted her to give you permission to be who and what you are. You don't need anyone's permission, Veronica. You only need the courage to be yourself." Janice dropped her head into her hands, with her elbows on her knees, and watched an ant crawling across the concrete slab. When she lifted her head and turned toward her, Veronica was staring at her in incredulous disbelief. Her voice stiff with anger, Veronica replied, "What gives you the right to talk to me that way? How can you possibly know who I am or why I decided to see my sister?" Janice got to her feet and while looking down at Veronica, said, "My apologies if I have offended you. I call them as I see them. Do you want to know what I see when I look at you?" She paused, waiting for a reply, and receiving none, she continued, "I'll take your silence as a yes. I see an unhappy woman, who has tried to be everything to everyone around her. A woman who, for whatever reason, has finally reached a point in her life where she can't go on being what she isn't. How am I 51

doing, Veronica?" She didn't expect a reply and she didn't get one. The expression on Veronica's face was all the answer she needed. She continued, "You came here hoping Lana would have the answers for you. That she would tell you what it was like to be a lesbian. Trust me, Veronica, it's not something you can explain to someone. Like so many things in life, it has to be experienced." Janice's voice trailed off as an idea entered her mind. She shut her eyes and shook her head violently, in an attempt to rid herself of the thought. Again, she looked into Veronica's eyes and in a voice filled with disgust, she accused, "You wanted Lana to pimp for you. Didn't you? You wanted her to find a woman for you to go to bed with." All the anger she felt toward Veronica for the unjust treatment Lana had experienced from her family, boiled to the surface. She yanked Veronica from her chair and ushered her into the room as she spit out her words. "You want to know what it's like to be with a woman?" She pulled Veronica to her and with barely a breath separating their lips, she said, "I'll show you." The kiss she delivered started out violently. She wanted to hurt Veronica or at the very least scare her. The violence of the kiss did scare Veronica, at first, but something inside her urged her to let herself go—to cooperate. With a passion she hadn't realized she was capable of, she returned the kiss. Janice could feel her body responding to the kiss. Now she was the one who was scared. This wasn't what she had intended. Trembling, she broke from the kiss and backed away from Veronica, saying, "I'm sorry. I don't 52

know what—I'm sorry." Veronica felt the first spark of desire she had experienced in years, when Janice kissed her. Regardless of her fear, she wasn't willing to surrender that feeling. It seemed to her as if someone else was speaking the words as she pleaded, "Don't be sorry. You were right about a lot of what you said. Some of it I wasn't even aware of. I wouldn't allow myself to think about it." She took a deep breath and moved toward Janice, as she continued, "Just now when you kissed me, I felt the first stirrings of sexual desire that I've felt in, well, a long time." She reached out and gently touched Janice's face. Leaning against the wall Janice studied Veronica. It was easy to see the need, the desire written all over her face, Lana's face. Right or wrong was no longer important. She knew this woman wasn't Lana, but she could pretend. For one last chance to make love to Lana, she would sacrifice anything…

53

Susanna Williams San Diego, California, USA

Exodus Karen wiped the sweat from her forehead and kept moving. The desert was hot and almost unbearable, but they had to keep going. As she looked behind her, she saw Mason bringing up the rear, behind the three other survivors—or chosen ones—or whatever you wanted to call them. Mason looked back at Karen wearily. He shoved the bandanna up on his head to push the dark locks of curly hair out of his face. His frame was big and his shoulders were broad, which made it even worse for a journey that was all on foot. Just up ahead, Karen noticed a crudely built colony. It consisted of no more than five huts made of bamboo and ripped up clothing. Over to one side, she noticed a wash basin and some clothes hanging. She assumed the group would probably have to stop at this lonely colony to rest. As they approached the colony, Karen noticed that everything was dirty, not that she was clean. The only possessions she had were what she carried on her back, and soap was not among them—soap was a luxury. There hadn't been time, or means, to bring anything else once the Quakes had started again. Karen noticed a filthy, balding man with a grimy, grease-covered face, standing outside the colony. He watched them closely as they neared. "Hey," Mason said, nodding at the bald man. "What do you want?" the man asked. "We need to stay here before we move on. Who are you?" 55

"Aaron," the bald man answered. "There's only a few of us left now, so I guess there's room for you all. We aren't moving on to the Establishment, in case you were wondering." He looked suspiciously at Mason. "My son, Dillan, will show you which huts are not used. Dillan!" An even dirtier, but younger version of Aaron walked out of the hut. "Good, we finally got some women," Dillan said, as he eyed Karen's sleek and athletic body. She was only 5'3", and in very good shape. That, combined with her long brown hair, made her beautiful to most men. "Just show us where to hang. We'll leave you alone and you leave us alone. We're not staying long anyway," Mason said. He was beginning to get annoyed. "Fine, dude. This way." Karen and Jewel took the hut to the east, near the wash basin, and Brad, Mason, and Derrick took the hut to the west. That night, just as Karen was about to fall asleep, she heard footsteps. Through the cloth layers of the hut, she could see the lean silhouette of a man. He looked as if were thinking about coming in. "Jewel! Wake up!" Karen jabbed Jewel in the ribs. "What?" "There's someone standing outside." Dillan lifted the hanging blanket door and looked around the hut. "Hi, ladies. Anyone up for a beer, or vodka, or maybe just sex?" "Get out of here," Karen said. "We're not interested." "Why don't you stay here?" Dillan asked, as he sat down next to Karen and put his hand on her leg. "We've 56

got provisions to last for months. I'm in charge around here and I can take care of you. A girl as pretty as you shouldn't be walking around in the desert. You're not going to survive if you leave here. If you stay, you live, and might make me happy, too." "You are the ones who aren't going to survive," Karen snapped. "What happens after a few months? Are you guys going to grow your own food in the desert? No, thanks. We're going to the Establishment. They'll teach us what to do to get out of here." "Suit yourself," Dillan said, as he moved his hand up Karen's leg. "How about some male attention, then? She can watch or not; it's up to her," he said and threw a glance at Jewel. "No, thanks," Karen retorted. She moved her hand under the blanket, pulled out Mason's 9 mm, and pointed it at him. "We're doing just fine without it." "All right," Dillan said and backed away with his hands up in the air. "But you don't know when you'll get another offer like that." Dillan reluctantly left and Karen breathed a sigh of relief. "He wasn't that bad looking," Jewel said. "I might have done him." "Go ahead. I've got better things to worry about. He needs a bath anyway." "Do you think we are doing the right thing?" Jewel asked. She drew up her chubby legs and put her arms around her knees. "We don't even know for sure that the Establishment is there. We're just trusting what Mason says. How do you know he even knows what he's talking 57

about?" "I think the project we were working on had something to do with the Quakes. I can't get details about that from Mason, and I probably wouldn't understand them anyway. But the Establishment was set up for a disaster like this, by Mason and some other guys up north," Karen said. "We've got to go. You saw what happened to everyone else." "Yeah, they're all dead—or in comas. I still don't understand why we survived." "I don't either," Karen said. "I didn't think the end of the world was going to come for another five billion years. I think the people at the Establishment will tell us what's going on." "Well, I'm not convinced anyone knows what's going on," Jewel said and rolled over in her sleeping bag to face away from Karen. "It's just a good thing that we didn't have to take a plane to get here." "Are you afraid of air travel?" "No, I just have really bad luck. With my luck, my flight would have crashed for sure." "Did any flights that you would have taken, ever crash?" Karen asked. "No, but if one atom in the universe changes, then anything else can change, too. If I had gotten on a plane, it would have crashed." "How do you figure?" "Ok, for example, say I decide to fly instead of drive. So I go to a bar a few days before because I have anxiety about flying. I get drunk one too many times, so my boyfriend breaks up with me. He meets this girl who 58

happens to be involved with a mechanic. The mechanic finds out the day of the flight that he has competition and is so worried that he forgets to check something very important on the plane. The plane gets in trouble in the air and crashes." "So you directly caused it?" "No, it doesn't even have to be anything that I do. It could be anything. Don't you see?" Jewel exclaimed with an exasperated look on her face. "Just get some sleep. We'll need to leave early in the morning," Karen said. Karen didn't tell Jewel, or anyone, about the dream she had before the Quakes had begun. In her dream, Randy Agadoni paid her a visit. He was wearing angel wings, a white gown, and a halo. It didn't occur to her until later, how absurd the image was. He looked like the Hollywood depiction of a cartoon character that dies and goes to Heaven. He was dead now, so she supposed that was why she had dreamed of him that way. Randy had been the lead on a software project she was working on before he died in a car accident on his way to work. In her dream, he told her there would be vibrations ripping through space that would cause atoms to shift and mutate. Some of these abnormal vibrations would vibrate at the same rate as the resonance frequency of buildings, and cause solid matter to crumble. In addition, human brains wouldn't be able to withstand the change and most people would die. He also told her something that she understood even less, and that was to "use the board over and then under." She had a feeling it had something to do with Mason. 59

Mason and Karen had worked together for years. He was the physicist and she was the software engineer for a top-secret government project called Project Next. Now they were traveling together because they were some of the very few who survived the two Quakes. The first Quake wasn't serious. Most people thought it was a typical California earthquake; however, the second Quake affected the whole world—in one way or another. Karen remembered the day the second Quake hit. She and Mason had been working late in the lab when they heard some creaking and tearing noises. There weren't any windows, so they headed for the door to see what was happening. It was a good thing they did; otherwise, they would have been buried underneath the University, because two seconds later, the second floor became the first. When they got outside, people were grabbing their heads and passing out. Buildings were crumbling around them. It only lasted about five minutes, but caused damage all over the world. The streets had been uplifted in places, so driving was impossible. Mason instructed Karen to go home, grab essentials for traveling in the desert, and meet him at the train station. Since driving was out of the question, they rode bikes. When they got to the train station, they met three other survivors who told them that the tracks had been ruined. No one else in sight was alive or conscious. Mason told the three of his plan and they decided it was the best one they had so far and decided to band with him. Mason and his group rode out of the city. When the crushed pavement turned into sand, they hoofed it. 60

Later, Mason told Karen that he thought something had gone wrong in the universe, causing superstrings in this dimension to vibrate incorrectly, and that this was the source of the Quakes. According to Mason, a string is 100 billion billion times smaller than a proton. All matter in the universe is formed by these vibrating strings. As these strings vibrate, each mode of vibration forms a unique resonance or particle. Each of these subatomic particles corresponds to a distinct resonance that vibrates at a distinct frequency. Now, somehow, something was causing these strings to vibrate incorrectly and since all matter is made up of these subatomic strings, all matter was affected, and all non-volatile matter, without freeflowing ions, was falling apart. Therefore, Mason told Karen they needed to go to a camp in the desert because they needed to figure out how to open up the fifth dimension and escape into it. Things were too far gone here. She didn't understand any of this, but she knew one thing and that was that she trusted Mason with every fiber of her being. The reason was simply this: he was the only person she knew who was probably more intelligent than she was. Karen had a feeling there would be more Quakes coming with even worse severity. That was why she was determined to get to the Establishment before it was too late. Mason was convinced that all other survivors would be there, and that there would be someone to tell everyone what to do. Within a week of leaving the colony, the group finally reached the Establishment. It was a big cement building about five-stories high. Karen had expected 61

some kind of church-like, Gothic structure, but instead, it was just square, flat on top, and overall, very plain looking. It reminded her of the high-story, cement buildings she saw in Beirut, Lebanon. They walked up to the front to find somebody in charge. The place looked deserted. A man, who later introduced himself as Charlie, came out to greet them. "I thought you guys would be here a few days ago," Charlie said, as if they were expected. "Well, it's tough walking through a desert," said Mason. "We're lucky we survived." "Come in. I'll show you where to stay. Classes start at 8:00 tomorrow morning. We will be training you on how to survive and how we are going to move on from here." "I'm exhausted," said Karen as she took off her sunglasses. "Just show me where to crash. Come on, Jewel." Jewel picked up her bag and followed Karen up the stairs to their rooms. The next morning, Karen woke up early to attend the class. The room was on the third floor and packed with about one hundred people. The instructor began telling them about the red safety boxes at every level of the building, containing first-aid and life-saving materials, in case there was another Quake. Then he began telling them about how they needed to create enough energy to open up the fifth dimension. That's why they all had to wait for Mason's group, because Mason's knowledge of theoretical physics was instrumental in achieving this. He also told them the reason they had survived was because their brains were not as effected by the abnormal 62

vibrations. He didn't have a reason for this, except that maybe it was genetic. About an hour into his lecture, another Quake began. The room started shaking and people starting scrambling for the door. Mason grabbed Karen's hand and ran. They leapt over a few people who had already passed out. As they headed for the stairwell, another vibration ripped through the air and Mason fell over the spiral stairwell, all the way to the bottom. Karen froze for a second and then got moving again. She spotted a red safety box about ten feet ahead her on the wall. As she ran towards it, part of the floor collapsed, sinking down a few feet. Now she was at the box, but it was too far above her. She wondered dismally why the engineers never had short people in mind when they designed these things. She was the only one capable of grabbing the box and now it was a good three-feet over her head. That's when Karen began passing out from the vibrations. Her head felt funny and she saw black spots in front of her eyes. The black spots started getting bigger. She grabbed her head and bent down. She could see other people either passing out or already unconscious. She knew Mason's life depended on whether she got to the box or not. Just then, the wall that the box was on crumbled and the box came down. She grabbed it and ran down what was left of the stairs, jumping over people as she went. When she got to Mason, he was at the bottom of the stairs near a hole in the wall. Somebody on the outside of the wall was trying to pull him through. Karen thought the guy looked a lot like Dillan. She pulled out a backboard from the safety box and put it over Mason to 63

protect him from the torn wall. It worked, and the two of them were finally out of the building. That's when Karen finally passed out. When she awoke, she lifted her head slightly to see that she was on a backboard that was flying about thirtyfeet above the ground. Five backboards had been tied together to form a large floating raft, only this raft was floating on air. She noticed with surprise that Jewel, Mason, and Dillan were sitting on it as well. "Mason, what's going on?" Karen asked with confusion. "We're escaping, hopefully. Our world is no more. Look down." Karen glanced below and saw the earth crumbling. The building that they had been in was being leveled. There were people who didn't look alive, strewn outside the building. The entire surface of the earth was shaking and cracking. "How did you survive, Jewel?" Karen asked. "I wasn't in the building," Jewel said with a subtle look of guilt. "Jewel found out Dillan followed us here so she decided to meet him in the outhouse instead of going to class," Mason said. "Yeah, we're the only ones who made it. Everyone else is dead!" Dillan said gleefully. "Can I have some more of that drug you gave us?" he asked as he looked at Mason. "Shut up, you moron. Karen, because of the material these boards are made of, they can sort of float above the matter that has the abnormal vibrations, and that includes 64

air. These boards are not as effected by the vibrations as the air is. As long as these vibrations continue, we will keep going up." "But where are we going to?" asked Karen. "Eventually, the abnormal vibrations themselves will cause enough energy to open up the fifth dimension. When that happens, we don't have to do anything. We're already there." Karen sat up, looked over her shoulder, and experienced more eerie and uncanny sights than she had ever seen, even in dreams. An airplane arced out of the sky, and went straight down into the earth. The biggest problem with this scene was that it didn't crash—it just went into the earth. Mason followed her shocked gaze. "That's just sort of a hologram of human thought right now. That didn't really happen." Karen shot a glance at Jewel and Jewel looked away. Karen suspected Jewel's fear of planes had something to do with that group hallucination. "The natural laws of physics are already changing," Mason said. "Whatever you do, just don't fall off of this thing." Karen noticed the hands on her wristwatch were spinning. "I don't know where we're going, but I already know I don't like it." As they headed up into the sky, Karen noticed something ahead of them which resembled the Milky Way. When they passed into it, she could feel her fingers and toes getting numb. She had no idea what to expect in another dimension—all she knew was that they were 65

going now.

66

Dawn Carter Sioux City, Iowa, USA

The Element of Where "Where were you last night?" The one woman, Stephanie, slides through the back door and takes a seat at the kitchen table as she has done regularly for the last six months or so. After the husbands have gone off to work. "Philadelphia." The other woman, Beth, is bent over at the stove. With her head nearly in the oven, she asks her question as she checks on her fine-smelling, sweetness-to-die-for cinnamon rolls. The kind her husband never gets any of. "Philadelphia? Yuck." "Yuck? Did you just use the word 'yuck'? Did I ever tell you about the time I picked up this supposed bestseller? I guess they even made a TV movie based on it. Anyway, I kinda sorta know the woman who wrote it and out of curiosity, I picked a copy up to read on the airplane. Then, out of the blue, on the very first page, this really rich, of course, beautiful, of course, young, of course, and totally powerful woman...well, she's pouting because it had snowed so heavily that she wasn't going to be able to wear the new fur her lover had given her. And she had had such grand plans of rubbing it in the lover's wife's face at this posh political party without really letting on who actually gave it to her—you know, the typical mistress-afraid-of-the-wife syndrome. Anyway, this young, beautiful, rich, and totally powerful woman was staring out her window—of her penthouse—that overlooked the White House, of course—at the snow and then she said, 'Yuck.'" 68

Beth, busy reaching up into the cabinet for a couple of her more pretty coffee cups, says, "Hmm." "She said 'yuck.'" Stephanie pauses. Beth looks up at this gap of silence and sees Stephanie waiting. She shrugs. "What?" "This woman I just described to you. She said yuck or yucky; I can't remember now exactly, but I know the author even spelled it in a weird way, like without the c or something. I couldn't read any more after that. Not one single word. Can you believe it? Couldn't get past the word 'yuck' on the first page of a mega bestseller." "Because she said 'yuck'?" "Yeah. The circumstances and all. It didn't fit." "Speaking of circumstances," Beth began, "what was that game you were playing the other night? Trying to make my husband jealous?" "Where? When?" "The other night at the barbecue. I couldn't get over the way you were so openly rubbing up against me. You were like a cat in heat—minus the yowling." "Hey! That reminds me—I was gonna tell you—my dear husband must've gotten off watching me do it, too, because the sex that night was like no other. Must have been the thought of your lips brushing against my nipples. Does it for me." She catches Beth's hand as it puts down her coffee cup and gives it a squeeze. "Did Daniel notice?" She glances at the clock. Beth pulls her rolls from the oven. The heat crashes into her face. "A bestseller and all, huh? I wonder how something that God-awful bad could become a bestseller." 69

"I don't know," says Stephanie. "Must have something to do with that 'pebble dropped into a still pond' theory—" She doesn't finish, just leaves the thought hanging. "Yeah?" Beth had turned back to the stove to begin icing her rolls. "Yeah?" she eventually asks again. Thinking Beth understood and that she was just emphatically agreeing with her, Stephanie continues reading her paper which she found just the way she liked it: still rolled, rubber-banded, and smack dab in the middle of the table. Beth turns around at the silence. "Yeah? Well? What about the pebble dropped into a still pond?" "Are you talking to me?" Rattling the pages of the newspaper, Stephanie wishes this conversation would end. Meanwhile, Beth, standing at the stove, stiffens at the sound of the rattling newspaper pages. They stare at one another. Stephanie gives in and says, "Oh. You know that old saying, don't you? About the rings and all?" "No." "Oh. Well, anyway," Stephanie begins so this conversation will end, "the point is that that particular book became a bestseller because someone influential told someone to publish it and then that someone turned it over to another someone to market it and so on and so on. It spread out to—like 500 thousand rings or so. Until people felt they hadn't lived unless they'd read it. You know?" "So the first someone was the stone?" Beth offered. "The pebble—exactly." 70

There is a pause as they both take a second to reflect upon the plate of steaming cinnamon rolls that Beth had placed in the middle of the table. "But what about the tree that falls in the forest?" Beth quietly asks. "What?" Stephanie is annoyed. Her hands, holding the pages of the paper, clench one degree closer to becoming a fist. "You know," Beth continues, "how if a tree falls in the forest and no one is there to witness it, does it make any noise…or something like that." "What is this now—Battle of the Wits? What are you trying to say?" "Well, if no one read that bestseller initially, then it would be like that tree. It would have, you know, fallen silently in the grandiose forest of literature." Beth pauses then picks up the cause. "Like all those other books in the library…the ones that Cather and Hemingway are squished between, that line the shelves of every public library…" The thought trails off, lost. "Well, I don't know about that but I definitely wouldn't say 'still waters run deep' applies here, to this conversation, in any way, shape or form." "About the bestseller?" "About anything." "You've lost me." "Yeah, me, too. You lost me in that forest of yours." They both kinda laugh. Then it was quiet enough that Beth heard the kitchen clock ticking. "So tell me," Stephanie begins, talking from behind the newspaper, "do you think—honestly now, please be 71

totally honest—that I'm attractive enough to suck the Big Man's dick?" "What?" The sales flyer Beth had been looking at slipped from her fingers. So much for Shopko's sale on towels. "You know," Stephanie continues thoughtfully, "we, as women, should really thank the President for establishing a new standard of beauty for women in general. Gone forever is the question 'Does this make me look fat?' Long live the question 'Do I look good enough to suck presidential dick?'" Beth doesn't know what to say. So she says, "That's not funny." "Sure it is. Think about it. Think about what he has done for women. Now we can all feel good about strutting around in our furs, using the word yuck to describe our innermost feelings." Beth sits across the table in silence. That doesn't stop Stephanie. "Did I ever tell you about that girlfriend of mine in Sioux Falls? She had gone out to see the President when he was just a candidate on his campaign tour. She called me the next day to tell me all about it. Said she was standing there at the front of the crowd, along the cordoned-off line. She had her hand wrapped up in the tail of her shirt—weird habit of hers. Anyway, the Secret Service guys were, like, right on her, she said, demanding to know what she had under her shirt. After it was over, she said she should have flashed them, but at the time, she said it was kinda scary the way they were manhandling her, their hands on their pistols. Her boyfriend was right 72

beside her but he acted like he wasn't with her when this was going on. Imagine that. But I guess the President just broke right through them like Jesus walking on water and stopped right in front of her to do his handshaking thing. She said he leaned into her and gave her full-body contact as he reached over her to touch the people behind her. Full body. Then, she said, he stepped back and deliberately smiled right at her, reached down and grabbed her hand hanging at her side. By the time she called me, she was ticked—said she felt violated. She said right at that moment she wished she had had a pistol to pull out from under her shirt, just for him to see, just to scare him with. Give him something to think about the next time he decided to 'press flesh'. She told me she looked him dead in the eye and told him to say hello to his wife. I don't believe her. Anyway, do you think that's good enough to leak to the press? Considering the circumstances? It's not enough for a book deal but there's got to be a way to capitalize on this experience. I gotta remember to call her today…" Beth is still sitting—silent—across the table. Stephanie's seemingly boundless energy is what initially attracted her, but now she just wants her to shut up Stephanie looks at her. "What? No opinion? Don't you think that's just hilarious about my friend?" Still no response. "You look like someone waiting for the rain to stop. What's that all about? Cat's got your tongue?" Beth just shrugs. Truth be known, she doesn't know what to think. "We're not all sluts," Beth adds as an afterthought. 73

"You don't think so?" Like downshifting an eighteenwheeler while it's going sixty on the interstate, Stephanie changes the subject. "Okay, so tell me this. Has sex in your house changed since we started our little relationship? Is Daniel benefiting from your new experience? Remember I told you, you might have to show him…" Beth feels the heat of the oven on her face once again, even though she is nowhere near the source. She's too embarrassed to tell Stephanie that she and her husband are sleeping in separate bedrooms now. Her hand turns the plate of her sweetness-to-die-for cinnamon rolls, still sitting in the middle of the table, 45 degrees counterclockwise, without saying a word. Stephanie quickly folds her paper over in half without actually relinquishing the hold and bends her head down to look into Beth's face. "Are you embarrassed?" she asks. Then she starts laughing, but not as if what she's laughing at is very funny at all. "No…" Beth stammers. "The oven…" Meanwhile her hands work to turn the plate of cinnamon rolls, the kind her husband never gets any of, another 45 degrees. "Jesus, if you're embarrassed, you shouldn't be doing it. Christ, just tell me. I'll leave." Stephanie coolly delivers this line and then snaps her paper upright, hiding her face. Beth had hoped some of Stephanie's boldness would rub off on her, make her feel less stupid, less lost. Just the opposite was happening. "Well…" Beth offers meekly after several seconds pass between them, "You know…curiosity killed the cat." 74

Stephanie crunches the newspaper down in front of her, smashing it flat on the table. She's ready to rip into her but when she sees the blank look of innocence or ignorance—she couldn't tell which—on Beth's face, she starts shaking her head and chuckling. "Yeah," she kicks in, "curiosity killed the cat. So to speak." They both kind of laugh again. Beth starts up the conversation again as Stephanie smoothes her wrinkled newspaper. "Maybe we shouldn't use those little catch-all-type sayings if we don't know how they actually apply to, you know, life." "Catch-all-type sayings? Do you mean clichés?" "Yeah, well, at some point these phrases must have had some real meaning…" "And life? Have you ever pondered exactly how much you don't know, Beth? How much you take for granted already? I have. And you presume to encompass all of life in your concern over clichés?" Stephanie is leaning over the table now. "You're supposed to be my downtime, Beth. Out there," she points towards the kitchen window, "I go a hundred and fifty miles an hour everywhere I go with everyone else I have to deal with. You take me out of here," Stephanie points to her forehead. "You're my sanctuary, Beth. I just want to come here and not think." She sees the tears in Beth's eyes. "Jesus," she says and looks away. "Now I know what it feels like to have a wife. Okay, Beth, you wanna play— who's talking about life? You use the radio, don't you? The telephone? Drive the car?" "Yeah, yeah…" "You don't actually know how—technically—you 75

get music when you turn on the radio, do you? Or how you can dial a phone and seconds later be talking to someone great distances away…do you?" "No. No, I don't." This time Stephanie notices Beth turning the plate of cinnamon rolls. "And you still use these things, right?" "Yes. Yes, I do." The plate is cranked another 45 degrees. "So." Stephanie states. "So? So what?" "Exactly—so what." With that, Beth picks up the plate of cinnamon rolls and heaves it across the room. The plate smashes into the workspace island built in the middle of her kitchen. The icing on the rolls works as an adhesive and the rolls stick and slowly slide down the side. They plop to rest on her floor. Watching this descent, Beth remembers how her husband had built her that island, exactly as it looked in the picture of that magazine, even though he surely knew it would be too big for the space—just because she wanted it. "Whoa!" Stephanie looks from the rolls to Beth's face. She waits but nothing follows up that impressive bit of action. Nothing. Beth simply gets up and places fresh rolls on a new plate, being careful not to step in the mess on the floor, like nothing had happened. Ignoring Stephanie's silent stare, Beth tries to rebound into a bit of casual conversation by mentioning an article she had read in the paper. "Have you come across that article yet about the two 32-year-old women who were killed in that awful crash? They were rear76

ended on the interstate by a huge truck. The car they were in was going too slow, the report said. They both died." Stephanie, reading the article for herself, mutters "The element of where..." "What?" "They were riding together in the backseat of the car, the husbands up front. Husbands were treated and released. What do you do, read this paper before I get here and then re-roll it and rubber band it for me? Just because I like it that way? That is truly sick, sister. A clue—I like you best when you're pissed enough at me to throw a plate of sticky buns across the kitchen." "They're cinnamon rolls—" Rolling her eyes, she sighs, "Nevermind." Each resigning herself to the undeniable sensory delights of the plate of steaming, sweetness-to-die-for cinnamon rolls, perfectly browned, perfectly iced, the other asks the one, "You were where, last night? "Philadelphia, I told you." "Oh, yeah. Yuck."

77

Charlotte Boyett-Compo Grinnell, Iowa, USA Current Publications: THE KEEPER OF THE WIND, Wind Legends Inc IN THE WIND'S EYE, DLSIJ Press BLOODWIND, Twilight Times Books NIGHTWIND, Twilight Times Books

Memories In the Wind The last of the cars had pulled away from his mother's house; all the food the polite folks had brought had all been put away. The goodbyes had been said and the acknowledgements of sympathy duly noted. There was quiet settling down like a cool blanket on the old, two-bedroom shack. Now would be as good a time as any to go through his mother's things, to sort out the accumulation of eighty-some odd years. Keirnan set about his task like any good, Irish Catholic boy. He took a long swig of the cooking sherry that was the only alcohol his mother had ever allowed in her home, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then resolutely headed for his mother's bedroom. The room reeked of camphor and sickly-sweet smells he would rather not think about. Dark, for the curtains had been drawn according to custom—the aura of the little eight-by-ten room was like an ugly woman waiting hopelessly to be asked to dance at the Debutante Ball. Never again would the gentle woman who had graced this room with her unbending spirit, set foot on the faded carpet and push back the dry-rotted curtains to let the dust motes fluttter to the old floorboards. Too many memories, he thought. "And too little time," came his ragged whisper as he opened the chipped closet doors. He had a flight to catch tomorrow and this was something he'd rather not have to do. "What the hell am I going to do with all this junk?" he asked aloud, pushing aside stained blouses and pants whose hems were unraveled and frayed. 79

The clothes would go to Goodwill, the shoes to Aunt Marguerite, who had specifically asked for them. The blankets and pillows stacked neatly on the upper shelf, would be dispersed among the grandchildren. He'd take one quilt and give the others to Uncle Sean's daughter. Then, the ten or so outdated purses lined up on the second shelf brought a nasty sneer to his lips. "What was she saving these old things for, anyway?" he snapped. He took down one old pocketbook, its fake leather surface cracked with age and use. It smelled old and worn and ready to be disposed of, and the image those thoughts brought to him, made him think of his mother's body before the cremation. "Stop it, Kier!" he warned himself and tossed the unopened pocketbook on the bed behind him, but it bounced on the worn, chenille spread and fell to the floor, its contents spilling out. A long sigh of impatience wavered from Kiernan's pursed lips and he walked over to the blasted thing and picked it up, began stuffing papers, tissues, tubes of red lipstick, and pennies back inside. Had Mama ever gone to a restaurant, either fast food or sit-down, when she didn't stuff napkins into her purse for later on? He muttered a heart-felt obscenity and jammed a handful of the offending white pests into the zippered compartment. He reached for another white blot against the dusty carpet. And then he stopped. He looked down at what was in his hand, turned it over, and drew in a shuddering breath. Tears filled his blue eyes—eyes so like his 80

mother's—and he sat down heavily on the bed, the tight rein on his composure slipping away. He stared at what he held crumpled in his hand and felt grief pressing in on him from all sides. The photograph was old and faded, the images slipping as surely away from him as his mother had. Around the edges of the paper, bits and pieces had been torn away with constant handling. There was a ragged, white crease from the lower left corner to the upper right, bisecting the two people in the photo like the real separation the Fates had decreed. "I must have been five or so," he mused, lovingly running his thumb over the photograph's slick surface. "Mama would have been forty." There she was, smiling for the camera, her arm around his thin shoulders, protecting him from the world as she always had. His arms—unable to span her wide girth—drew her as close to him as he could manage, his cheek pressed tightly against the cotton day dress. Even then he hated to have her out of his sight, hated to be separated from her. And she had kept him as close as a mother dared in that day and age. Da had never been home, he remembered with bitter irony. A trucker by trade, he was always on the highway, bringing home other people's necessities while ignoring his family's own. And then one day, Da was gone for good. He had found a new family, a new little boy to call his own. And Mama's heart had been broken. Kiernan took one last look at the precious photograph his mother had carried in her purse for forty-three years, 81

then placed it carefully in his shirt pocket. He stared into the open closet door at the old clothes—mostly polyester and cotton—he had been so ashamed to see his mother wear and he hung his head. There would be no more arguments over petty things that had set Mama and him at each other's throats. Like that ratty, old, orange and brown jacket she always wore. There would be no more making up and laughing at their own silly natures and stubborn ways. No more Thanksgiving dinners or Christmas presents. No birthday cards lovingly chosen from a mother to her only son. No more telephone calls to admonish her recalcitrant child that he hadn't called. Kiernan looked over at the phone and wished with all his heart that it would ring, that he could pick it up and hear her merry voice chiding him once again. But the wind outside was as cold as the shriveled body he had held in his arms long after that last hitching breath had come and those faded blue eyes had closed on him forever. Death isn't just an ending, he thought, as he buried his face in his hands and wept. Death is a beginning, as well. And, as in all beginnings, the first step is the hardest to take.

82

Roberta Nolte Ona, West Virginia, USA

UnAnswered Prayers Victoria lived her life with quiet dignity and faith. She'd kept a Christian home and raised her four children to trust and love God. She always kept a running dialogue with God in her mind, never forgetting to thank Him when one of her prayers was answered. Just after her 75th birthday, Victoria started to feel a little run-down, so she made an appointment with her doctor. The prognosis was poor. She had inoperable cancer and was not expected to survive. The treatments left her weak and sick, but she never gave up her faith. Her constant prayer consisted of four words: Please, let me live. Finally, Victoria's health declined and the children were called to her bedside. With her family praying around her, she passed. The spirit stretched and yawned. "Where am I?" It felt as if it had slept for ages. "You are home," a friendly Presence replied. "Finally, home." The spirit began to look around. It tried to absorb all that it saw, when it noticed three boxes of various sizes in front of it. Reaching for the first and largest box, the spirit asked, "What is this?" "Those are your prayers," said the Presence. The spirit tried to lift the box but it was far too heavy. The beautiful box would have to be admired where it stood. Looking at a smaller box, the spirit asked, "And what 84

is this?" "These are the prayers of everyone you have ever taught to pray." This box was also too heavy to lift. Its beauty far outshone the first box. The spirit admired it for a while. It remembered life and the people it had touched. The spirit was pleased. "What is in the smallest box?" asked the spirit. "These are your unanswered prayers," replied the Presence. "Open it." The spirit opened the smallest box. Inside was a single satin ribbon. On the ribbon were the words: Please, let me live. No word was spoken between the spirit and the Presence. No guidance was needed. The spirit lifted the satin ribbon and knowingly tied it around the box that contained the prayers of her family.

85

Diana Baird Chorleywood, England Current Publication: KITCHEN CAPERS, Henderson Publishing

Forbidden Fruit Tastes Sweetest A small boy dug a moat with his hand. The father helped. They played, engrossed and beautifully bonded. The sand, the sea, and their heads, one pale golden silk and one fuzzy black wool, gleamed in the sunlight. The mother sat apart, her head resting on her drawnup knees, her face hidden under a canopy of dark, cascading curls. Her mind writhed. I shouldn't have come here, she told herself. Why didn't I persuade him to go elsewhere? Elizabeth sees herself returning to this place where every year she escapes from her students to revitalise her spirit. The first glint of moonlight touches the wave tops. The sea slops onto the still warm sand. She is sitting, resting her head on her knees. Her hair almost touches the sand. Predictable Patrick, directly through the earth in England, is having morning coffee. He will stir six times, draining the spoon on the rim of the cup, then poking the spoon handle through his hair, he will scratch the spot above his ear. After so long, little, silly things snip at nerves. Thoughts are lost to the ripples. "Don't get a fright." She starts, having heard only the sea flopping on the foreshore. "Hello, Robert. You shouldn't do that to an old woman." "Sorry, m'lady, but I wouldn't have considered you to have a weak heart!" He kneels in mock apology. "Where are you going?" "To renew my acquaintance with Flat Rock. D' you 87

know it?" "I do. I go out there frequently. I leave the students to their fun. They relax more without me." "Oh, you're not that ferocious. Want to come?" He offers his hand to pull her to her feet. Flat Rock is, as always, spectacular: one hundred and eighty degrees of sea with ten degrees of land at each end. "I love the air..." Elizabeth breathes noisily. They watch the waves until a wisp of wind sweeps across the water. Elizabeth shivers. "I think I'll go back. I've a busy day tomorrow. Coming?" "I could stay here till dawn, but as you say, there's work to be done." Elizabeth crunches along the sand. She wants peace, space, time to erase thoughts; she has found it here before. She moves towards Flat Rock. She paces away from the cicada-shrill bushes onto the pebbly coastline. A figure lying on the rock sits up. Pale light frosts fair hair. Is it Robert? She hesitates, holding her breath, ready for flight—woman always vulnerable. "Hello there." The male voice sounds surprised. She breathes. "Hello, Robert. Did you get a fright?" "Yes, felt myself stop beating for a moment. I was lost in thought. Didn't hear you coming." "Were you here last night?" "Yes, I'll come here every night I can. I love this spot." He slapped the rock beside him. "I went to bed. I was so tired." "You missed a spectacular moonrise, but if we stay long enough tonight, it may be as good." He points to the 88

sprinkling of low clouds. "If we're lucky, they'll turn to pearl drops." They sit apart, immersed in the cicada symphonies, the writhing seaweed, slicing through their reflections. "Why didn't you stay to play canasta?" Elizabeth asks. "I'm too old. They're great young people, but I can't always relate socially." "I know. I'm old enough to be their mother!" "Hardly!" "I am. I don't like it, but I am." "Have you children that age, Elizabeth?" "No." "How old are they then?" "I have no children," she replies almost inaudibly. "I'm sorry." The cicadas screech in her ears; her head swirls. The tears press for escape, but she fights them. She sniffs. He puts his arm around her shoulder. "Oh, excuse me, Robert. This is a topic I never get into. I blot it out." "I had no idea." Elizabeth leans into him. Sit up, be strong, pretend, pretend it doesn't matter. But, one day I must tell someone or I'll explode. "Patrick and I have been married for years. For the last ten we've tried to have a family..." "Have you sought help? There's a lot that can be done about these things." "Oh yes, we've had help. Patrick has a problem, so they said it might just happen." "Have you considered a donor?" 89

"At first he refused to consider that. Until last year. He changed his mind so we went to the doctor..." "Yes." "Then..." "What happened?" "They said I was too old. It was two weeks after my fiftieth birthday. I could still conceive, but there were not enough donors to go around." "That's ridiculous! Don't you know anyone privately?" "No, I don't. We've been fighting the bureaucracy, but we're further away. I'm a year older next month." The tears come. She knows Patrick would be cold, aloof, furious. Robert cradles her in his arms, strokes her hair, pats her, comforts her like a child. The tensions drain. As the pearly rays begin to transform the eastern horizon, they sit, huddled, engulfed in silence, cherishing the peace. The moon is suspended, huge, orange. "We should go back, Elizabeth." Robert strokes her curls. "I'm sorry I burdened you with my problems." "It's okay, I feel honoured that you trusted me. They'll never be passed on." "Thanks, Robert. I've never told anyone else. Patrick made me promise not to tell anyone, not even my mother." "Perhaps it's time you told. You need support with the grief." "I guess it's grief. Never thought of it like that." She leads through the forest to the beach. Once out of 90

the trees, she runs. "I'll beat you to that stump!" Robert chases, catches her hand. A grass root snags his foot, they fall, his arms go around her as they tumble, roly-poly fashion, in the sand. They laugh, gleefully, like children. For a second they embrace, but that is breaking the rules. They walk silently back to the lodge. By the door, Elizabeth holds Robert's arm. "You'll be at the rock tomorrow night?" "You know I will. How about you?" She looks at him, undecided. "Please come", he says. "Don't be frightened; we won't hurt anyone." "I guess we won't." They lie on Flat Rock. Elizabeth whispers, "We're going back in two days." "Forever here with you would not be long enough. You know that, don't you, Elizabeth?" She nods. "I've never known how it is to be really honest like this before." Robert twists a curl around his finger. "Why can't we all throw away our masks?" "We must play the game." "Have I thrown away my mask, Robert?" "It's on during the day. You have your part to play. But all these evenings I have seen you. You are so beautiful, Elizabeth." "You've helped me so much. You never criticise. I can be me as I've never been before. I feel beautiful. Do you feel it, too, Robert?" "I do. It's a peace. Sometimes I want to cry, to wash 91

away the hurts. I want you to hold me, hold me, always until I die." The first majestic rays…the sea rejoices, pounding, demanding on the beach. "Let's swim tonight! Come, Elizabeth, let's swim." He strokes her neck with his finger, then helps her slip off her shirt. Her breasts are translucent, rounded. He tugs off his T-shirt, slides down his jeans, and stands in his underwear. "Take them off," she says quietly. "They are a mask." They hold hands, then dive. It invigorates every nerve. Their arms mesh, their bodies mould, so slowly their lips meet. "God, it hurts," she whispers, "how it hurts." They swirl and twirl, mermaid, merman. "Come out, Robert." They entwine on the rock in the moonlight, gently embracing, exploring, a hunger growing until she rolls herself under him. The waves ebb and flow, surge with eternal pleasure. When the height of the tsunami crashes over them, they cry out. For a long time they lie in the warm air. The sea laps around them. The cicadas are silent. The moon stands high—hard light on fragile thoughts. Too soon the pink morning rays tint the eastern horizon. "I know I shouldn't ask you, but please, Elizabeth, come with me. Make a new life, please." His voice chokes. 92

"But, Robert, I'm too old. I'm ten years older than you." "What's age? We are together in spirit. Age doesn't come into it. Or, am I too young for you?" "No, not at all. It's just... when we go back to the city, will I be good enough for you? Do you understand?" "Yes, I understand, but I want you, Elizabeth. I love you." "We will be together. Just give me a little time." "Please don't forget me, please. I will wait forever if I must." "No, my love, I will never forget you, not for one second." Patrick came in on the midday plane. She said she could not meet him. He set the table, putting a dark red airport rose in the centre. He opened a bottle of claret. Lovely Elizabeth. How I want to see her, hold her, love her. "You look pale, dear, tired." "I've been working hard. These last six weeks have been chaotic." "I shouldn't have gone for so long, but it was wonderful. I'm at the peak of my career." He ran his hand through his mop of black curls. "Patrick, there's something I must tell you...." "What is it, dear, something wrong?" "Patrick... I'm pregnant..." He leapt from his chair. "My darling, I've never heard such good news. Never been so happy!" He pulled her to 93

her feet, hugged her, twirled her. "But, Patrick—" His mouth pressed onto hers and the carefully rehearsed sentence remained unspoken.

94

Rhonda Nolan Baton Rouge, Louisiana, USA Current Publications: Short Stories and Poetry in EMOTIONS, THE THRESHOLD, ST. ROSE PRESS, THE INDITER, AND A WRITER'S CHOICE LITERARY JOURNAL

Butterfly Eyes The room vibrated with loud, frightening silence. A quiet chill, broken only by the steady echoes of the respiratory device and the delicate rise and fall of that horrid piece of machinery, welcomed me. It represented the latest in technology, and her lifeblood. It reared its ugly head, only to collapse again—gathering enough velocity to repeat its morbid pattern, over and over again—the endless, vicious cycle. This ugly, man-made instrument filled with moisture and air, was the only thing keeping her frail body alive— yet—I had breathed so effortlessly and without conscious thought, when I pulled into the nursing home parking lot in a pretentious, turquoise German convertible sports car just five minutes earlier. As I approached the bed, a Rubenesque black woman with pure white hair and flickering eyelids startled me. Her dark eyes had the longest lashes I had ever seen on anyone, and she batted them continually, as though she possessed a nervous tic. I found myself mesmerized, like a young child, armed with a net, trying to catch a butterfly to place in a glass jar by my bed. I watched her eyes flit about as though they were trapped in the confinements of her ordinary job. Changing bedpans for a living wasn't exactly a model of freedom. "Ah, you must be the grand'dadder. I can see the 'semblance. 'Specially the eyes—and, of course—I've seen your pictures. They are mighty nice, ma'am." "Yes, I am her granddaughter," I replied, hoping the aide would take this no further. The last thing I wanted 96

now was the worn sketchiness of my complex existence to unfold in this sterile, unfriendly room…this box, filled with no hope, and void of all dreams. "I just changed her dressin'. Some real nasty bed sores Miss Delilah's got there. But you can't really avoid it when you're in her condition. Ever since her hip came out of da socket, we haven't been able to move her much. The doc said surgery might kill her. It's been a darn shame, watchin' Miss Delilah. First came the feedin' tubes. That always gets to me. Food is often one of the last pleasures left for these folks. Then came the…well, she can't sit up in the wheelchair no mo'. Miss Delilah was always sweet, tho', back when she wuz talkin'." My heart began to beat inside my head like a tribal drum. I hadn't exactly known what to expect. After all, it had been years since I had visited Na-Nan. I was always on the set or filming a made-for-cable television movie, living far too many lost years of self-absorption and selfloathing. I found myself trying to hide the large diamond dinner ring on my right hand. "Does she communicate at all? I mean, can she comprehend anything?" "Oh no, honey. She doesn't know where she is or even who she is…it's best that way. It's even hard for her eyes to focus these days. See how they flutter?" I noticed the woman's name tag as she brushed past me in her worn, floral medical smock. It simply read, "Ruby." The aura of disinfectant mingled with the light stench of stale urine, wafted through the air, as though it was Ruby's special fragrance. "Nice to meet you, Ruby," I stuttered, although my 97

smile was visibly waxen and forced. "By the way, Miss Mistretta, you are much more prettier in person than on the TV. Are you and Chet gonna get back together? You two made a mighty handsome couple. I never did like that new gal anyway. She's a downright floozy. Now you, you are one sharp lady lawyer." I felt my body stiffen. She recognized me just as all the others did. "I'm sorry, but I'm sworn to secrecy. It's part of my contract on the show. Surely you understand." "I just thought you could tell ol' Ruby, the lady that tends to your poor ol' grandmother. I'm a big fan of yours, and I would ne'er, ever tell a soul. Ya know, Miss Mistretta, I turn the TV on every day from one till two o'clock in here. I know Miss Delilah can't hear it, but I sometimes hope she might recognize your voice. Ya just never know 'bout these things." I opened my mouth, about to speak, but with nothing to say. Then she was gone. My eyes quickly darted around the room taking in the numerous photographs and magazine clippings, beginning with my crowning as Miss North America, to my landing the role of Marcella Mistretta on Legal Passions. I thought how odd it was that Ruby referred to me as "Miss Mistretta," despite the fact that most of my fans did indeed know my real name. After all, I had landed a day-time Emmy three years in a row now. To Ruby, I was merely a nameless icon in the banality of American popular culture. The frequent gasping of the respirator brought me 98

back to the present. I stood before a woman assigned to remain coiled in a painful fetal position for the rest of her empty, soulless days on earth. Ironically, my thoughts were focused on my pathetically overblown perception of self-worth. Her oval, clear gray eyes were vacant and lifeless. They drifted aimlessly, while the rest of her body remained still and useless. Through the inexpensive, starched sheets, I could see the outline of a figure that resembled, at best, a turkey wing. The shock of the cruelty of my own thoughts brought tears to my eyes, the same gray, oval-shaped eyes, the eyes that brought me fame, fortune, three husbands, and a diamond dinner ring. I waved my manicured hand in front of her face, hoping to get her attention with the sparkles of light. She blinked and turned her head, spurned by mere reflex. "It's me, Na-Nan. Me, Veronica." She stared right at me with the same vacant and lifeless look. "Na-Nan. It's me. Veronica. Remember me?" I spoke loudly and deliberately, knowing the nursing aides no longer bothered with her hearing aid or her eyeglasses. "Your granddaughter, Veronica. Veronica! Na-nan! Remember me? I am the oldest grandchild. The actress, Na-Nan. Remember? You used to come see me in my high school plays. Remember how silly I used to act? I am still silly, Na-nan." I found myself screaming. Tears were streaming down my face, real tears, not the ones that freely flowed 99

every time Chet Landcaster broke my heart on Legal Passions. Chet really was a pompous attorney. Why did everyone want us back together so damn much? Again, my thoughts wandered to the unreality of my character rather than the reality of Veronica, the real woman. And yet, no response. I sighed, glanced at my Rolex, and felt the urgent need to depart. It was pointless, and it caused an uncomfortable feeling, so helpless and invisible. It had been a long time since I felt so vulnerable and translucent. I slowly turned to leave the room, and then, for some unknown reason, I abruptly stopped. My body found its way as I carefully placed my cheek upon hers. Her skin was soft and pliable—and her coloring, once pink and glowing—had tarnished. It didn't matter. She was still as beautiful as ever. Then came the sound. It began as a low rumble, building to a deafening, monotone groan. Starting deep within her belly, it crawled through her throat and barely escaped out of her mouth, defeating and defying the intricate tubes and expensive machinery. I thanked God that He had forgiven me for my prideful vanity and overly-generous material life. I felt at peace. She knew. Veronica. A small group of inquisitive staff and residents were gathered in the hallway as I exited the room for the final time. The sound of their applause mingled with the sound of the respiratory device and the relentless moaning of her recognition. On the nightstand, I left behind a wrinkled, scribbled 100

note:

Dear Ruby, Chet and I will be married in March, after his brief affair with the new law clerk, Heather. You are right, she is a ruthless woman, out to get what she wants no matter what, including my Chet! In the meantime, I will win a big case and be promoted to senior partner of the firm. Heartbroken and jaded, I will succumb to the temptations of Morris Inglesby, a handsome and debonair tycoon. But weak we are during times of sorrow! My mother, Harriet Mistretta, will pass away, leaving me a sizeable fortune. Should I keep the money or try and save the life of Chet's son, Ellis, dying of childhood Leukemia? You tell me, Miss Ruby. What should I do? Marry Chet and be a mother to his son? Give more than I have taken? Sincerely, Marcella Mistretta P.S. By the way, thank you for taking care of my grandmother. God bless you.

Author's Note I'd like to dedicate this story to my beloved grandmother, Sara "Momee" Leggio, who died on December 7, 1998. The respiratory machine is no longer turned on. She is finally at peace. 101

Jennifer Caress Colorado Springs, Colorado, USA

Lesbian Cafe The decor is green, the mood serene. Okay, it's a bad rhyme, but when one is surrounded by green all day, mental deterioration is inevitable. The rest of the kitchen help and I are clumsily preparing for the lunch hour attack. I am trying to cut through the leather exterior of a tomato. To make matters worse, I am beginning to doubt where my fingers end and the too-ripe tomato begins. Clarity summons me—flesh and tomatoes should never have been brought together. Evil is lurking in this flesh/tomato plot. A waitress dressed in green stares at my struggle through the window in which orders are placed. This window does not make an adequate frame for her face. Yet I stare back, glad to have the attention of someone in 1950s green. I smile and squint my eyes. "Spank me, spank me. Say you're my daddy." This gets her to walk away. I can sense she still wants to stare, though. Cindy slices mushrooms next to me. She has yet to cut two that are the same size. I ignore her the best I can. I ignore her mumbles of the depression she clings to. Cindy wallows in whatever darkness she can find. Then she expects sympathy for the efforts she sees as noble— the efforts I see as foolish. In a room of only light, she would make a shadow in hopes of pity. I wish she would leave us to walk amongst the world of the sane. I can't say that I would miss her. The waitress dressed in green, one of three, has returned. Once again, she stares. Because we rarely speak 103

beyond polite small talk, it is not me she sees, rather some odd persona she has created to put into place of the details I have not given. She stares. I slice and cut and dice. She stares. She stares so deeply that I feel forced to hand her a cherry. I stare back in a vain attempt to ease the penetration. Eye contact has never been so sweet, so complete, such a good idea. Eye contact brings about the loss of the green, the tomatoes, Cindy's pity, and bizarrely-shaped sliced mushrooms. Deep and lasting eye contact brings a couch, a standing lamp, Jimi Hendrix, and wood paneled walls that smell like pancakes. Then clarity summons me— better not get too far into a fantasy while I am slicing leather-clad tomatoes. I look over to see that Gypsy is lost in a fantasy of her own. Her face goes blank—all but her eyes. I will allow this because she is not slicing tomatoes; she is simply slicing deli meat. Little danger in that. Her gaze wanders until her is head is tilted to a 90 degree angle. The cartoon bubble above her head reveals her thoughts. I am withering in my silence. Standing in front of him, I am invisible, fiercely vulnerable. I am empty. Silent. Standing in front of him 104

I am invisible. Fiercely vulnerable. Then the cartoon bubble is gone. I can tell by the look on her face that the fantasy has left, too. Gypsy goes to the smoker's hallway. The smoker's hallway has been silent ever since the cafe's owner placed a microphone next to the security camera. Nobody has anything to say anymore. They just sit and inhale, keeping whatever bothers them under the smoke. The Health Department would be glad to know the only rats in this cafe are of the human kind.

105

Nadine Hielscher Hanford, California, USA

Quilt Treasures The state of Georgia was unusually restless this time of year, with thoughts of freedom being uppermost in the hearts and minds of every slave. Across the South, anticipation of slavery's end sliced through the thick, humid days like a knife to butter. The prospect filled slaves with hope of a new promised land and equality, and incited fear and terror in the minds of plantation owners, large and small alike. No fine, upstanding citizen or genteel southern lady, dare dream of dirtying lilywhite hands by doing menial tasks. Sissy and Dabney wouldn't have to move far from the Wilker plantation. Master George and Miss Millie had deeded them a parcel of land on the corner of the plantation. "You have been wonderful to us. You have become family and we want to do what's right by y'all," said Miss Millie as her voice cracked. Master George wouldn't have gone quite that far, but everything belonged to Miss Millie's family, so he couldn't protest. George was awful crotchety, and had been from the time he took sweet, young Millie, and her money, to be his wife at the tender age of 14. He fought something fierce with her all the time, even resorting to slapping her around—that is, when Sissy wasn't around. Sissy did her best to protect her from harm most of Miss Millie's married life. On one occasion, George came home in a particularly vile mood. He drunkenly raised his hand to Miss Millie in an effort to knock her to the ground, but Sissy hit him over the back with a fireplace poker, to which he 107

responded with physical retribution against poor Sissy— not even caring that she was just newly married to Dabney, or that Miss Millie was crying and pleading for him to stop. Margaret Louise, Sissy and Dabney's eldest, was 17, just barely a woman, and Sissy had taught her young to cook, wash, and sew. Nathan, Margaret's younger brother, was still too small to work the plow. The family now enjoyed reaping the harvest. It was different working their own property, and suddenly, Sissy didn't mind the smell of freshly plowed corn stalks or getting cottonseeds stuck in her hair. Dabney and Sissy sometimes couldn't believe they were free. Most folks were courteous, but there were still those men who just couldn't accept the fact that blacks weren't slaves anymore and they had no use for them, outside of working the land and cleaning. Some of those men came one night. It was a sweltering summer night that would forever burn in Margaret's mind… Sissy screamed, "Fire! Fire! Wake up! Get out of here!" She rushed to get everyone out. Eventually, Margaret found herself wrapped in the family quilt, next to a burned down pile of rubble that used to be her home. Running down the dirt lane, Miss Millie screamed and yelled for Sissy. With tears gushing, Margaret met her at the gate and quickly fell into Miss Millie's arms and slid down to the dirt. "They're gone! They're gone!" cried Margaret. Miss Millie gently patted Margaret's head and began 108

looking around for survivors. First, she found what was left of Dabney. Then she pulled some boards off of Sissy's badly charred body. Sissy was still holding Dabney's hand close to her chest as she lay halfway out the door. Tears coursed down Margaret's cheeks as she screamed loudly to the heavens. Then she frantically began calling for Nathan, but silence was the only response. Foreboding stillness echoed for miles, as if the land itself was mourning the loss of a family's love. Now, the only thing Margaret had was the quilt Mama had told her about. It had been handed down from generation to generation, each square telling the story of who and of where. Mama had said, "Nothing else much matters. This is our life, our story." Margaret had no one to turn, as all the freed slaves had moved on, and everyone just figured Nathan had burned up in the fire. Since it was Daddy's dream to live out west, she pointed her dreams in that direction. Miss Millie saw to it that she had a good horse, some food, and a little money for her journey, and she promised to take care of Nathan if he was ever found. With tears streaming down her face, Margaret promised to keep in touch, as she slowly rode out to meet the sunrise, toward an unknown future. She turned westward and headed down a narrow dirt road. A few hours later, she got tired and decided to rest by a big, fallen oak limb. As she wrapped up in the quilt, something poked her so she decided to investigate. She carefully pulled the stitching away and beneath the squares with Dabney and Sissy's names, were pictures of the family and money Mama had sewn into the lining. 109

Now she knew why Mama cherished the quilt so. What a blessing this was to her spirit. Shivers ran through her soul as she could almost feel the love of her mama and papa envelop her. Just as she started to rest, she heard a whimper from under a bush. Looking closer, she found the cutest little puppy she had ever seen. It wasn't hard to coax him out with a piece of jerky and they became fast friends, together on the blanket, chewing jerky, and cuddling close to keep warm. Margaret was happy for the company but didn't know what to do with him. Surely he had to belong to somebody, she thought while stroking his neck. Next morning was bright and warm so she gathered her belongings and headed out with the puppy following closely behind. Days passed without seeing much of anybody so Margaret was grateful for his company. Knowing he was just a pup and must be getting tired, she put him up on the saddle with her and he seemed to prefer riding rather than walking. She knew she had to find a town to stop at soon for she was running low on food and was tired and hungry. Coming to what looked like a town, she climbed off her horse and began walking. Just as she began to take another step, she met the most vicious words she'd ever heard. "What's the matter, nigger? Can't you read?" After shaking her head, the boy continued, "The sign says no niggers are allowed." Once again there were tears in her eyes as she mounted her steed and headed out. Following a familiar sound, she came upon the puppy barking at a couple boys. She heard one boy crying 110

out. Looking out the corner of her eye, she saw that same awful boy from town, walloping blow after blow upon a smaller boy. She yelled at the bully, but he ignored her until she got so mad that she raised her arms in a menacing fashion, curled her hands as if they were claws, and growled her loudest. She almost felt bad as the boy's eyes got as big as melons and he dropped his hands, turning away and runnimg as fast as his short, stubby legs would carry him, hot footing it back to town with clouds of dust behind him. All the while, the puppy nipped at his heels. Margaret fell to the ground laughing while the badly shaken and bruised boy laughed so hard she couldn't tell if his tears were from being hit, or from the joy of watching the bully getting chased away by a tiny bit of a girl and a puppy. Slowly she got to her feet, dusted herself off, and held out her hand to help him up. Taking her hand, he sheepishly inquired, "You a nigger? I ain't never seen one before." "Well firstly, what's your name?" "I'm Willie—Willie Malone. "Okay, I'm Margaret. Nice to meet you, Willie. Why's that boy a picking on you, Willie?" His eyes filled with tears as he stepped back so she could see the braces on his legs. "'Cause of these, Margaret." "Willie my boy, no more tears. Willie, what color you say I is?" He matter-of-factly said, "Black." She told him it would be nicer if he called her "black" 111

instead of "nigger." She explained how that word hurt her feelings and just because folks were different on the outside, didn't mean they didn't have a heart. With compassion, she told him, "We all got different packages, Willie, but we all the same on the inside." Willie nodded and apologized. "I getting kind of hungry, Margaret. How about you?" "I sure enough is, Willie," she said wiping her mouth. Margaret told how she'd lost her family and was trying to make her way west for a new life. Willie told her about his hopes of being a doctor and helping people. Margaret smiled and told him he'd be the best doctor ever. She added,"Willie my boy, just follow your heart and be true to who you are and everything will be all right. You're a special boy, Willie. I could tell that first time I saw your eyes that God gave you a special kind of gift in your heart." Those words were medicine to his wounded spirit, so without giving it another thought, he hopped to his feet and headed toward town. Margaret yelled so he could hear, "Where you going, Willie?" But he just waved and kept walking. Margaret sat on the tree stump and listened to the running water and drank in the peace. She was beginning to worry when finally, Willie came hobbling up to the tree stump with the puppy close behind. Setting a basket down, Willie said, "I got us a feast, Miss Margaret. My daddy owns the mercantile and I got you some food for your trip." Before eating, Margaret reached over to take Willie's tiny hand in hers, squeezed it tightly, and bowed her head 112

to say grace. They both ate like little pigs. Then she handed him some money for the food, yawned as she stretched her arms, and told him how thankful she was for his kindness, how the world would be a much nicer place if more people were just like him. His face felt flushed as he grinned from ear to ear. He was tired, too, and said he'd better be getting home before dark. Before he left, she asked him to help her name the puppy. Without much thought, they agreed on Nippy—for nipping at the bully's heels. She smiled as she watched him wave goodbye, stretched out on the blanket, and soon fell asleep under the summer's starry night sky with Nippy next to her under the blanket. Both had satisfied tummies and renewed hope for a brighter future with the likes of Willie Malone. Next morning, she came into a small town with a rickety, old church. As she cautiously walked up the stairs, she heard a voice asking, "You say a prayer for me in there, won't you? They don't look too friendly on my kind going inside the house of the Lord." She slowly turned and gazed upon the most beautiful white woman she'd ever seen. Her dress was red, ruby red, with feathers and lace. Her hair was just as red as her dress. She'd never seen hair that red in her life. Margaret nodded and answered, "Yes, Ma'am, I most certainly will. My Mama told me God don't care who you are or what you've done. Nothing can separate you from the love of the Lord." As she slowly wrapped her hand around the doorknob, she thought of how sad it was that folks didn't get along better. With a creaking turn of the knob, the 113

door fell completely off the hinges and startled her. Looking inside, she noticed that the back of the church was completely burned out. As if by invitation, the altar was still standing, beckoning her closer. The kneeling bench was covered with soot so she placed her scarf on it and kneeled to pray. Nippy seemed to understand what was going on because he rested his head on the bench as if deep in thought. Folding her hands and bowing her head, she softly sang Amazing Grace. It had been one of her mama's favorites and was surprised to remember the words. Before saying "Amen," she prayed, "Lord, please guide and protect me as I pass through this town and please help that pretty lady with what's troubling her. She looks like she ain't even got a friend." Raising her eyes toward the heavens, it appeared God had heard her prayer and answered with rays of sunlight that crept through the holes in the ceiling, engulfing the cross with brightness like an endearing embrace, making it glow and glisten with a new breath of life. Prayer now took on a new meaning as a hand gently tapped her shoulder. Turning around, she was greeted by a soft-spoken young man and a wise-looking old man in a long, dark robe. He told her how nice it was to see someone praying in this old burned out church. He introduced himself, Pastor Carson, and his son, Jeremiah. He further explained how his now-rickety old church was once filled with life and song until it was so cruelly torched by folks who didn't accept black ministers or congregation. Seeing the pain in his eyes, she decided not to burden him further with her tale of woes, so she 114

lowered her head slightly, murmured her regrets, and bid him farewell. She slowly walked down the lonely street, passing by a big, beautiful house. "Thanks for your kind words," a meek voice said. Margaret smiled and continued looking ahead for a place to stay for the night, but no one would give lodging to blacks. Sadly, she headed to the big house and inquired for room. "You ladies got room here for me to sleep?" Some of the women laughed, but the lady in red whispered, "You come with me; I'll find you a bed." Ocella informed her of what and who she was. Margaret had heard about houses such as this, but had never seen this kind of women before. "It don't matter to me, Ocella. You're nice to me, so I'll be nice to you." It was the first night she'd slept well since she'd left her home. Morning came and the two women ate their breakfast on the veranda in the cool morning breeze. Upon rising, Ocella tripped and tore her dress. Margaret said, "I'm real good with the needle and thread. You take it off and I'll fix it up better than new." Ocella was grateful and Margaret became the seamstress for the home, under the direction of Ocella. She admired Ocella's business sense and her way with words. Ocella taught Margaret to read, write, and even how to make change, because blacks weren't allowed to be schooled. Ocella's mommy went blind at an early age and Ocella feared the same for herself and learned braille just in case. Whatever Ocella learned, Margaret learned, 115

too. Margaret also learned how to put make-up on Ocella and do her hair just the way she liked it. Yes, she was quite a piece of work all dolled up in her red satin, lace, and beaded dress, with red lips to match. Ocella felt a strange but endearing closeness with Margaret that she couldn't quite explain and she shared her life story with her, sordid as it was. Ocella said, "If my mammy and pappy was living, they'd surely die at what I'm doing with their money." Margaret laughed and asked, "Why you a prostitute, Ocella? You got money and lots of it." Ocella said she was now a Madame and that was different from being a working girl. "I started out just trying to get back at Pappy for running off my boyfriend, Justus. Then I just got used to men not having a right to tell me what to do. I was real good at the job but I guess I plain liked how money talks; otherwise, I couldn't have bought this here house because I'm a woman. Ain't fair, just ain't fair. I knew I could do a better job, so here we are." Margaret told her of how she lost her family and how her mama said Master George might be her daddy because her eyes were blue as the sky. On a Margaret's trip to the store to buy beads for Ocella's dress, Mawdrie, who owned the store, refused to even let her in the store, telling her the black would rub off her on to the material and ruin it for sure. She quietly turned to walk away when she heard a gruff voice saying, "Don't you be worrying none bout little Miss Mawdrie. She's afraid of everybody." 116

Jeremiah, the preacher's son, offered his hankie and arm, and walked her home. Ocella spurted words Margaret hadn't heard before when Margaret told why she had no beads or material. Ocella grabbed her arm and begrudgingly dragged her to Mawdrie's store. Mawdrie was just a young girl when her mammy and pappy died and left her the store and she had no kin, and Ocella meant to set her straight and quick. Storming through the door, Ocella pinned her against the wall and pointed her finger in her face, belittling her a little more with each word. "Margaret works for me and we need that material. Besides she's my best friend in the world and it don't matter to me what color she is. Hell, I'd still be a liking her if she was blue. Now you treat her with respect 'cause she's just about the nicest person around these parts. I don't want no more trouble from you, Mawdrie. You hear?" Mawdrie was embarrassed as she mumbled her apologies to Ocella. Ocella told her to apologize to Margaret and treat her right. Not wishing further humiliation, she did her best to make Margaret welcome. Margaret trailed behind until Ocella bid her to catch up. Becker Lloyd Barlowe, the judge in town, grinned when he saw them and said, "Ocella's at it again—watch out folks, get out of her way." Judge Barlowe tried his hardest to convince Ocella that they ought to get hitched, but Ocella turned him down flat each and every time. Margaret just couldn't figure out why Ocella always turned him away, so Ocella explained that she loved her freedom and couldn't take the 117

chance of losing him as her friend. Margaret told her that she'd only be cheating herself out of having the best things love could offer and that Becker Lloyd Barlowe cherished the ground she walked on. Ocella demanded respect in this town and would settle for nothing less. Next day, Jeremiah came a courting Margaret. Ocella encouraged her, saying, "Jeremiah is so nice and he's respectful being a preacher's boy and he's cute, too. You two don't go running off now, you hear?" The women laughed for hours. Margaret told of her dreams of marrying and having babies and Ocella teared up as she told Margaret of losing her only baby at birth. Margaret said she couldn't believe Ocella even had wanted a child. "Just because I was a working girl ain't no reason to think I ain't got a heart, you know? Me and Justus was gonna get hitched right after the baby was born but Pappy blamed him for everything and run him off." Margaret felt ashamed and tried her best to make things right for her harsh judgements. By now Ocella and Margaret were friends and nothing could change that: not words said in haste or anger, not men, not babies, not sickness, not money, not even death. Jeremiah and Margaret became close and married. Ocella bought a small farmhouse on the outskirts of town for them to live in because it just wasn't right for a married woman to be living in a brothel. Ocella figured they deserved a fighting chance and fought tooth and nail against anybody who dared to oppose her plans, besides she had the money. 118

Becker Lloyd Barlowe and Ocella worked together tirelessly, when they weren't drinking whiskey and swapping stories, to rebuild the old church and make it legal for anyone to own property. Margaret did not sew dresses for Ocella for a short time, as she was a busy sewing baby clothes. Abby was born on Ocella's birthday and Ocella became Abby's Godmother. Margaret had to 'learn' Abby at home because blacks still weren't allowed in school. Abby learned fast and grew to be quite a beauty. Nippy played nanny to her and slept with her every night. People in town couldn't figure out the unique relationship between Ocella and Margaret. Ocella didn't care what folks thought or said; the only thing that mattered was that they were friends. Two outsiders had found the true meaning of friendship. The years of hard living and playing caught up to Ocella and she contracted tuberculosis. Soon she found herself bedridden and unable to bathe and doll herself up without coughing up blood and passing out. Margaret, Jeremiah, and Abby diligently took care of her. Jeremiah put wheels on a rocking chair so Margaret could push her around from time to time. Just as she feared, Ocella's eyes began to cloud up so Margaret took to fixing her up fancy everyday just to make her feel good. She even went so far as to getting pomegranates and squeezing the seeds for juice to color her lips. Ocella liked that part a lot. Ocella lingered for months, ever the boss, until she quietly passed on in her sleep, with Becker Lloyd Barlowe by her side, ever professing his undying love. They soon laid Becker Lloyd Barlowe by Ocella's 119

side after he drank himself to death over his grief of losing his one true love. Margaret hadn't felt such pain since her family was killed back in Georgia. They all had become more than friends; they were family and their deaths cut as deeply as any two-edged sword. A few years later, Margaret fell ill. Abby sang songs her mama had taught her to soothe the pain. One song that made Margaret laugh was a silly, little ditty like that went like this: "I will sing a little song and it's not very long…tootle up tootle up now, it's all gone." Abby tied camphor bags round Margaret and Jeremiah's necks to ward off the influenza, but it was too late for Margaret. She got so bad that Jeremiah sent for the doctor on Thanksgiving morning. Doc Malone's face lit up when he looked into Margaret's blue eyes. Visions of how she had scared that bully away stirred him so that he just had to laugh out loud. After examining Margaret, he knew he couldn't do much but try and make her comfortable, so he took her hand in his, just as she had taken his hand all those years ago, and began to pray. Looking in his eyes, she saw a glimmer of the little boy she once knew. Margaret perked up a little as she whispered, "I'm getting kind of hungry. How about you, Willie?" "I sure enough is, Miss Margaret," he replied with a childlike giggle. "I seen lots of black folk in this old world, Miss Margaret, but funny thing is I ain't seen a nigger since I was just about 10." With tears welling up in 120

his eyes, he bent over and kissed her forehead, and told her she could never know how much she had changed his life and that he'd always hold her memory close in his heart. The end was near so Margaret asked Abby to get the quilt. "Mama, that quilt's so old. Let's throw it out and use the one Daddy bought you. You never use it." "It's my quilt and I want it," insisted Margaret. Handing the quilt to Abby, Margaret quietly spoke, "This quilt is yours now, Abby. You give it to your first born. Nothing else much matters. This is our life, our history." Abby kissed her mama's forehead as she closed her eyes for the last time. Margaret now rested peacefully in the old church cemetery under the magnificent oak tree, next to Ocella and Becker Lloyd Barlowe—right where she belonged. Mawdrie had grown quite fond of Margaret, and her heart broke when she saw Nippy on Margaret's grave howling, so she broke the sadness by telling everyone in town how Ocella needed help fixing up her face and how Margaret took care of her. Later, the quilt fell apart when Abby washed it. She discovered lots of money and family pictures beneath the squares that her mama had sewn. Now she, too, understood the importance of the quilt. On further examination, Abby saw Ocella's name on the quilt. Underneath the square was a property deed of 50 acres in Abby's name. Not even the grave could hinder a mama's love from making sure her baby was well taken care of. After much thought, Jeremiah and Abby decided to 121

build a schoolhouse on the property for children who were outsiders. One autumn day, a little boy was reading the names on the quilt as it hung on the wall beneath the glass casing. Seeing Abby there, he asked her why his name was on the quilt. Bewildered, she asked, "What do you mean?" He told her his name was Dabney. She started to explain the quilt when a voice beckoned him to hurry up so he could get his chores done. The man stood motionless as Abby turned to face him with those sky blue eyes he remembered so well. Somehow she felt an odd connection to this man. "My mama was Margaret and this is our family quilt—" Stopping her in mid-sentence, he told her Margaret was his sister and that he was Nathan. Abby started to cry with tears of joy as she reached up to hug him. Time and ignorance had separated a family, but fate and destiny stepped in to lead the way in reuniting family ties that grew stronger with each passing day. To this day, the family quilt hangs in the school auditorium in honor of the love, devotion, and friendship.

122

Caron Drake Texas, USA Current Publication: DEADLY ANNIVERSARY, DLSIJ Press

Night Terrors Faint noises, like the hissing of vents and the settling of joints in the trailer, spark my imagination's worst nightmares, and terror causes an unwanted cringe with each slight, slithering sound. Silent and as still as a dead body, which I really believe I will soon become, I feel terrified. I know without a doubt that someone will kidnap me, steal me, hurt me, torture me, or maybe even kill me. The nasty taste of rotten eggs rises in my throat. I pull the heavy covers over my head, but quickly I lower them. What if someone comes to smother me with my blanket, and I have already so carefully started it for them? If I were found here, lying dead with my face covered, everyone would know that I was stupid. My friends would talk about me and laugh at me forever and ever, or at least until 3rd or 4th grade. No, my face has to stay out from under the safety of the blanket. I will not be taken or killed without a fight. I'm too smart for that. Besides, I have to watch the bedroom door. I can't do that with my head under the heavy covers. Is the knob turning? Did I see a slight movement? Yep, I did see movement…they are trying to open my door! Uh oh…something just moved over there…I have to keep an eye on the window, too. That shadow that just passed my window—was it really just a shadow or was it a spy? Kidnapper? Murderer? Could it be a dino bird or a giant lizard coming to eat me? No, I'm being silly again—those things aren't really real; it must be a kidnapper. Someone who is bad must be out there. 124

The door is on my left, the window on my right. Where would the kidnappers come in? Which do I watch? Why didn't God give me more eyes like my mom? She sees everything and knows everything that goes on. Nah, Mom would never have this type of problem. Eyes on the back of her head means she can even see while sleeping on her stomach, just like she can see what I'm doing in the backseat of the car while she is driving. I know she can do this—I've seen it with my own two eyes! I wish I had her power to protect herself, but I'm smart enough. I will be okay. If I stay awake, maybe the killers or kidnappers will stay away. If I am awake, no one would think about messing with me. Fierce and mean, I can whip up on anyone who is my age. I can carry a ten-pound bag of sugar with no problem. My sister is wimpy; however, for some reason that I don't understand, she isn't afraid of being taken. Nights are her favorite time of day. I don't know why God made her so clueless. She may be older, but she isn't wiser. My room isn't very dark. My night-light keeps the shadows of darkness in the corners where they belong. However, the night-light does make it easier for bad guys who are outside to look in and see me. Turn it off or leave it on? What should I do? What would Wonder Woman or the Hulk do? Mr. T? Scooby-Do? My mom gave me a Bible to keep near my bed; it's pretty heavy. I can use it. My daddy, the preacher, told me once that the Bible was God's sword. All I have to do is find the part that hurts people—you know, the blade of the Bible sword. They may be bigger, but I'm smarter. 125

Mom tried to convince me once that a kidnapper only wants to steal rich kids. I didn't believe her then, and I don't believe her now. Just because I live in a trailer house in the middle of the country, doesn't make me less valuable to bad guys. Who said they were bright or just in it for the money? My school grades should count for something; maybe they just want me for my great, wonderful brain. You know how stubborn mothers can be; I can't convince Mom, and she can't convince me. Nope, she just won't listen to me. During the day, I watch out for thugs. I try to look tough and mean. I am in second grade. Sometimes when I stay at home alone, I pretend to talk to someone who loves me and is there to protect me. I will do anything that is necessary to keep the kidnappers at a distance. I just want to be left alone. I talk on the phone the whole time my mom is gone…the kidnappers think that I'm talking to the special police who are assigned to protect just me. (Shush, don't tell them I'm talking to a dial tone.) I fool them all, kidnappers and killers, and they don't mess with me. I'm too smart for them. At night, it's harder to act tough. I'm dressed in shorts and a T-shirt because I don't want to be kidnapped in my pink, nylon gown with those little white flowers. Starting to relax, I let my head sink into the soft pillow. Then I smell it; the after-shave of a kidnapper…I panic. Lungs gasping, heart pumping…my mind races—then I remember that my dad had given me a hug…it is just him I smell. I can breathe again. Air is good…I need it to think. I hear a rustling noise. Someone or something rubs 126

against my window—not just once, but over and over again. Pounding in my chest, my heart tries to escape from my body. Should I hold my hand there to keep it in me or use my hands to keep my covers up on my body to protect me? A covered body is a safe body. My fingers ache from gripping the covers so tightly around my chin. I let out a small, scared sob when I hear the noise again. The muffled sounds continue; they won't stop. Are they trying to open my window? Who is it? What do they want? Can they hear my tattle-taling heart giving away my position? Will they hurt me? Will they kill me? Will I ever be allowed to see Mom again? I hope they don't steal my sister, too—I don't want to have to hear her whine. Weak…yes, she is too weak to be a prisoner. I see a flash of lightning. I hear the roar of angry thunder. Gasping…my heart almost stops its constant thumping. My chest won't let me breathe…it weighs too much for me. Then…I giggle. The terrifying noise I had heard was just harmless rain forcefully hitting my storm window. The rain gains power while beating on my window; it demands that I notice its muscles. I smell electricity in the air. tingling waves of energy. Enjoying the thundering sounds and bright flashes, I smile. I am safe. I feel safe. Not even a crazy, stupid kidnapper would be out in a thunderstorm. Even murderers don't like getting their clothes wet. Their mothers would be mad if they caught a cold, so they will stay home tonight. The rain will protect me while I sleep Thanking God for the storm, I drift off to my dreams as I snuggle safely in my bed. Whew...I'm safe for one 127

more night. Good night, God. Good night, Rain. Thanks.

128

Melissa Beynon Akron, Ohio, USA

The Wedding Dance Mother of the Groom The hand that clasps mine is not that of the child I can still remember, but that of the man he has become. From that hand, to his face, to the smile he beams at me, he is his father in days gone by. We move gracefully across the floor as his young bride looks on. My new daughter. Oh, how the years have passed! It seems I didn't even notice. One day, I held a squalling infant in my exhausted arms and counted tiny, pink fingers and toes. The next, I'm no longer the most important woman in his life. An effortless spin and he's taking me across the floor with a flare like his father's. I wonder if he's looking down on us at this moment as my son's eyes sparkle with his mischief. Suddenly, I'm bent backward and laughing like a girl half my age, my young rogue leaning over me, guests applauding. He kisses my cheek and spins me upright again. The regretful tears of the past threaten my eyes. No, they are not regretful tears. I have no regrets where this boy—this man—is concerned. He has been, and always will be, my pure joy. Time cannot wipe away the sadness and heartache, but there was never regret. Heartache comes with having children as it does with being alive. If my son is all he wants to be, I have no regrets. And if his grins and laughter are anything by which to judge his life's choice, regret is absent today. As the music slows, his mood seems to waver. I will surely cry if I look in his eyes, so I move into his arms and 130

rest my head on his strong shoulder. A hush descends on the entire room; not even the babies are fussing. The gentle piano guides us around the floor, passed faces that have always been near, and new ones destined for the same. Their smiles bring one to my face as I realize this is not a day for tears. The hand against my back gives me a squeeze. It is a most subtle gesture to let me know that my new daughter's turn to care for him has come. It is not a day for tears, but they threaten nonetheless. I sigh and touch his smooth cheek, seeing the face of a baby, child, teen, and man. Is this day so difficult for all mothers? I can't help wondering. As the music switches with ease to the one he chose for his bride, I turn and find her shy face with my fingertips. I can't speak to either, but I know that my heart is in my eyes as each receives my kiss. Walking to the edge of the floor to sit behind my new daughter's little sister, I realize I do have one regret today. My husband is not here to hold my hand. Sister of the Bride I've never seen anyone look so sad and so happy at the same time. She's not crying, but I can tell that she wants to just bawl. She walks by, touching my shoulder like older people always do, and sits down somewhere behind me. What do I call her now? Let's see. My big sister's mother-in-law. Um. Mom? No, I didn't marry her son. Though it would be nice if he had a younger brother. Maybe I should just call her by her first name. But what is it? They're twirling around the dance floor like a prince 131

and his princess. Yes, that's what she looks like—but a Cinderella kind of princess. Not too showy; she was never like that. Lots of that white, shiny stuff and loads of lace. If I didn't know better, I'd swear she was wearing glass slippers. He looks...dashing in his tux, all perfect and black with his shirt almost as bright white as her dress. The only problem is that silly bow tie. He looks like Gramps. Speaking of Gramps, where is he? He's always so much fun when everyone's together. Walking away from the crowd, I spot three of the Old Aunts comparing medications and arguing over who's got more wrong with them. Over by the bar, two of my dumb, older cousins are daring each other to steal a bottle of beer. They're such dorks. When I'm sixteen, I hope I'm much more...mature. I don't think I need to worry...I'm more mature now; three years won't change anything. I guess it's a mom thing. She's over there leaning on Dad crying her eyes out. Everyone else is happy. Oh, well, maybe those are her happy tears again. Dad just has a sad, little smile on his face. He's rubbing Mom's arm with one hand and the other's stuffed in his pocket. I look over at my new brother's mom, but she isn't crying. I wonder if maybe she's trying not to cry because her husband isn't here. Is her son having the same problem? Pausing at the edge again, I wait to see his face as he twirls her around again. Nope, he's smiling. I know I'd be crying my eyes out if Dad died before my wedding. But my wedding's going to be totally perfect. Continuing on, I see my new brother's aunt sitting behind the crowd, nodding her head to the music with a 132

smile like Dad's on her face. Since she's blind, she's wearing dark sunglasses and has her big Golden Retriever sitting beside her. I can't pass up a chance to pet any dog, so I go over and ask if it's all right. She says sure, so I stoop down to eye-level with him. I just love dogs. And I can tell this one is smart, too. He's trying to ignore me like they're supposed to. Then she tells him it's okay and he gives me a huge, slobbery kiss right up the side of my face. Any one of my friends would have squealed like piglets at that, but I just laugh and ruffle his ears. Dogs love that. Suddenly, I hear a monster snore. No one else seems to notice, but then maybe they're trying to be nice. Saying good-bye to both dog and aunt, I head in the snore's direction. A smile the size of the Grand Canyon splits my face when I see him. Way in the back of the room is Gramps, sprawled in a little folding chair, head back and mouth open. Go for it, Gramps. I can't help giggling as I sneak over. Seeing-Eye Dog Of all the kinds of two-leggers, the little ones are the best. Oh, they might pull my hair or my ears sometimes. They might even step on my tail every now and then. But they're usually the most fun. Not that I don't like being around my two-legger. She's not little, but she still plays. She's really good at Fetch. All I have to do to get her to throw something is put it in her lap and rest my chin on her knee. She'll just pick it right up and say "Fetch." Today it's not allowed, though. I tried when she dropped her fork, but she wanted to stick it in her own 133

mouth instead. Today's something special. So many new smells. Things to eat are everywhere, except none of the tables here are nose-level so I have to stretch when no one's looking. I know I shouldn't—I'm on duty, but sometimes I just can't help it. I had a little sticky thing a while ago that one of those little two-leggers gave me. He smelled like one big sticky thing himself. Two-leggers are everywhere; little ones, big ones, old ones. I can't help wanting to walk through them and say hello. Maybe get a snack or two. At least a pat on the head or an ear scratch. But I'm on duty. Everything's so loud! The two-leggers haven't stopped laughing since we left that big white place where I couldn't make even one sound and was absolutely forbidden to sit on the little bench. The man with a white dress on had almost not allowed me to come in. Away from that quiet place, these two-leggers are really noisy. I know that when they show their teeth and bark they aren't being angry. Their happiness makes my tail wag. Looking around, I see something I haven't seen in a long time. Over by the one who smells a lot like my twolegger, is that blurry kind of two-legger. No one ever seems to notice it, so I guess it's okay. The last one I saw I barked at, but everyone told me to be quiet because they said nothing was there. I won't bark at this one. I think it wants to help. Father of the Groom It's been a long time since I sat by my wife's side. The last time was the night of my funeral. She had been so brave all day, accepting the condolences of our friends 134

and family. Even when our son broke down and cried, she held herself together and comforted him. I know it was hard for her to watch the child trying to be such a man and losing to his tears. But when everyone was gone, and those staying had gone to bed, I came to her and held her hand while she cried for me. Finally giving in and leaving her after the accident was the hardest thing I'd ever done. They said my body was beyond repair and I couldn't live in it anymore. Even if I had tried, I never would have been able to say her name, hold her close. I knew it would be better to leave. For both of us. Looking in on her from time to time, I began to see the strong woman that she was come out again and again. She held her own when it came to keeping the family together, raising our son the way we had wanted to, and continuing her own life. Now, I look at her and see the strength yet again. I know she feels that our son is leaving her alone, like she felt when I was gone. Were I alive, I know it wouldn't be so very hard for her. Or maybe it would be. After all, he is our only baby. Grown now, but a baby still. I can feel her sorrow, her joy, and her pain. It's times like this that make her miss me. She wished I was there for all the most important events in his life. His first license, high school graduation, college. All the big ones and even the little ones. But this one most of all. Gazing at her, I notice all that is different about her, but what is the same is so much more evident. The light in her eyes, the lift of her smile, the way she clasps her hands in her lap, that's all the same. The years have 135

touched her, yes, but not enough to steal her beauty. She looks just as lovely as the day I met her. More beautiful, perhaps. Our son did that to her. Glancing at the dance floor, I marvel at the man he has become. I know she sees the same; I could see it on her face when she danced with him. Our baby, married. On that terrible night so long ago, I knew I wouldn't see this day, but here I am. And I need her to know that. I stand behind her and touch her shoulders. She shivers. I touch her head and she closes her eyes. A tiny smile plays across her lips. You know I'm here, don't you, love? Her eyes open and I sit beside her, reaching for her hand. One crystal tear slides over her cheek and she sighs. There is a peace about her now. She still yearns for my physical presence, but I know that this is enough until she joins me. I know this from her face, but also from her whisper as the dance ends. "I knew you'd come."

136

Artemis Wilson New York, USA

On Any Saturday Two women relax on the porch of a seventy-year-old ranch house in Southern California. A bottle of Jack Daniel's® sits on a milk crate between them. It's one in the morning. One woman holds out the double-shot glass for the other to fill. The other woman obliges her, then adjusts her long, blonde hair beneath her Cubs® cap as she leans back into her chair. She pulls out a cigarette, preparing for her next shot. The other woman has completed her shot and sips her soda, though at this point, chasing her whiskey with anything, is more habit than necessity. She picks up her lit clove cigarette from an ashtray at arm's length and pulls on it, exhaling the smoke through her teeth. She wonders what this looks like to her companion. Shawn Colvin'sOrion plays on the stereo inside the house. The music drifts out to the women, who occasionally sing a lyric or two before becoming selfconscious: one because she cannot sing on key, and the other because she knows her singing on key is an affront to the other. Once the self-consciousness begins, each stops singing. By the hundreds, small birds chirp in the nearby trees. They quiet if the screen door is slammed, but only for a few seconds. The Cubs cap woman is sitting on a white, metal patio chair they found in the trash at an apartment they used to share. The other woman, who disdained the collection of someone else's refuse, sits on a vinyl recliner 138

they relegated to the porch when they moved to this place in December. The house was already furnished; they had to do something with the previous owner's "treasures" to make theirs fit. Much was thrown into the trash pile: a huge heap of furniture, garden junk, and brown trash bags about 50 feet from the porch. A peacock screams. It used to sound just like a cat in heat, but it doesn't anymore, ponders one woman, pulling on her cigarette. Has its cry changed with the seasons, or have my ears gotten better at discerning? Something rustles in the bushes by the porch— probably the dog. A helicopter passes overhead. The other peacock answers the first; the brothers begin a mating call competition which lasts for a few minutes. Where have the peahens gone? "I'm getting more soda. Need anything?" The woman in the Cubs cap rises to go into the house. She wears a Bulls® jersey over a long-sleeved T-shirt borrowed from the other woman. The jeans are not hers, either. The other woman rocks slightly in her chair, listening to it creak. She pets her cat, which has jumped onto the shelf she placed in front of the porch window. The cat was a surprise from her mother, who rarely gives useful gifts. The woman had originally named the cat "Miss Bliss," because she needed bliss in her life and thought it would be a wonderful reminder, as well as a cool name. The tabby/Siamese mix now responds to "Ed," a short name with a long story attached. Ed sits between a pair of Bonsai. The small trees line the entire porch; the cat has little sitting space, so says the 139

Cubs cap woman. The woman in the vinyl chair now ponders how many trees she has. There were seventy-five when we moved here, but some have died, I've replanted some and bought more… She suspends the mental count as the Cubs cap woman returns, pouring herself a shot. She offers the bottle to the other woman. "No, not yet." The Cubs cap woman nods, exhales hard, and throws her head back to accept the liquor. "Helicopter's circling," states the Cubs cap woman. Indeed it is. The woman in the vinyl chair hadn't noticed that it came back. "Think it's anything?" "I dunno." They watch it scoop over to the nearby intersection and turn back around. "Looking for something." "Or somebody." "Yeah. Did I tell you about my boss today? He's such an ass…" The woman in the vinyl chair has heard this before. She sits back to count her plants as the other rambles on. She didn't mind the conversation; she minded the repetition brought on through drink—like a broken record. "I need some aspirin. Do you want some?" The woman rises out of the vinyl chair to go to the bathroom. She makes her way into the house steadily; three shots have had little effect yet. She uses the toilet and washes her hands, splashes water on her face. She dries off on her 140

companion's towel and collects seven aspirin. As she enters the living room, the Cubs cap woman is placing a fresh CD in the machine. It's Metallica. The Cubs cap woman rationalizes, "Just three songs…" Oh no. The volume is cranked up. They head back to the porch, knowing their ears are the only recipients of the music. The Cubs cap woman has lit some candles and turned off the overhead light. The other woman always likes the candlelight—if only it weren't accompanied by the screams of the "flip-off quartet." She gives her companion four of the aspirin and swallows her own with her soda, which she prefers to chase aspirin with, over whiskey. Cows low in the fields nearby. Many of them are lying down; their silhouettes appear like mountain ranges. The house sits on five acres now, where before there were more than the Cubs cap woman can remember. She recalls riding to the edge of the property on her dirt bike, and how easy it was to run out of gas miles from the ranch house. This spread was vast, indeed. The land to the east and north, on which tract homes now sit, used to be part of this small parcel. The remaining land, where once there were black-eyed peas, corn, and alfalfa, is now cow pastures. One field lines the dirt drive to the house. One lies south of the house, the huge front yard fenced in for breeding cattle. The neighbor rents this land from the only surviving son, the Cubs cap woman's Father. The Father's father is gone; a heart attack took him three summers before. The Father cannot maintain the farm now. He does what he can to keep the house functioning. This was his 141

refuge. He escaped here from his suburban house and "honey-do" wife on his days off. Now his daughter and her lover live here, now this is their refuge from real life. Numerous tractors (red- and yellow-things to the suburban woman in the vinyl chair) reside on this small plot. Various cars, many payments for loans the Father's father made, lie disused, the elements destroying them. The ground reaches up to each; they are being swallowed whole. The Father has tried to sell them off to pay debts the settlement of his father's estate has incurred. The "Pick-A-Part" tow truck cannot free the neglected vehicles from the clutches of the earth. Ah, but the red tractor can. Near the water tank, which overflows and creates a beautiful cascade when the pump is on, three cars from the 50s, each with registration tags indicating they were functioning at the time of Father's father's death, slowly slip into the mire. The water has made the area unstable to their weight. The woman in the vinyl chair ponders the earth here; where before it produced and fed, it now takes back. She wonders what it wants from her. They pass the bottle and glass again, each taking a hefty pull. "Come on. I want to show you something," the Cubs cap woman says as she rises and opens the screen door onto the lawn. The woman gets out of her vinyl chair and follows. The women enter the night; the spotlight on a high pole north of the house spreads illumination. They walk up the driveway to the north. The dirt path is lined on the 142

east by the cow pasture the women had peered at from the porch. Cows speak to them occasionally, aware that humans mean food. "This is where the barn used to be," the Cubs cap woman says, indicating a strip of concrete. "This was part of the foundation. It was all dirt inside." "Why isn't it still standing?" "It was leaning so badly from the wind…my grandfather and dad tore it down." They walk in a huge circle. Past where the barn stood are two silos, so tall they are visible from a mile away. One time the Father told the women about chickens drinking fluid from the grain stored in there. "Oh yeah, drunk chickens are not a myth. They drink the grain water after it ferments and get so drunk!" To the north is Barth's farm. The women have not met him; they understand he shoots trespassers. They stand on the driveway which leads right through Barth's land. A couple of turkeys wander over to their side of the invisible dividing line. "Gobble, gobble, gobble!" The two women begin their own mating chorus; the turkeys respond angrily, to their surprise. At first the conversing birds come closer, but then they fall silent and wander off home. The women continue their circuit, turning west, then south towards the house. They pass by the mobile stand once used to sell peas on the roadside. The trailer is made of wood which now rots, its white paint peeling badly, its frame a rhombus threatening to fall, as the barn must have. The helicopter passes overhead again. The spotlight 143

comes on. The women are standing beneath their own sun. The light scans Barth's farm. "They're looking at Barth's. Get the gun," the Cubs cap woman commands. The other woman complies. She walks toward the house; the liquor at last has taken effect and she feels separated from the events; it's surreal. She thinks about the gun. The Mother of the Cubs cap woman lent the women the gun; she did not want them "out there" without protection. The phone service is unreliable, the farm fairly remote, and she did not want "the girls" to be defenseless. She is still apprehensive about loaning it to them. She thinks the Cubs cap woman will try to kill herself, as she tried in high school. Mother does not know that on a night much like this one, in the midst of a drunken argument, the Cubs cap woman did just that. She grabbed the loaded .38 and tried to run outside. The other woman, barely aware of her companion's intentions, caught on to the events and tried forcibly to stop her. She was not entirely successful. The best she could do was knock her on the floor— repeatedly—anything to keep the Cubs cap woman from getting away to use the gun. It occurred to her to yell to the caretaker, a man who has lived in a trailer on the property through its various unoccupied times. And yell she did—repeatedly. He never emerged from his trailer, but this action frightened the Cubs cap woman enough so that the other woman could kick the gun out of her hand as she lay on the floor—just like in the movies. The Cubs cap woman burst into tears: she who never cries. They lay 144

on the stained kitchen floor together, the Cubs cap woman on top of the other, sobbing and sobbing about loss. This was the first time the Cubs cap woman ever confided so deeply, so exquisitely, to the other woman. The other woman thought this was the opening of a door long kept locked. Now they could Begin To Communicate. The Cubs cap woman never dropped her defense again. The gun was in a drawer in the bedroom. The gun held but one bullet. After "the night with the gun," the woman hid all the bullets. She did a very good job, too. Only one could be found in sobriety. She collects the gun, freeing it from its holster. She grabs one of the Cubs cap woman's bat and returns to her companion. The helicopter still shows its light on the farm to the north. The women take a stance on the driveway; one armed with a single-bullet gun, the other with a split bat. They look at each other, defenseless despite their arms. They stand in the only clearing between the two farms. If someone wants to escape the helicopter, surely he will come this way.

145

Sherri Jilek Glen Ellen, California, USA Current Publications: WHEN GOD CRIES (PORTRAIT OF A CHILD SLAYER), Nova/Kroshka CHIPPENDALE TRADE-OFF, Sparks IT'S WINDY ON MARS, Moondance

Piggyback "Cindy!" "Kate!" Glued by their embrace, they swayed from side to side. Tears fell, and their hearts, once full of each other, beat with vigor at the faded sight renewed. Both pushed back and looked into the face they hadn't seen for 28 years. "You look great!" "So do you!" Kate responded, seeing this face as new, even unfamiliar, yet knowing it somehow belonged to her past, to her first warm friendship that lasted until their 12th year of life. After that time, it had separated into differing paths and thoughts of Cindy had slipped into a comfortable memory pouch. "Oh, if Charlie White could only see us!" It was an enthusiastic remark, and by its tone, Kate knew Cindy was referring to her husband. The use of his first and last name together Kate accepted as one of the infinite variables accorded the human personality. Somehow, it belonged to Cindy's comfort zone. It was her approval and protection. Such delight! Such pleasure! Such rememberings! At first breathlessly, they began turning the corners together…all the corners they had walked, run, or stumbled around since they last caught sight of one another. And then…and then…and then. But the sweetest were those first hand-in-hand passages they had shared as innocents. Like taffy, they pulled those memories, so long dormant, and plied them 147

until the stiffness was buttery. "Oh, Charlie White won't believe this!" bubbled to the top again and again from this dizzy journey into the past. "Then we went to college back east," Cindy said. "In fact, we lived there 16 years." "I went through college, too, Cindy. What did you study?" "Oh, that Charlie White got straight A's in Business Administration." "What about you, Cindy? What did you study?" A pause loomed, the first one, and only long enough for them to be aware of something beside themselves for a moment. It was a bee humming above their wineglasses on the sunny veranda. "I never wanted to go to college," Cindy finally responded, then quickly resumed her description of Charlie White's college career. The trip to Europe, to the Far East…Kate now understood that every we meant Charlie White. "That Charlie White…Charlie White…Charlie White…" "Cindy!" Kate realized her voice was louder than she had intended it to be in order to break this spilling about Charlie White. Lowering it to the merest level, she asked, unable to be cruel, "How did you and Charlie meet?" A diamond uncut was all at once upon the jeweler's bench, being slivered precisely into its brightest facets. Kate learned that Cindy and Charlie had been high school sweethearts. Their first glasses of wine warmed Kate's mind to new thoughts. For a moment, a passage from an etiquette 148

book passed through her mind, about steering conversation away from controversial subjects in the name of good manners, but Kate had never worked to avoid controversy, if she was certain a thing was right. Besides, she preferred to dive below the surface of smiles and sparkling teeth and into the guts of things…down there where truth and honesty lived. "Is Charlie as proud of you as you are of him, Cindy?" Cindy's answer was immediate. "Oh, yes! I‘ve been a good wife and a good mother." Another interval of silence fell upon this afternoon of reunion…a silence void of additional information…a silence that hinted at emptiness. Kate filled its uneasiness. "Well, I'll tell you, Cindy, I kicked around a long time before I married Tom. I saw quite a bit, traveled a lot, experienced a healthy slice of life." "Sounds just like Charlie White," Cindy interjected. Kate looked at the large brown eyes of moist tenderness behind the rose-tinted glasses. She felt a sorrow for this vicarious existence of her long-ago friend. "Yep, well, Cindy, you got yourself quite a guy it seems." "I sure did, Kate…only—" She waited a moment, then asked, "Only what, Cindy?" Cindy tapped the hardened puddle of glass that formed the bottom of the thinly-stemmed wine vessel. "Only Charlie White wanted a son and I had five girls!" It was a blurt, a confession, a lament. Something like hate for Charlie White flashed through Kate. "What's wrong with girls?" 149

"Charlie White says it's my fault," Cindy continued, still lost in her confession. "Cindy! It's not your bloody fault!" The people at the adjoining table turned quickly in response to Kate's voice level. Lower, in a hurried whisper, quite forgotten in the wine, Kate added, "Cindy, that's the male ego. Men always want another one of themselves. Unfortunately, throughout history, girls have carried a lower value than boys…as if God cares what gender!" She leaned toward Cindy. "Do you realize some countries, even today, still practice infanticide on girls?" Cindy's wrinkled brow told Kate she didn't understand the word. "They murder baby girls!" she whispered harshly. Leaning back, Kate puffed up her cheeks then slowly let the air out before continuing. "At a famous Congress in Europe a few hundred years ago, men dressed in lace collars and white leggings…the men of political significance in western governments at that time…seriously debated if women even had souls! Such folly." Kate contemplated the liquid ring of wine within her glass, then snapped her attention back onto Cindy's face. "Anyway, Cindy, I think it's wonderful you have five girls." She waved the waiter over for another carafe of wine. Noticing the gesture, Cindy protested. "Oh, I don't think so, Kate. Charlie White doesn't like it when I drink." "Charlie White isn't here, Cindy, and we are in the middle of a very special celebration. Besides, at the rate of once every 28 years, you can only argue about it once more with him after today, for the rest of your life." 150

A smile worked its way over Cindy's mouth. Kate thought she saw a twinkle of the tough, determined friend she remembered. "Is that the old fire I see, Cindy?" Immediately, the half-smile disappeared. In its place, Kate saw a mouth, sour and drooping at its corners. "It was fear you saw back then, not fire, Kate. I've always been afraid of failing." Cindy took a deep gulp from her refilled wineglass. Kate matched it with a large swallow, then offered, "It's probably tangled up with the socialization of girls. You know, how we're taught to be submissive and obedient. In a way, we're encouraged to fail. I mean, I believe a woman should be a great housekeeper but how successful is a human being that knits afghans and watches soap operas?" Looking suspiciously at Cindy, she asked, "Do you knit?' "I do! I just knit Charlie White the most beautiful—" "Cindy! Don't mention the name Charlie White for 28 minutes…that's one minute for every year we haven't seen one another." It was a sing-song statement, made roller-coaster sounding by the wine. Cindy's reaction was a giggle. "Your eyes aren't focusing, Kate." "Good! Here's to us and my eyes and your five lovely girls!" It was a deep draft they both made into their wine, one that caused Kate to raise one eyebrow, clamp her nostrils in, and pucker her mouth, and Cindy to shudder. "What if you could do it again, Cindy. What would you change?" "Oh, just the other day, Charlie White—" 151

Kate stiffened her body and opened her eyes as big as they would go, to stare threateningly at Cindy. Cindy chuckled. "Okay, it's not 28 minutes." Then she fell quiet, looking off at nothing but her thoughts, as though they were somewhere over Kate's shoulder. A gentle smile covered her mouth and she shifted her attention onto Kate's face again. "I would paint until I dropped." "Paint?" A glimmer, like mica under clear, shallow water flashed in Cindy's eyes. "Yes, Kate. You should have seen my desert scenes. They were beautiful! I worked in oils and I was getting darn good about the time I met…youknow-who. Even though I was so young, I was entering contests and winning every one of them. Everything I painted sold like a hot potato. And then—" she stopped, like a last heartbeat. "And then?" "And then I married you-know-who, and he wanted to go to college, so I became a secretary for a baby products firm and put him through school until he earned his Master's Degree." "Did you consider going back to painting after youknow-who graduated?" "No, we had Mary by then, our first, and they kept coming, one a year. Babies got more and more and painting got further and further behind me. Finally, after the fifth, you-know-who decided to get a vasectomy." "Is that what you wanted, too, Cindy?" Cindy tightened her lips, then relaxed them and took another swallow of wine. She looked off, past the edge of 152

the veranda, over the pine tops, all silver-needled under the sun. "No," she answered, "I wanted to paint more than I wanted babies." A crimson color flushed over Cindy's face and she quickly studied her thumbs, as they tapped lightly against the stem of her wineglass. "I've never admitted that to anyone but God." She snapped her head up. "Anyway, it's too late now." "It's not too late!" "It's more than too late. You-know-who said my life was for him and the kids, and he's right. A woman's place is caring for her home and family. That's her first duty." "Unless she loves painting more," Kate murmured, then in a louder voice, added, "Only if that duty outshouts the other calling. Think of it, Cindy! To catch the crow's outbound flight silhouetted against a silver morning…a baby's smile…a toothless hag…or the swirl of colors through a ripening field of wheat. To create, Cindy! To touch others and make them feel! What could be better?" "I was good enough," Cindy offered softly. "I really was good enough." Suddenly, Kate realized she was leaning in a rebellious fashion and it was not what she wanted for this dear old friend of hers. "Oh well, what the heck! So you didn't paint. You're not over the hill yet. What about now? Any plans for yourself?" "Not really. Charlie White says until our youngest is grown and…" This time, Kate didn't stop Cindy, the habit was too fossilized…the personal neglect…the ride upon the back of her husband's decisions. She's sacrificed her life, Kate thought. For a few moments, she had helped her 153

childhood friend lift a heavy-fallen, cobwebby curtain over her inner self, but Cindy couldn't hold it aloft. Kate held her wineglass up. "Here's to one of the world's great painters." Cindy clinked against it with her own raised glass, and they spoke no more of painting.

154

Lucy Wade Coshocton County, Ohio, USA Current Publications: Two Award-Winning Speeches A 1940s Radio Drama Several Romance Short Stories

The Last Sunrise The sun slowly crept over the mountaintop. I could tell it was going to be another sizzling day. It was no more than 6:15 in the morning and it was nearly seventy degrees. But it didn't matter; nothing mattered today. Quietly I stood there wondering if he was watching the sunrise, too. That had been part of our daily ritual for as long as I could remember. Every night we slept nestled in each other's arms as his rhythmic breathing lulled me to peaceful dreams, and each morning he would kiss my cheek, brush the ruffled strands of hair out of my face, and whisper his love to me. With sluggish languor, I would pry open my eyes, while he energetically hopped out of bed. His zest for life was evident in the brisk strides he took as he walked to the French doors and welcomed the morning. Meanwhile, I'd continue to lay slumberously in our bed until he shamed me into getting up and joining him. "Come on, sleepy head. It's a beautiful day." "Weston," I'd protest, "I'm cozy." "But Marci, you're missing the best sunrise ever." He would playfully beckon with his hand for me to join him on the veranda. Each morning the ritual was the same. He loved mornings. He loved me. Still groggy with sleep, I would toss back the covers and make my way to his side. We'd stand together and watch the sunrise. On special occasions when the colors of the sun were exceptionally vibrant, he would walk back in the bedroom, retrieve his camera from the desk, and capture the moment. To Weston, taking a picture was 156

his way of preserving a morsel of time that would otherwise be lost forever. He loved taking pictures. He loved life. But it didn't matter; nothing mattered today. I inhaled another deep breath of morning air, and closed the French doors behind me as I walked back into the bedroom trying to recall what day it was. Saturday, I think, or maybe Sunday. Time had a manner of slipping away from me. As I passed the full-length mirror, I sighed, exasperated with myself. I looked awful. My thirty-something body lacked the youthful attraction on which I prided myself. My auburn hair hung ragged in my face and my eyes were puffy and dark from lack of sleep. Donned in a baggy, paint-stained T-shirt and cut-off shorts, and wearing no makeup, I looked like a vagabond but I didn't want to take the time to do anything about it. Instead I sat down at my desk and booted up my computer. As it went through its series of beeps and bongs, I picked up the picture Weston had taken of me our last morning together. The sunrise that particular morning was exceptionally brilliant. The lustrous crimson ball of fire flooded the morning sky with scarlet and orangeyellow rays that illuminated the mountains. Even I agreed, it was worth getting out of bed to witness. Weston, with camera in-hand, had insisted on my being in the foreground of the picture. I hated having my picture taken, but I couldn't deny him. He was so childlike with his puppy dog eyes and pouting lips. It was hard for me to say no to his request, especially when he'd call me "Beautiful." That was his pet name for me. As much as I would blush and protest, I, in fact, enjoyed the compliment. 157

As I studied the picture, thoughts of our last day together played vividly in my mind. After breakfast that morning, he drove into town to pick up a few, last minute items. I stayed home and finished his packing. A deep sense of loneliness filled my heart. Tears rolled down my cheeks as I laid each piece of clothing in his suitcase. He would be gone for six months. The longest we had ever been apart was two days last fall when I went to back east to visit my mom. I didn't want him to go. My reasons were out of selfishness. I would miss him. Before this assignment had come along, we were talking about getting married. Now that had to be postponed. We sat in silence that evening on the front porch. Neither of us knew what to say. This trip was the opportunity of a lifetime for him. He had waited for an assignment like this one his entire career. It didn't matter to him that he was going to be a half a world away. His dream to travel to a foreign country to capture the essence of the people was more than he could resist. Although I knew this shoot was finally going to be the break in his career that he righteously deserved, I couldn't find the words to say goodbye. Weston must have sensed my thoughts when he reached over and pulled me close. He gently squeezed my hand in his and told me not to worry. "We'll stay in touch over the computer. I shouldn't have any trouble getting a line out once a day. I'll send you all my love and leave you a virtual hug and a kiss each night so that you can sleep till I get home." A ray of sunshine burst through the grayest skies each day the little, yellow exclamation point of my web browser declared that I had received new mail. Weston's 158

words always brought a smile to my face as he'd share the excitement of his day with me. He was traveling with a team of journalists on a 12-city tour across Malaysia. His descriptions of the nomadic ways in which the people of the out-reaching villages still hunted for wild pig and gathered edible plants to feed their families, made me thankful to live in America. Subject: Week 3 Date: Wed. 3 Sep From: <[email protected]> To: [email protected] …this country once burdened with economic and political disaster is on the mend. The rain has poured in for days, yet the village people don't seem to mind. One woman in her efforts to make a bad situation better, took advantage of her flooded kitchen and gave one of her nine kids a bath in it. Life here is different than anything I've ever seen, Marci. I'm glad I am able to experience this.

Then as he had promised, he always closed with a goodnight hug and kiss. But it didn't matter. Nothing mattered today. The clamorous sound of a car pulling in the gravel lane interrupted my thoughts. I peeked out the window and watched Tracy get out of her car and walk up the cobblestone path that led to the porch. A feeling of frustration swelled up inside of me. What was she doing here? I didn't want to see anyone today. She knocked on 159

the door, then let herself in. Tracy and I had known each other since college. Besides Weston, she was my closest friend. I could hear her climbing the steps to my room calling out my name. "Marci, where are you? Are you ready yet?" Ignoring her, and impatient with my computer, I drummed my fingers on the edge of the desk. At last it booted up. I quickly clicked my way through the familiar process to get on-line and open my e-mail. I typed in my name and password and waited. My computer moved like a snail. This old computer needed an upgrade, but until now, it hadn't seemed important. Come on, come on, give me my mail! Tracy burst through the door in a hurried commotion. "Marci! What are you doing? Why aren't you ready?" "I'm checking for my e-mail from Weston," I replied aloofly. Her face softened as she moved across the room, stood behind me, and gently laid her hands across my shoulders "But, Marci—" I angrily jerked away and gave her a piercing stare. "Come on, you stupid thing, give me my mail," I bellowed impatiently as I turned back to face my computer. Bong! mimicked the computer. "No new messages." My heart sank with disappointment. Tears swelled up in my eyes and I tried to blink them away. It was more than disappointment that rushed over me. The emptiness of my mailbox abruptly confirmed my feeling of abandonment. I swallowed hard as a heavy lump formed in my throat. I clicked on the new mail icon a second 160

time, hoping the computer was wrong, but the same dreadful statement appeared again. Weston, I need you. "Come on, Marci," Tracy uttered, "let me help you get dressed." I turned off the computer and watched her remove my crepe dress from the closet. As she helped me fix my hair and makeup, my thoughts turned back to Weston. When he does get home, I deliberated, I'm going to give him a piece of my mind for keeping me waiting so long on his e-mail. Then after he's suffered enough, I amused myself, I'm going to see what I can do about getting him to marry me. Weston and I had lived together for two years. After the break-up of my marriage, he helped me pick up the pieces of my life by seeing the best in me. His gift of seeing the positive in any situation was the one characteristic I admired most about him. He was even able to make me feel good about his mother. Caroline McKenzie wasn't happy with our living arrangements because of me. She did not like me. I was older, divorced, and in her words, not the woman for her son. Weston, who had never defied his mother's or his father's wishes, stood up to both of them and expressed his love for me. "Mother is just set in her ways. She'll come around once we're married and she'll cherish you just like I do." His words made me feel good, but our situation put a terrible strain on the family. We were seldom invited to family gatherings and heard most family news from friends and distant relatives. The sun was now high in the sky and as I had predicted, the day was sweltering. Tracy took my arm and 161

led me to her car. I was upset with her for making me get dressed because I didn't want to go anywhere. I sat stiffly and stared at the mountains as we drove into town. The car finally stopped and I saw people standing everywhere. I groaned inwardly. Why did I let Tracy persuade me to come here? All I wanted to do was to stay at home and wait for a message from Weston. We got out of the car and walked up the neatly manicured sidewalk as a somber-looking gentleman opened the door for us. The coolness of the airconditioning sent a shiver across my shoulders as we stepped inside. Tracy led me down the hall and into a large room filled with people. Silence settled over the room as we entered. "What is that sour smell?" I asked Tracy, wrinkling my nose. She hushed me and quickly found two chairs near the back of the room. We sat down as a short, stout man began to speak. His voice was gloomy and dismal and yet resounding. Immediately I drowned out his words and let my thoughts travel back to Weston's last e-mail: Subject: Week 4 Date: Tues, 9 Sep 1997 17:08:16 PDT From: "westmac" <[email protected]> To: [email protected] …we're going into the rainforest tomorrow. It should be quite exciting. The other photographers 162

and I have decided to build platforms in the blind so that we can capture the wildlife without disturbing them. It will be a few days before I can post you again. No phone lines in the forest, you know. Don't worry, I'll post you as soon as I can. All my love is yours, Weston.

I was happy when the loud voice stopped preaching. My head was hurting. The short, stout man walked from behind the podium over to a woman in the front row. I watched her shoulders fall limp as she buried her head in her handkerchief. She turned to the man on her right and faced him. He pulled her close and helped her to her feet. When she stood up, her slender profile disclosed her identity: Weston's mother. I stared in incredulity. I didn't want a confrontation, not without Weston here to help me get through. My head pounded. Organ music broke the silence. I groaned. I hate organ music. "This is depressing," I murmured to Tracy. "Weston would hate this place if he were here." Tracy's face cringed with grief. My head continued to spin. One by one, people started to leave. Everyone seemed to be despairing. Faces of people I knew flashed before me. Names escaped my mind. Several people awkwardly nodded. Many just stared. Someone stopped and gently laid a hand on my shoulder. The touch sent an electrifying chill across me. My head was throbbing. "Take me home," I demanded of Tracy. "I don't want 163

to be here." Tracy's car couldn't push on fast enough to get me home. As soon as we were in the drive, I opened the door and jumped out. Quickly, I ran up the stairs, climbing two at a time. I rushed into my room and booted up my computer. Furiously I typed in my password and waited. The minutes passed again like hours. The yellow exclamation point of the browser finally lit up. The digital voice of my computer exclaimed, "You have new mail!" I clicked twice to retrieve the post and silently read the message that appeared before me: Subject: Weston McKenzie Date: Sun, 14 Sep From: "dan jessop" To: [email protected] It is with my deepest regrets that I write you, but from what Weston told me of your relationship with his family, I am certain that you do not know. Last Thursday, Weston wanted to capture a special picture of a waterfall just as the sun was rising above it. He talked a local pilot into rigging up a gondola from a hot air balloon so that he could dangle from up above and capture his shot. Something went wrong with the balloon and it started losing altitude. It crashed on the rocks of a mountainside and fell into the 164

river. Weston McKenzie was an asset to our team. He will be sadly missed. My heartfelt condolences are with you today. Weston's last words were to you. He said" Marci, look at the sunrise—it's beautiful, just like you."

This can't be happening. I won't let this happen. But it already had happened. Concentrate. Breathe. No, I don't want to breathe, not without Weston. I fell forward, buried my head in my hands and closed my eyes tight, trying to force the words from my mind. A chilling gust of air swept across the room from beyond the French doors of the veranda. I shivered as it reached my shoulders. In an attempt to warm myself, I rubbed my arms impetuously. My head pounded as all remaining hope drained from inside of me. I wanted to scream, but I couldn't form the words on my lips. Another stream of air from the veranda whisked across my shoulders. Abruptly, my body jolted upward and I focused on my surroundings. Sobs of self-pity escaped me. It was a dream—a dreadful dream. The outline of the room sharpened as I opened my eyes. Sleep would be impossible now, so I forced myself out of bed and walked across the room to the French doors. Radiant streams of sunlight filled the room as I opened the doors. There stood Weston leaning on the railing, with his bandaged arm in a sling, and a long cut over his right eye. "Hello, Beautiful." I gasped in disbelief, still bewildered from the dream. "You're alive—you're home! But how—when did you— 165

what happened to your arm?" "I'm fine, just a small accident. Come over here and let me hold you. I've missed you, Marci." The warmth of the morning sun wavered down on us as we stood together in each other's arms. Weston softly whispered, before resting his lips on mine, "Do you know you're beautiful, just like the sunrise?" Our kiss grew passionate and this time I knew this wasn't a dream.

166

Mary Lynn Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, USA Current Publications: BETTER THE SECOND TIME, DLSIJ Press MORE THAN FRIENDS, Awe-Struck E-Books

Little Things "Take the time to send her flowers on non-occasions. Take it from me, Martin, the love doctor. Flowers just might be that little extra spark needed to keep the romance in your marriage, guys." Jennifer Howard curled her lip as she listened to the soft, suggestive voice coming from her car radio. Much he knew about keeping romance in a marriage, she thought as she opened the front door of the house they shared. The romance had gone out of their five-year-old marriage about 4 1/2 years ago. Lately, every time she heard Martin telling other men to give their wives candy or send them balloons—just because they loved them—was like a knife twisting in the rapidly widening wound in her heart. He didn't do any of those things for her. He never even said he loved her anymore unless he was "in the mood." She and Martin had dated for two years before they got married when they were both twenty-four. He hadn't been particularly romantic during their courtship, but she'd put it down to his busy schedule. Back then he'd been working as a disc jockey part-time at night, while maintaining his day job as an accountant. Later when he was working fulltime at the largest station in town, she'd been too content and confident of his love to worry that he wasn't as romantic as she'd like. It was her new job that had opened her eyes. She was one of three personal assistants at a small accounting office. Her two female coworkers, Sharon and Karrie, both long married, received frequent attention from their 168

husbands. Jennifer was embarrassed that Martin never sent her anything. To make matters worse, he's picked this year to forget their anniversary. The dozen red roses he usually sent her would have been especially welcomed this year. She seethed as she fixed dinner. Just that afternoon, Sharon had received flowers. Although Sharon hadn't seemed particularly pleased, envy filled Jennifer. Martin arrived home just after six that night. "My lovely Nubian princess, your ebony knight is home," he called out. He paused in the living room doorway and she caught her breath. Romantic or not, the sight of his tall, muscular body and clean-shaven, handsome face, still made her heartbeat quicken. He smiled, sat beside her on the sofa, and put his hand on her thigh. She wasn't in the mood, however, to be swayed by desire. "Great." She got up and started towards the kitchen. "I'll set the table while you wash up." "Jenny ?" He sounded so uncertain, so unlike the suave radio personality that she'd come to dislike. She turned and gave him a cool look. "What?" He got up and started towards her with an intimate smile on the handsome face that made her knees shake. "Jen, want to skip dinner and go straight to the sweets, sweet?" There was no mistaking his meaning. "No," she said shortly and went through the door quickly. To her relief, he didn't follow her. After a moment, she heard him running up the stairs. 169

They made polite, stilted conversation during dinner. "Okay," he finally said, sounding frustrated. "Are you going to tell me what's wrong, Jenny, or am I supposed to guess?" "Why don't you guess?" she suggested, coolly. "You are the love doctor, aren't you?" His brown eyes, usually so warm and beguiling when he looked at her, were as cool as her voice. "Let's not play games, Jenny. I want to know what's bothering you." They were now sitting on the sofa in the living room. He started to put his arm around her shoulders, but she pulled away and got to her feet. She stared down at him. "You're the problem, Martin." He started up at her. "Me? What have I done?" He got to his feet with his arms outstretched toward her. "What are you talking about, baby?" She longed to rush into his arms and feel them close around her, making her feel sexy and desirable. She backed away instead. Making love would only mask their problems. "You're the problem," she said again. "Every day I listen to you telling married men to show their wives they love them, but you never show me. We have a perfectly romantic fireplace, but you can't even be bothered to cuddle in front of it unless you want to make love. Does that mean you don't love me, Martin?" He looked stunned. "How…how can you ask me that, Jenny? I love you more than ever." "But you never send me flowers or call me just to hear my voice. Last month you forgot our anniversary! Can you imagine how I feel when the women at work are 170

always getting flowers from their husbands? Do you even care how I feel, Martin?" He shook his head helplessly. "Jenny…oh, Jenny Wren, I—" "Don't call me that silly name!" she said, fighting back tears. She wasn't being reasonable. She loved having him call her Jenny Wren, but she couldn't stop herself. "My name is Jennifer." "I didn't know you felt that way…Jennifer." Now his voice was downright frigid. "I already apologized for forgetting our anniversary and I thought we had a strong, solid marriage that didn't need reaffirmation via flowers or phone calls. I thought I showed you every day how I feel about you with my actions." "Well, you thought wrong, Martin!" For the first time in their marriage, they slept in separate rooms. Jennifer had a miserable night. She was used to falling asleep in his arms and waking up to the delightful and welcomed pressure of part of his body pinning hers to the bed. She was so clearly miserable at work during the next two weeks that Sharon took her out to lunch so they could talk. She was shocked by Sharon's response to her revelation. "And you've kept him out of your bed for two weeks because of that nonsense?" "Nonsense? How can you call it nonsense?" she asked defensively. "You, of all people, should know how important the little things are!" "Or aren't," Sharon shot back. "Jennifer, you must be out of your mind to make such a big deal out of Martin's not showing the world he loves you as you say. What's 171

important is that he shows you. Flowers are nice, but they don't prove a man's love." "They do," Jennifer insisted, but she was feeling less certain of that all the time. Right then she just hated being angry with Martin. "Why else would your husband to be so thoughtful?" Sharon gave her a sad smile. "I've loved Jack since I was seventeen. I'll probably always love him. But Jack doesn't feel that marriage is a two person commitment as I do. During the least six years of our marriage, he's had three affairs. During each affair, his guilt makes him very solicitous." Jennifer gaped. "You don't mean…" Sharon nodded slowly. "He's probably on affair number four. So, please don't be fooled or upset by what you think is the happily-ever-after marriage of someone else. Don't doubt Martin's love just because he forgot an anniversary. From what you've told me, he's never given you any reason to doubt him." She closed her eyes briefly. What an incredible idiot she'd been! "Thank you, Sharon. I think I'd better go call Martin." She rushed to the nearest phone to call the station, only to be told that Martin was on vacation. When she called home, she got the answering machine. What if he had left her? She bit her lip. Would she find a Dear Jennifer note when she got home? Her stomach twisted into a knot of anxiety. The knot loosened slightly when she saw two vases of red roses sitting on her desk when she got back to work. Karrie grinned at her. "They just arrived. You and 172

Martin must have had a great night last night." How she wished. They were probably Martin's way of saying good-bye. Her hands were shaking as she read the card. "My darling Jennifer, sorry I didn't live up to your expectations. But I did love you. Martin." Did? Not do? "Oh, no!" she whispered. She looked at Karrie. "I have to go home!" She ran out of the office, almost knocking Sharon over as she arrived. She fought back tears all the way home. When she saw Martin's car in the driveway, her heartbeat slowed. At least he hadn't left yet. Maybe she could persuade, beg him to forgive her. As she was fumbling with the door keys, the front door opened and Martin stood there with a spoon in his hand. There was flour all over the jeans and sweater he wore. "Jennifer, you're home early! I'm still ruining dinner." She was so relieved to see that he didn't appear to be about to leave her that she burst into tears. "Oh, Martin, I've been such a big fool and I'm so sorry!" She sobbed and threw herself against him. "Don't leave me!" "What? Leave you?" He pulled her into the hallway and cupped her face in his hands. "What are you talking about?" he asked, gently wiping her tears away. "How could I even think about leaving the only woman I've ever loved?" Jennifer was so overcome with relief that it was quite awhile before she could speak. She lay in his arms, greedily savoring the delicious sound of his deep, warm voice telling her how much he loved her and how important she was to him. 173

"I know I'm not very romantic, but now that I know how much it means to you, I'll do better, Jennifer," he promised. "Starting today. I took the day off to cook a romantic dinner, but it's not working out. I've already burned four steaks." She wrinkled her nose. The smell of burned meat filled the house. Martin hated cooking, but he was trying—for her. She lifted her face from his shoulder and sighed in satisfaction as his mouth, warm and hungry, covered hers. "Oh, Martin, I love you so much," she said drowsily. "Just as you are." He rolled his eyes. "Now she tells me," he said, laughing. "Now that doesn't mean I don't want to hear an occasional 'I love you' or get flowers or candy once in awhile," she warned. He pressed his nose against hers. "I love you, too, my Jennifer." "Jenny Wren," she corrected happily. Let other women keep their flowers and candy. She had Martin.

174

Diane Payne Tumacacori, Arizona, USA Current Publication: BURNING TULIPS, Red Hen Press

Shedding Hair "Is the water too hot?" I ask Mom as she leans her head under the kitchen sink faucet. "No, it's perfect." Wearing only a stained polyester bathrobe and wornout slippers, Mom smiles as if she is a queen being treated to a head massage and shampoo. Not only do I want her to feel special, but I want to be the one responsible for making her feel this way. "Doesn't it feel good when the water trickles down your neck slowly?" "Yeah. You're as good as the girls at Ottie's Beauty Shop. When you grow up, you'll be a good beautician." "You mean that, Ma?" "Yeah, you're already better than some of those girls." "Really?" "Yeah. And you're only eleven. Wait until you get older. You'll see. Some of the girls burn your scalp. Don't even check the water before sticking your head under. You won't be lazy like them. You got to let your nails grow though. That's what the women like, a nail massage." "How long do they got to be?" "Don't worry about that now. Looks cheap for girls your age to have long nails. I have never been able to grow nails. Don't know how those women do it. Don't know who cleans their ovens. They certainly ain't the ones doing it, not with those kind of nails." While Mom talks, the sink fills with her hair. I say 176

nothing, hoping the hair will quit falling out. Dad warned us that Mom may lose her hair now that she started chemotherapy treatments, but I didn't think it'd be like this—all in one shot. I don't know what to do. I'm afraid that it will all fall out if I keep scrubbing and I'm certain that the force of water coming out of the faucet will make her hair peel away like dead leaves shaking off a tree on a windy day. The bag of pink, spongy curlers is on the counter but I don't know how I'll wrap what little hair is left. All the curlers are too thick to wrap these thin strands of hair. Mom keeps talking about her hair dressers as if she has enough hair to return there next Friday. I towel dry what's left of Mom's hair as if nothing unusual has happened, hoping she won't turn her head and look at the sink filled with blackish gray hair. First she loses her breast and now her hair—and she's only thirtythree years old. That seems old to me but not old enough to be dying and losing parts of your body. As I pat Mom's hair dry, I try to say how clean her scalp smells but the tears begin to build and the words are choked up inside me. "What's wrong?" "Nothing, Ma. Nothing." "Thought you were crying there for a minute," she says while I hold the towel tightly over her head, praying that when I remove it, God will have grown her a new batch of hair, hair that will stay attached to her scalp. When I lift the towel, I expect a miracle; instead, there is even more hair clinging to the towel. I blame myself for every hair that falls out. Before Mom sat down to have her hair washed, she had hair. Within minutes her 177

it fell out in clumps and left her with bald spots. If I hadn't washed her hair, it would still be there. Then I remember the hair on her pillowcase and blame God. God is supposed to be a miracle worker but I don't know who he saves those miracles for. I pick up a curler and try to curl the remaining hair. Slowly the hair wraps around the sponge and I snap the curler in place, praying that the hair will quit falling out. "You don't have to wrap it too tight," Mom says. "I won't, Ma. Does this feel all right?" "Perfect." It's working better than I expected. Six curlers are in her hair and she doesn't look too bald with the hair wet and bunched up in curlers. I put a few more in and wonder how I'll be able to keep her away from the mirror. She always looks before I finish setting it and she'll notice the missing hair. I wanted to make her feel good, feel queenly, but it's not going to work out that way. "Can you tell that I'm losing any hair?" This question takes me by surprise. She has never talked about it before. "Yeah, but it's not too bad." "Not yet," she says. "Just about everyone going to therapy is bald. But it grows back. They say it'll grow back thicker than before." "How long does it take for the hair to fall out?" "Some say it fell out the very next day after the first treatment. Others don't even lose all of it, just some. Maybe I'll be one of the lucky ones." "I hope so, Ma." As I wrap the next curler, I remember my long hair and how good it felt when Mom brushed it. Earlier in the 178

year the barber cut my hair off. Mom's arms had swollen from her cancer and my hair was a nuisance for her. Dad thought I was selfish asking Mom to brush it before bed. Mom moaned when she wrapped my hair into a tight bun and I moaned because my skin was stretched too tight for my eyes to fall back into their normal place—but at least she touched me when I had hair. When I went to the barber, I was hoping she would try to stop me, but she didn't. I came home with a short pixie haircut and Mom said she liked it. I wanted her to cry the same way I did riding my bike home from the barber shop, but she didn't. She took the bag of hair and put it in her bottom dresser drawer with all the other special things she saved. No longer did she brush my hair by the couch at night, stroking her fingers through my scalp with each stroke, whispering a secret "I love you" message. Now my hair is short and convenient. "You ever miss your long hair?" Her question frightens me. I'm sure she's reading my mind. "Not really, Ma." I lie but maybe she won't catch this one. "Hair isn't that important, is it? We're lucky we have eyes. I'd hate to be blind. We got a lot to be thankful for, don't we?" "Yeah, I'd hate to be blind. Or have polio like Karen." "We are lucky, aren't we?" "Yeah, Ma." After I wrap the last curler, Mom runs her fingers through her hair, checking the tightness of the curlers. "Let me see the mirror." It is a hand mirror, the kind with two sides—one a 179

regular mirror and the other a magnifier. First she looks through the magnifier side, then the regular, then back through the magnifier. Then she looks at me. I remain quiet. She looks at the floor and sees all the hair that has fallen and she cries, forgetting the blindness and polio, seeing only baldness. "Ma, I'm going to let my hair grow back long, longer than before. I'm going to make a wig for you." She cries but says nothing. "Ma, you're still beautiful. You got to believe that. I still love you, no matter what. There's still some hair left. It will curl. It's not all gone. It's just hair. Yours will grow back thick, remember? Soon it'll be the length of mine. Ma, it ain't forever. Stop crying, please. It's just hair." We both know there will be none left when the hair dries and the curlers are pulled out. Each curler wrapped in five strands of hair will unravel and the hair will fall to the ground, joining the rest. Unlike my short hair, her head will be bald. Mom is thinking about beauty, yet I know that having hair means being touched. What Mom is going to miss are the trips to the beauty shop, her sisters dying it, and even my washing and setting it. Suddenly my short hair feels long and I know I'll let it grow to make that wig.

180

J. Butler Eastern USA Current Publication: FAMILY EARTH, DLSIJ Press

The Feeblest of Fables There was a forest upon the land. Most of the trees that lived there knew each, resembled each other. It was a forest like any other. On the edge of the woodland, however, one pine tree loomed just slightly higher than all the other trees. Its view was that of the world. It could see the mountains on the horizon. It could look down into the river so clear that it could count the fish that swam there. It could watch the sun rise and disappear again. The moon hung close to its top. The tree felt it possessed a knowledge all its own. On the highest branch of this pine tree, a pair of eagles boldly landed and built their nest—a strong nest, strong enough to keep the uninvited outside. The tree richly gave protection to the pair, but the eagles did not respect any of the gifts the tree had given them. They cared not about the sun nor the view nor the knowledge. All that mattered to them was that their tree was the tallest and the strongest—a fact they took sadistic delight in proclaiming throughout the forest. All the other birds, all the other trees, were in awe. In their fortress that towered above the earth, the eagles hatched a family. Three small eaglets were bought in the world, into the forest, as if by the grace of God. The eagles protected their eaglets—from the world, from strangers, and from any knowledge that was not akin to the family that lived in the tallest tree. The eagles would go out and bring food back for the three. Sometimes the father eagle was gone so long searching for food that the eaglets began to respect his 182

sacrifice, and thus, they were kinder to the mother eagle, for she carried such an added burden—a burden she took sadistic delight in proclaiming throughout the forest. The other trees, the birds, were reduced by their own awe. The young birds grew swiftly. Feathers began to sprout. Dreams began to develop. The mother and father eagle took much time teaching the eldest eaglet to hunt, to fly, to flaunt family supremacy, to grow in the likeness of his parents. Although the eldest was fearful and rebellious at times, he grew in the image his parents wanted. He was snared by their affection, their approval, their arrogance. The middle eaglet often hid in the corner of the nest. Sometimes he would sneak a glance over the side of the nest, but what he saw overwhelmed him and he quickly retreated. He flew only when he had to, he did only what his parents told him—making sure he would not lose the security of the nest. Initially, the third and youngest eaglet seemed synonymous with her brothers, but as her wings grew, she began to ask questions about the gifts the tallest tree had given them. She asked about the mountains and wanted to fly there. She asked about the river and wanted to know the fish. She watched the sun rise and disappear again. She talked endlessly to the moon. She counted stars and waited eagerly for her wings to strengthen enough to enable her quest for knowledge. Soon the day arrived when the youngest was sure her wings had become strong enough. She had grown tired of watching her eldest brother soar. Oh, how she longed to fly—desperately, with every fiber of her being. 183

That was the same day when the mother eagle told the youngest that she was different: that her wings would never be strong enough to give flight, that she would never be able to explore the world as she so dreamed. The mother eagle reminded the youngest of the sacrifices her parents had made for her—how she owed them gratitude, never rebellion. She reminded the youngest of the great storm she had weathered while sitting on the egg to hatch her, nearly losing her life just to bring her into the world. The youngest listened and respected, but still she could not quiet the part of her that longed to touch the world. Each and every time she went near the edge of the nest, the mother eagle would faithfully remind her that her wings were not strong enough, and so she retreated to the sterility of the nest. A day came when the passion to fly completely overpowered the reverence for her mother's words. With a running jump, the youngest threw herself over the edge of the nest, but having been so convinced that her wings were not strong enough, she did not even think to flap her wings in her descent. Hideously, she plummeted to the forest floor. She was not killed, although it felt like it as the mother eagle told her how she had embarrassed them by her failure not to act like a member of the family that lived in the tallest, strongest tree in the forest. Shame became a friend to the youngest, and while the passion for flight never ceased, she stayed away from the edge of the nest. She still watched the sun and the moon and the river…wondering, always wondering, but fearful to go 184

beyond. She watched her brother hiding in the corner. She watched the eldest soar to great heights. She saw her parents go off into the world, searching for food for their family. She saw them kill the fish that lived in the river, the fish she longed to know. Sometimes she saw them kill just for the sake of killing, leaving carcasses strewn about the forest floor. She paced the confines of the nest, sometimes pulling out her own feathers and writing poetry on walls with her own blood. Now when she asked questions, she asked them of, and about, her own self. She knew she was not like them. Maybe she wasn't even an eagle at all. Maybe she was a different kind of bird—a loon maybe, the way she longed in sadness to meet the river. She watched and she paced and she dreamed. And she spoke to no one—not even when her parents returned to the nest and said that the eldest had soared too high in search of a different world. He had crashed: spilling his insides, his failure, and family disgrace all over the forest floor. The passion for flight turned into the youngest's obsession, as an anger grew within her like the contemptuous storms she had watched on the horizon. Each and every reminder that she would never be like the eldest made her crazy with a jealousy for freedom that he had found not only in flight—but now, in the sod as well. It wasn't long until she realized that even crashing to the earth, to her death, was flight—it was knowledge and freedom—it was all the things she was denied by the confines of the nest. She watched her parents kill for the sake of killing and she realized that the carcasses strewn 185

about were evidence that they did not really seek to protect, they did not know everything. And so she did it. With her heart racing like the tail of a comet, she threw herself over the side of the nest. Her mother's faithful warning echoed inside her head: Your wings are not strong enough! And so she fell silently to the earth, becoming nearly crippled in the fall, but her breath remained, nonetheless. She went out into the world, alone. She hobbled to the shore and met the fish. She dragged herself up the mountainside to touch the snow on its peak. She saw the sun rise and disappear again, realizing that it was not just a gift given by the tallest, strongest tree—it was a gift to the world. This insight, however, mattered little, for she still did not belong in the world, still was she different: the eagle who could not fly. She had found freedom, but freedom with chains. She made her own confines and paced about them, and sometimes she would pull out her own feathers and write poetry on the walls with her own blood. Her wings were not strong enough, so she did not fly. She felt nothing and was nothing in the smallness of her confines. Loneliness and pain were things she killed just for the sake of killing. Dreams were things she killed just for the sake of killing. Self-respect was something she killed just for the sake of killing. Years passed like they do in these stories, and now we reach the paragraph where someone finally tells the youngest of her parents' ignorance, and of her own. Someone tells her that her wings are, and always were, 186

strong enough to sustain flight—that her parents killed her spirit just for the sake of killing—that it was not the weakness of her wings, but the weakness of her trust. And then someone teaches her how to flap her wings and let the air lift her like some glorious balloon and carry her to heights and dreams yet unsoared. This is that paragraph that end fairytales, that keeps one trusting in childish dreams, in justice, in the intrinsic good in the world. This is that paragraph that makes horror mere fiction, that makes life not a game of chance, that unravels pain by weaving hope. This is that paragraph. Isn't it?

187

Pamela Jasper Port Orange, Florida, USA

The Bridge The afternoon settled in, mired by the gray clouds drifting lazily against the background of a pale blue sky. The gentle push of wind gathered the wetness of the roadway, and cradled the wings of a lone gull as it glided by, effortlessly. A sweetness lingered in the rebirth of nearby jasmine and blossoming magnolias. It was 9:39 a.m. when I received the request for a bridge opening from the fishing boat Orion. I remembered checking the span to be sure it was clear, and that is when I noticed the young woman beginning her walk up the westerly incline of the bridge's southernmost causeway. This was not very unusual. Many people crossed this bridge daily: riding bikes, pushing babies in strollers, jogging, skateboarding to school, driving to-and fro. The continuum of motion breathed life into the bridge. A harmony transfused itself into the cold steel and concrete mortar which lent itself as home to a multitude of pigeons and water fowl. Since I was a bridge tender here, a white pigeon found a permanent roost within the pits of the bridge. Another bridge tender told me that this pigeon was a token of good fortune. I sometimes wondered whether someone intentionally bequeathed this good fortune by releasing the pigeon at the bridge. It really made no difference though. The pigeon remained a steadfast occupant. I lowered the oncoming gates. The traffic wasn't very heavy for a Friday. Of course, the "migratory snowbirds" 189

(the name given for those out-of-town folks who used this area of Florida as their winter retreat and who burdened the local roads with late-modeled Lincolns, and canvassed the sidewalks as multitudes of gray-haired, cane-toting pedestrians) had not yet made their presence felt. Next, I cautiously lowered the off-going gates, watching with concern for the young woman who continued her carefree walk toward the closing gate. Then, I lowered the barrier gate and sidewalk gates. I recalled that not so long ago, there had been another woman who caught my attention. At the same point of procedure, she ran across the span. Instead of remaining behind the oncoming west gate, she continued her carefree jog with a big, foolish grin on her face. I suspected it was more than fresh air intoxicating her. When she got to the barrier gate, she simply sat on it, never removing the broad smile on her face. I picked up the intercom's transmitter and requested nicely, "Please move behind the gate." Still grinning, she nonchalantly climbed over the barrier gate and walked away from the span. I remembered the buried sigh of relief that churned within the depths of my throat. I looked again to this young woman. She was patiently standing by the southeast off-going gate. I pushed the button on the control panel, releasing the drive shafts, and proceeded with the opening of the bridge. I observed the quietness of the channel. With the bridge span fully opened, Orion passed between the fenders and chugged north against the outgoing tide. Another boat, a long-nosed and expensive cigarette boat, 190

drifted away from the pier at The Riverview Hotel and Restaurant. This boat had ample clearance and would not radio a request for an opening. I followed procedures and sounded the five horn blasts from the bridge, closed the span, raised the gates, and traffic slowly resumed as normal. It was 10:10 a.m. The young woman I previously detained at the lowered gate, had just arrived at the point of the span where the drive-locks secure the span to the easterly portion of the bridge. I continued watching her with a renewed interest. She wore an over-sized t-shirt. For a moment, I thought that was all she was wearing, but as soon as that thought manifested in my head, she tugged at her bottom to reveal a portion of her blue and white polka-dot bathing suit. She turned and faced south, with her back toward me. She clutched a flower in her right hand—a carnation, I guessed. I thought, "How sweet that someone had gave her a flower." Then, I remembered how carnations symbolized death. My mind quickly concocted images of bleak and musty funeral homes—of dead aunts and uncles and grandparents displayed in mahogany caskets—of mourners who reeked of tart perfumes and stale Cuban cigars. I shuddered at the thought. Another idea trembled into my pondering mind. Was she a jumper, here to end her miserable existence? As she stared emotionlessly into the water, my eyes riveted to her every move. I felt myself breathing her breath, our skin was caressed lightly by the breeze, and an overall contentment settled in us both. The people on 191

board the streamlined cigarette boat gazed up at her also, with almost the same intense interest. To my surprise and relief, she simply pitched the flower over the railing of the bridge. I felt her composure as she watched it fall into the brackish water. Without hesitation, she turned and walked away, casually retracing the very steps that had brought her to this point in her life. Just beyond the eastern foot of the bridge, a pink building loomed as a final testament—painted with a single flower and the word Florist. Funny, how I hadn't noticed it before. It was there, as she turned the corner, that she disappeared from my reluctant soul. Ordinarily, the story would end here. The sun would eventually set, and I would find myself driving home in the company of Celine Dion. Now, a different song echoed: a young girl was throwing something off the Tallahatchie Bridge. I'll never know whether the flower floated lifelessly on top the water…or whether the tide eventually carried it far away to another woman contemplating existence. It may have snagged on the bridge fender…or just sank gently to the bottom of the Indian River. All this, I'll never be able to settle within myself. One thing, I do feel for certain. It was Goodbye.

192

Paula Felps Dallas, Texas, USA Current Publications: Regular Contributor to THE DALLAS MORNING NEWS, FORT WORTH WEEKLY, OUTLOOK magazine, and APBOnline.com Editor of GET UP AND GO!

The Street Where I Live My favorite dream these days is the one where I'm sleeping in a big bed with crisp, clean sheets. Not those cheap cotton Martha Stewart sheets you get at Kmart; I'm lying on those luxurious 500-thread count sheets, the kind I had on my bed at home. In my dream, it's always a kingsize bed and I'm surrounded by lots of fluffy goose down pillows. The air smells like vanilla candles and there's just a hint of a breeze tickling my face. Sometimes when I have that dream, I believe I'm there again; other times, even in my sleep, I'm aware that it's only a temporary illusion, one that will quickly give way to the sounds and smells of the shelter. Either way, I try lingering there as long as possible, enjoying that feeling of total comfort and relaxation. The rough caress of the old, worn blanket on my cheek brings me sharply back to reality, a reminder that my escape has been merely a temporary respite. Some people become sadder after dreams like that; they believe they're better off forgetting what they once had and settling for the here and now. Not me. I love those dreams. Those few stolen moments of fantasy are a helluva lot better than the reality, so why not enjoy them as they come? It's hard to sleep most nights, not at all like it was before. I used to love sleeping, rarely had trouble falling asleep—or staying that way. Now I lay awake most of the night, trying not to let my thoughts get the best of me. I try not to think so much about how I got here; I try to think about where to go from here. I think I'd sleep better 194

if I could take my boots off, but it's too big a risk. Winter isn't far away and a good, solid pair of hiking boots, like the ones on my feet, are a prized commodity. One of the first lessons I learned out here was the value of a good pair of shoes. Try spending a day with water seeping through the soles of your shoes, and you'll see what I mean. Dry feet can do a lot to improve your attitude. It's funny, but three years ago I wouldn't have been caught dead in a pair of hiking boots. Now I'm afraid that I'd be dead without them. I used to think of shoes as fashion accessories; now they're survival tools. Keep your feet and head warm, and you can keep from freezing. You won't necessarily feel good, but you won't freeze. Freezing always makes me think about Jim, and I wonder if his body is frozen in that casket, although I suspect his flesh and bones have long since crumbled into dust. I never know how to feel when I think about him. I hate him, I guess, even though I still love him a lot. Poor bastard. I think I'd kill him if he hadn't done the job himself. Sometimes I wonder what his last thoughts were, if he had any regrets as he kicked away the chair beneath him. Sometimes I think I should have told people it was an accidental suicide, that he actually was performing some autoerotic sexual act and couldn't quite get it right. That would've been a memorable legacy for him to carry around for all eternity. It's funny how attractive a straightforward suicide becomes when compared to the possibility of dying during some anti–social form of sexual pleasure. I smile when I think of things like that. I don't think it's because I'm that mean—I think it's because I'm that human. 195

Of all the things I miss, I miss my bed the most. Maybe the bed and the kitchen table. Of course, you have to include Mr. Coffee with the kitchen table, because one of the true joys of such a table is sitting there with the morning paper, drinking that first cup of coffee. Now I don't even own a respectable cup. I get a paper or plastic cup of weak coffee every morning here at the shelter, and sometimes people leave half-full cups of lukewarm coffee on window ledges as they enter a store that forbids food and drinks. Those are better than nothing, but I can't remember the last time I had a good cup of fresh, hot, strong Jamaican Blue Mountain. In a ceramic cup. No cream or sugar, thanks, just coffee will do. You don't think much about things like that till they're gone. Jim never much cared for my coffee. Not that it matters now. Just another one of those things I think about. Maybe his biggest problem was that he didn't appreciate the simpler things in life. Maybe that's where it all became so complicated. We came from fairly opposite ends of the social spectrum, a fact from which his parents never quite recovered. The only reason I wound up at an affluent private college was through art scholarships; his was solely through financial ability. In college, none of that seemed to matter. I was well accustomed to living close to the ground; for him, the lean days of college were some sort of an adventure, and the closest he came to being broke was waiting for his weekly check to arrive from his parents. My mother had worked hard as a single parent, trying to keep us clothed and fed, while explaining to us over 196

and over again how education was our ticket out of the lifestyle to which she had been condemned. Both my brother and I listened intently to her and worked hard to break away from the meager existence in which we had been raised. By the time Jim and I finished college, my art career looked promising and he was ready for law school. We married, and I worked full-time in an art gallery and painted on the weekends while Jim studied. Determined not to depend upon his family for financial well-being— and equally determined to rise to the same level of opulence his family name was accustomed to—he worked tirelessly, first to earn his degree and then to prove his ability to use it. Riding on the merits of his family name and driven by his own ambition, he worked hard to earn his place in this world. The small law firm that launched his career soon gave way to larger offers, but nothing could ever replace the intimacy we enjoyed during those leaner, harder-working years. Those were easily the happiest years we ever knew, the ones where we were building our future and there was nothing but time and potential on our side. The pride of accomplishment was unbelievable, the satisfaction beyond compare, as we began reaping the rewards of that hard work. We knew we were blessed: with love, with life, with so many things that seemed to pass others by. It was a fairy tale of our own creation. Judging from the luxuries we racked up over the next 16 years, life was good to us. Jim moved quickly up the legal and social ranks, and I gradually lost touch with my artwork as I became a dutiful wife, volunteering for high197

profile organizations, serving on junior league committees, attending all the right coffees and luncheons and parties. We talked about starting a family, but the time never seemed right. Instead of children, we nurtured business contacts, all the while living in a comfortable excess I'd only dreamed of as I grew up. Gradually our lives became more about things than about people; we talked more about acquisitions than honest emotions, but I guess I thought that was the trade-off for such opulence. To be honest, I was too busy enjoying the income to miss the intimacy. Jim handled all our finances, so I never knew just how much money we had. His parents just accepted our accumulation as a natural progression; wealth was part of the family birthright. The Morgan children were expected to flourish financially, continuing the kind of luxury they had grown up in. I knew he never discussed our exact financial status with them, although his father grilled him frequently about investments and stocks. Jim was casual in his avoidance, giving the easy-going grin I had fallen in love with and saying, "I do all right…" Although they clearly saw me as beneath their money-savvy ways, his family made their best attempts not to openly show their disdain in Jim's presence. It made little difference. We both felt it, whether we discussed it or not. Even when my mother was dying of cancer and we took her in for the final 18 months of her life, they showed a sort of hands-off compassion that was unnerving to witness and even more painful to experience. Jim knew it hurt me and I suspect it bothered him, but the formal nature of his upbringing wouldn't 198

allow for frank discussions of the matter. So, like most of the other problems that occurred in our marriage, we had another drink and ignored it. When I found him hanging from the exposed wooden beam in our garage, I couldn't fathom what had prompted his suicide. Over the years, our relationship had dissolved into a polite but dispassionate exchange: two former lovers sharing cocktails and impersonal chatter, but little else. I couldn't remember the last time we'd had a meaningful conversation, nor could I recall when our lives had begun disintegrating. Jim had never seemed particularly tortured or even distressed, so I reasoned it must have been a sudden lapse of logic that prompted his actions. Within days, it was clear I was mistaken. While I made funeral preparations, our accountant began unraveling the knotted financial strings that Jim had tangled during the last few years. There were bad business decisions I hadn't known of, losses of hundreds of thousands of dollars that never were mentioned. Missing funds and unpaid bills for mysterious, expensive gifts, made me suspect he'd had a mistress, but I couldn't imagine where he had found the time to see her. The revelations kept coming, each one more distressing than the last, but none truly penetrating the wall of shock and grief that had entombed me. It was on the afternoon of Jim's funeral that I learned our house had been sold. In a final attempt to salvage his dwindling resources, I suppose, he had literally sold the house out from under me. The realtor who arrived at the door stared blankly at me as I explained I knew nothing 199

about this transaction, then kindly gave me an additional week to vacate the premises. In a numbing and surreal chain of events, I completed a series of unlikely tasks that included selling off much of my jewelry and most of Jim's possessions. I sold furniture, keeping only enough to furnish the small house I rented. My retreat to a new dwelling was shortlived, as I soon discovered the huge amount of debt Jim had incurred belonged to both of us—and only one of us was left to pay. Most of the questions never will be answered. There was talk of extravagant gifts given to potential clients who never came through, whispers of a gambling problem, rumors of drug and alcohol abuse. I could believe none of the talk about such addictions; Jim had never been the type. Still, he left more questions than answers, more puzzles than solutions. With Jim gone, his parents had no reason to interact with me. Never given to maintaining appearances unless necessary, they remained in contact for the appropriate grieving period, then retreated into their ivory tower. The shock of Jim's death, and the questions it raised, created an immediate alienation between myself and most of our friends. I'd known for years that most of them were friends only because of the social connotations, so it came as little surprise that I was quickly dropped from their party rosters. Instead, I now was left alone to find my way in a world that suddenly seemed very cold, very dark, and extremely muddled. Within a year, it became obvious that any attempts to reconcile the finances by myself were absolutely absurd. 200

I didn't have Jim's income; I hadn't even had a job in more than a decade. Volunteer work meant little on a resume, and the art career that once was so promising, felt foreign to me. Gradually, I sold my belongings and downsized to a small apartment. But as the money kept running out, I knew even that would soon be beyond my means. It was about the time I sold my car that I knew I'd become homeless. I had choices to make, and eating became more important than the roof over my head. I began selling pieces of art here and there, but never enough to justify as an actual income. It was a shock to realize I had nothing to offer anyone, but I knew it was only temporary. A couple of months, and I would get the break I needed to get back on my feet. Someone would give me a job, or I'd at least start selling enough paintings to make it worth my while. I tried approaching it as an adventure, but of course that lasted about one day. And slowly that single day has stretched into two long years. I wouldn't say that I've resigned myself to living this way—it's just taking longer than I had planned to get back on my feet. There are worse things than living on the street, and perhaps in a way, I'm better for the experience. I take extreme pleasure in things most people take for granted, such as finding a perfectly edible piece of pizza in a discarded box. I am grateful for mild weather in a way only those who live on the street can know. Most of the people on the street are believed to be either crazy or lazy, but usually they're neither. I've met people with Ph.D.s who simply got tired of the pace and let it all go. I have friends who appear to talk to themselves as they push their carts down the street, but 201

they aren't crazy. They talk to themselves to keep from going that way. Some of the people are out here because they don't want to work, but most of us just can't. I know people find that hard to believe, but who's going to hire us? I don't even have a shower to clean up in. I wouldn't know what to wear for a job interview. I don't have so much as a resume, and even if I had the experience someone was looking for, I know my dirty fingernails and uncoiffed hair would be enough to make them turn me away. So we do what we can just to get by and we hope for something better, believing that somehow, someday, this is all going to change. We pray for the best and steel ourselves for the worst, and in between, we learn lessons about life that are infinitely more difficult than we ever dreamed possible. What most people don't realize—or don't want to know—is that there's a very thin line between people like us and people like them. The wrong turn of a card or a feisty sleight-of-hand by some higher power is all it takes to pull the rug out from under us. Anyone who goes to bed at night thinking this could never happen to them is merely sleeping with a false security blanket. Everyone who thinks they're too good to wind up on the street better hope and pray they never find out just how wrong they are. I know that my soul isn't worth any less or any more than it ever was, but I also know now that I've lost my value in the eyes of those who pass me on the street. I have become part of a nameless, faceless sea that is constantly growing but remains largely invisible. Our lives haven't become any less meaningful; they're just 202

more difficult than we had planned. Our dreams aren't any less deserving; they're just more distant. And right now, mine is all about a pair of soft cotton sheets.

203

Carla Ledbetter Greenwood, Arkansas, USA

Wishes The bands of time are but the blink of an eye to those who live forever. Mortals are obsessed with capturing every moment of time, but immortals couldn't care less. To them, time has no meaning—except when they have a duty to perform. Such is the case of Shebralto. His punishment for the rape of an Exhaulted Ones' daughter is to grant one mortal's wish every ten thousand years. Each time the span of ten thousand years comes to an end, whatever wish expressed at that precise moment is granted. Sometimes the outcome's beneficial for mortals; sometimes not. The morning clangon sounded and Raylar climbed out of bed. The frigid morning air assaulted his body and he gritted his teeth as he donned his regulation spacesuit. Frackas, but morning air was cold. No matter how high he set the infrared heat, he still felt cold the minute he shed his thermal wrap. Why couldn't the Council of Inventors figure out a way to take away the moonrise cold? They'd managed to do almost everything else. Soon they'd even send a team to search for another habitable planet. Renulumon was overcrowded and their natural resources were almost exhausted. It was time to find a new home. He couldn't wait until the call went out for volunteers to travel into the Void of Nothingness. His signature would be first on the list of those who signed up for interplanetary duty. No more stinking ore farming for him. That was for citizens who were too old or too scared. A sigh escaped his lips and before he could stop it, he 205

wished himself anywhere but Renulumon. It was a good thing his mother wasn't around. She'd have boxed his ears for even thinking such a thing. He'd forgotten to shield his thoughts and was just lucky she hadn't heard. "Raylar, how many times have I warned you not to utter a wish, even in your mind? Come down this instant!" a female voice demanded inside his skull. She'd heard him! He was in for it now. He winced at the mental assault and rushed to the food preparation room. He followed the footpath between the two doublelayered titanium food processing units and bowed to his mother. "Sorry about that. It won't happen again." Amgon looked up from her info screen and sighed. "I know you think I'm being silly, but Shebralto really does grant one single wish every ten thousand years. Haven't I taught you from the time you were born not to make a wish, even in jest? Only the Elders are allowed that honor, and they're schooled for years on what wishes to make. I want you to promise you won't do it again. If you don't, I'll be forced to initiate a mind blank, and you know how much you hate that." His green skin paled and he held up his hands in protest. "Please, not the mind blank. I promise, no more wishes." Amgon eyed her son thoughtfully. With brown curly ears and big green eyes, he still reminded her of the premature urchin who'd upset their family balance so many years ago. Maybe she was so protective because he'd arrived after she thought she'd passed childbearing age. It had been a shock to learn she was pregnant. 206

Her computer beeped and she removed the info cube and flipped it over. That had been many moons ago. The problem with Raylar was that even though he'd gone through the maturing ritual, he still thought like a child and sometimes acted like one. A deep sigh left her lips as she brushed the dirt from his face. "All right, I'll forget about your lapse this once. But you must make an effort to be more careful in the future. You're mature enough to be punished by the Council for any inappropriate actions. Just be glad your father and brothers are already out in the ore zone. Otherwise, you'd be in a lot of trouble, young man." Raylar hung his head and mumbled his response, "I promise. It won't happen again." "Fine." Amgon removed the computer chip from her info unit and tossed it to him. "Take this chip to your father, and hurry up. He expected you out in the zone just after sixth moonrise." "Don't I have time to eat? I'm starving," he complained. A food packet soared across the counter. "Take that with you and eat it on the way." She glanced down at the crystals embedded in her wrist. "You'd better hurry, or you'll miss the last transport. Torzin wasn't in a good mood when they left this morning, and if he has to scan for you, there's no telling what punishment he'll meter out. You know how much doing that aggravates him." Raylar munched his meal packet as he wandered toward the shuttle bay, and thought about his mother's warning. What a bunch of nonsense. Did she really believe all that crap? 207

At seventeen clipsons, he was too old to believe in silly superstitions. There was no deity who granted wishes; that was just some stupid mumbo-jumbo invented by the Ruling Council. In the entire history of Renulumon, nobody had ever seen or spoken to Shebralto. If he couldn't be seen or heard, how could he possibly be real? An invisible God? Fat chance. Besides, if only one wish was granted every ten thousand years, what was the last wish? He'd asked that question before and nobody seemed to know the answer, not even the Council members. The approaching shuttle's siren interrupted his thoughts and he stepped back onto the safety of the platform. "Stupid kid, watch where you're standing next time," the driver yelled as he paused to pick up passengers. Raylar started to argue, felt the concerned scans of the other passengers, and quickly closed his mouth. There was no sense starting a scene that would be reported to Council; he was in enough trouble at homesite already. He grabbed the first available seat and strengthened his thought shields. Closer inspection of the driver revealed an insignificant little twerp. No wonder he was stuck in such a menial job. Probably didn't have an ounce of telepathy, either. Only non-telepaths were allowed to work in such low positions. He contented himself with glaring at the back of the driver's head and wishing he would turn into a six-legged zipsluth. As the shuttle approached the exit bay, he felt the familiar tingle of his father's scan. "Raylar, where the 208

zipsod are you? We've been waiting for that info chip for ages. The last ore driver leaves in two moonsets. You better be out on platform before he gets here or I'll make you work during Sleepday." Raylar winced at the intrusion into his thoughts. Frackas, but his father was a powerful telepath. He could even break through when thought shields were in place— faint, but nevertheless there. It was just rotten luck that he was doubly cursed—having one telepathic parent was bad enough, but two was absolute misery. A sudden jolt indicated the shuttle car had arrived at the loading dock. Raylar departed with the other passengers and waited in line for a transport pusher. He still had a long way to go before he reached his family's work zone. By the time he got there, several ore carts had already been loaded in anticipation of the driver's appearance. Orios, his eldest brother, was the first to greet him. "So, you finally managed to bring yourself to work? Look who's here, Father. It's Raylar, the worthless one, come to help us out." Torzin looked up from his info screen. "That's enough, Orios. Get back to work. The ore driver should be here any time." He turned to Raylar and held out his gloved hand. "I believe your mother gave you an info chip for me?" "Yes, Father. I was waiting for her to finish inputting the data; that's why I'm late," Raylar lied. Torzin accepted the chip and deposited it into his scanner. He ran a gloved hand through his silver-blue hair. "Lying won't get you out of this one. I know your mother 209

had this data entered long before eighth moonrise." He stared at Raylar while he considered appropriate punishment. "As penance for both lying and being late, you're to go to the outer sector of our zone and bring in twelve platforms of geeza for processing." Raylar could hear his two brothers snicker. "Twelve platforms? That will take me two moonsets. I'll have to stay out in the zone until I'm done." "So? Your spacesuit will protect you. If you don't want to stay among the ore deposits, there's a protective cave near the edge." "What are you afraid of, Raylar? Ore goories?" Orios sneered as he guided a load of ore chunks onto the waiting platform. "One more word out of you, Orios, and you can stay out there with him." Torzin said. He scanned the horizon for a moment before turning to his youngest son. "If you'd gotten here sooner, you could have helped us. As it is, we're way behind schedule. We need fifty-one platforms of baylar ready when the ore driver comes in two moonsets, plus the load of geeza. Orios and Teelzer will help me gather the baylar; you can bring in the geeza." He held out a slender computer disk. "Here's the location. You'd better get going before the next moonrise, or you'll miss the connection for your loader/pusher. The empty platforms are at the edge of the zone. I've keyed them to follow your transmitter signal, and their serial numbers are already entered in the database. All you have to do is load the geeza." Raylar knew better than to argue with an elder. He turned his back on his family and headed toward the 210

transport bay. Why did he have to load the geeza platforms? Why couldn't his family afford robots like the other families? Stupid, old-fashioned ideas. Stupid, oldfashioned family. "That's enough grumbling, Raylar." Torzin's voice boomed inside his skull. "I don't want to scan any more of this attitude from you again. One more word and I'll put a mind block on you that will last a month. It's your fault you're going to the zone. If you'd gotten up with the rest of us, we could have been finished by now. Is that understood?" Raylar mumbled his acknowledgment, aware that Torzin could telepathically hear his response. The last thing he wanted was a mind block. They kept one from being able to utter a sound, mentally or physically. It was like being in a one-dimensional void; you could see and hear, but that was it. He despised those things. In his entire life he'd only had two, and that was enough for him. Irritated at the intrusion into his thoughts, Raylar strengthened his mind shield. Why was everybody always nagging and demanding that he follow their way of doing things? What made their way right? He wished everybody would just go away and leave him alone. If that happened, he'd be the happiest citizen alive: no more lectures, no more sarcastic remarks from his siblings, and best of all, no more unwanted intrusions into his private thoughts. Frackas, how he wished he could just be alone. A huge flash of light lit up the distant horizon, and Raylar glanced up. That was odd; he didn't remember any ion storm warnings for today. He parked his transport loader/pusher and sought shelter in the cave. It was better 211

to wait out the storm in the safety of the cave than risk injury to his spacesuit. When the expected torrent of ion pellets didn't appear, he cautiously crept out into the ore field. If it hadn't been an ion storm, what had caused the flash of light? He waited a few moments, and when nothing untoward happened, he shrugged off his fear and loaded the geeza onto the waiting platforms. He worked steadily, and eventually his task was complete. Exhausted, he stationed the platforms outside the cave and crawled inside. He'd catch some muchneeded rest and then he'd deliver the loaded platforms to the transfer site. As he drifted off to sleep, the last thing he remembered was how quiet it was in the outer edge of the zone. The next moonset, Raylar eased his sore body onto the seat of the loader/pusher and began the journey to the loading terminal. When he reached the designated loading bay, he looked around for an administrator to check in his load and give him a microchip in return. Irritated at being ignored, he secured his load and stomped into the cargo bay. There was nobody inside. Ore carts and machinery were stationed at each of the docks, but there were no workers at any of their assigned posts. Where had everybody gone? He ran to the terminal manager's office and used the video teleport to contact his homesite. No one answered. That was even stranger—his mother was always at homesite. Worried, he sat in a chairson and tried to telepathically contact either of his parents. Nothing. 212

What had happened? Did this have something to do with the flash of light he'd seen yesterday? Panic set in and he jumped out of his seat and raced to the nearest shuttle car bay. An empty shuttle car waited in its dock, but there was no driver or passengers. Even though it was a crime to steal a shuttle car, he jumped inside the vehicle and floated it away from the dock. It took a few moments to master the controls, but he managed to set a course for homesite. He became more and more concerned as the shuttle car passed empty bays. One or two bays might be devoid of citizens, but all of them? That wasn't possible. Something had to have happened, but what could it have been? When the shuttle car reached his own platform, he slammed on the brakes and jumped out. He raced to his homesite and threw open the door. It, too, was empty. The table was set for eating; the televid was still on, but his family was nowhere to be seen. Now what? For the first time in his life, he was scared—really scared. He racked his brain for explanations. The Council of Elders would know what to do. He just needed to go to the Temple and demand an audience. Relieved at having made a decision, he commandeered the first land skimmer he came to and sped toward the Temple of the Elders. On his way he searched the streets for other citizens, but found no one. Only an eerie silence echoed along the empty streets of the once-noisy city. As soon as he reached the Temple, he vaulted up the steps and pounded on the doors. When nobody answered, he shoved the doors open and stepped inside. Like the rest 213

of the city, the Temple appeared to be devoid of life. With measured steps, he wandered from room to room, and noticed that preparations had been made for some sort of celebration. He finally reached the chamber of the Holy Ruler, gathered up the rest of his lagging courage, and opened the door. A huge calendar covered the walls. On the portion nearest the door, a white circle was drawn around a specific block. He stooped down to get a better look. Written in the circle was a date and time—seventeenth moonrise of the day before. The name Shebralto was scrawled in red ink within the block. It was then that the enormity of his deed confronted him. He fell to his knees and begged Shebralto to undo his selfish wish, but his pleas fell on deaf ears. It was too little, too late. The task had been completed. Not even a bird or an insect remained on Renulumon. Raylar had finally gotten his wish—he was utterly alone.

214

Kelli Walsh

Dear Diary I opened the desk drawer to pull out my leather–banded journal. It was a bedraggled thing, worn and soft below my small hands. I had used it on a frequent basis since I was fourteen years old, purposely writing in the tiniest of penmanship to preserve it. It had survived moves and trips—not to mention my heartbreaks and loves. In junior high, the diary had been used for writing about my crushes and who liked whom. Through my high school years, it had been used for the same purpose. In college, it had listened to me as I vented against my strict professors. When I had married James, I wrote nothing but the truth—I was utterly and joyfully happy. My words had changed many times, but the purpose of the book remained the same. It was my Dear Diary, protector of all my secrets, from when I had tried smoking to when I had first made love. I hadn't written in it since 1998, a year ago. The months had been too dramatic with curving emotions and events; I never had the time to sit down and write. I knew that was only half the story though -- I also hadn't wanted to face my troubles. I hadn't wanted to look them eye–to–eye, so I had betrayed the book. Today, however, was different. Something had possessed me to sit down and write again. Somehow, I had decided that writing would be a good way to close 1998 and open the fresh spring. I knew I would feel more relaxed and in control of myself after writing. It would be a new start after the hellish year. It was past time I faced 216

my troubles. Deliberately, I slipped into my old ritual, as hands into well-worn gloves. I opened my journal, finding the page where I had last written. I retrieved my valued fountain pen next; incredibly, it still worked after ten years of use. Then, after a year of silence, I began to write again… 4-30-99 Dear Diary— Today is the last and final day of April, 1999. It will only be a memory by morning. There is no looking back on my part—whether it be on April, or the months that fell before it. I am not sad in any way that winter has passed. Spring is the time when life blooms after a harsh winter. I am ready for pretty flowers. I am glad the new season is upon Minnesota. The past year has been one of changes and challenges—not all for the better. It was last April when I wrote in this book. I have been silent since losing my best friend, my lover, my husband, my partner in life. Needless to say, I did not feel the excitement of spring in 1998. I was in despair; complete depression covered me, a heavy cloud of tears and darkness. James was shot in the line of duty, trying to save a five-year- old from a madman. James hadn't lived but two minutes after the shooting. I was always concerned about his being on the force, but I never expected him not to come home that Thursday afternoon. We were supposed to eat dinner together, then rent a movie. Spaghetti hasn't made an appearance in my kitchen since. 217

I was unaware of my condition at the time and without care in my actions. I thought only of my loss— and my life, which I believed would never carry sunshine again. I was rushed to the hospital in late August, bleeding and hysterical. I miscarried at four months, terribly losing another link to my love; the baby was my last attachment to James. I lost it due to my carelessness, my selfishness. My baby is gone, as is my husband. I have not been quite the same since, Diary. God kept at least one eye on me however. He blessed me with a few happy events since last April. I have thrived on these rare occasions. I struggled to find happiness, and these special circumstances gave me a chance to smile. In February, I took a new job at a local craft shop. I am finally enjoying work. I was so bored at my old job, sitting day after day at the same desk, looking at the same paperwork in its never–ending pile. Now, I feel as though I am flourishing by helping others add special touches to their homes. James, I know, would be proud of me. These things give me a reason to put on my best face each morning. Work has also led me to Mira Davidson, an amazing woman. We have become best of friends, although we could not be more different. Where I am quiet and subtle, she is flamboyant and flashy. This, however, does not matter in the least bit. What does, is Mira's strength and kind spirit. She has been with me through the hardest of moments, pulling me back to safety. I don't know what I would have done without her. She is my saving grace. My brother Charles married a wonderful woman last 218

June. I am positive she adores him. The marriage came as a relief to me, since I have always worried about his being alone. Despite my own despair, I am happy to see him settled with love wreathing his face. These happy moments do not change my perspective on the passing year, however. I am still not sad to see the past year draw to an end as spring arrives. I am ready to concentrate on the chirping birds, the green grass, the warm sun—signs of new life, new growth. I am ready to blossom after a harsh year, just as the flowers spread into brilliant colors after winter.

219

SuzAnne Cole Houston, Texas, USA Current Publication: TO OUR HEART'S CONTENT: MEDITATIONS FOR WOMEN TURNING 50, Contemporary Contributions to BLESS THE DAY, FAMILY CELEBRATIONS, THERE'S NO PLACE LIKE HOME FOR THE HOLIDAYS, SUNLIGHT ON THE MOON

Of Mountains and Marriages They were on a week's holiday in Vermont, a celebration as well as a vacation, which would culminate in the college graduation of their youngest son. In a style suitable for the late days of a thirty-year marriage, they permitted each other space during the day to do what each most desired, and then shared their stories over dinner. Golf was his choice; that's why they'd rented a condominium at this small mountain resort. Linda wanted beautiful scenery, mountains to climb, long walks, time to journal and meditate. So far their week had gone perfectly; the day before she'd even played nine holes of golf with him before climbing a mountain trail. The joint golf outing, however, had not been a complete success; he muttered once that it was like playing with a nine-year-old as Linda wandered off to find the bullfrog she could hear croaking at the edge of the small pond/water hazard. Then she called out excitedly for him to come and see a huge catfish. "For God's sake," he hissed, "there are people behind us. Be quiet and play." Later, enchanted by the flight of a red-winged blackbird beating against the wind, Linda kept her pleasure to herself. That afternoon she savored the solitude of a climb, delighting in patches of violets and pairs of chipmunks amorously chasing each other across the trail. However, she'd been disappointed on reaching the summit only to find a fire tower five stories high. The best view was obviously from the top of the tower, but it was not so 221

obvious that she would be able to climb the steep, open stairs that zig-zagged some 60 or 75 feet to the apex—and she couldn't. After three tries, pushing herself a few more risers each time, she finally had to be content with sitting on the second landing, far enough above the trees to almost convince herself the view couldn't have been any better from the very top. Perhaps because of that perceived failure, today Linda was determined to push farther and higher. Her guidebook described a trail to the summit of Haystack Mountain. The directions for finding the trail were vague. "Starting in the upper reaches of the Chimney Hill subdivision, 200' east of the uppermost reaches of Binney Creek." The last sentence, however, had captivated her. "This 2.8 mile trail is moderate to difficult and offers a panoramic view of Massachusetts from the summit." Calling the Green Forest Park station for more precise directions, she'd been instructed to ask at the subdivision management office, although no one seemed to know exactly where that office might be located. Eager to be off, Linda dropped her husband at the golf course, a little chagrined at his reminding her for the third time that she had to be back with the car by 1:00 because he had an appointment in Bennington, thirty miles away through the mountains, at 2:00. God knows she knew how important the appointment was. Their youngest son, an artist and musician, had been in therapy for four years, exploring his feelings as a third son and his relationship with a demanding, corporate executive father. Trying to resolve her own role in the family dynamics, Linda had put herself in therapy and had met 222

with her son's therapist several times, but this was the first time their son had agreed to see his therapist with his father. Anticipating at last being able to share some of the responsibility for their son's pain, she was eager for the joint session to occur. Of course she'd be back in time. Trying to locate the elusive management office, Linda drove into the Birchwood Mountain Recreational Area on Chimney Hill Road and stopped at a sign marked "Overnight Parking." Walking a few yards into a meadow, she saw another sign pointing with arrows to Choa Trail, so she swigged a drink from her water bottle, locked it and her purse in the car, and started out. It was an odd hiking trail, almost wide enough for vehicles, but poorly surfaced with grass, mud, and flourishing three-leafed greenery which she hoped wasn't poison ivy. After walking half a mile, she reached a watery impasse too deep to wade and too wide to circumnavigate. Realizing she must be on a cross-country ski trail, Linda reversed course back to her car. Driving away, still determined to scale the elusive mountain, she spotted a sign saying "Management Office," and found a real estate office where a saleswoman gave her a map of the housing area and pointed to a faint line where the trail started. Climbing a road which narrowed and became progressively steeper and rougher, Linda came to a very small marker denoting "Haystack Mountain Trail." Pulling the car as far off the narrow road as she could, she carefully noted the time—11: 10. She could hike for fifty minutes, surely enough time to climb 1.4 miles, leaving fifty minutes for the return trip and ten minutes to drive 223

back to the condo. Perfect. The first section of the climb, a wide rocky road, was difficult with fist-sized rocks which kept turning under her feet, but after a half a mile or so, another small sign pointed her to the type of trail she liked—a surface of dead leaves, soft dirt, rock ledges, and tree roots, which wound through woods and ferns. It was steep, but not impossibly so because of switchbacks, so Linda walked along briskly, glancing occasionally at her watch. She nodded to the toad she surprised at her feet, followed the flight of a lovely, pale yellow and black butterfly, and stopped to admire a beautiful patch of wildflowers, broad lily-like leaves with stalks of tiny, yellow, downturned bell-like flowers, photographing them for later identification There was no evidence of other people—no litter, no noise, not even any footprints in the occasional mud—but she wasn't concerned about climbing alone. Sometimes she wondered why not—did she no longer consider herself sexually attractive? Or had she finally turned off the mother voice in her head which broadcast fear? Perhaps the peaceful breezes of rural Vermont had evaporated her big city caution. She didn't know for sure; she just felt safe. Linda kept climbing, now in sunshine, now in shade; now a little too warm, now cool; now hearing mosquitoes whine by her ear, now nothing but birdsong. Just before noon, the trees began to thin, enabling her to glimpse hills in the distance, but still the view was obstructed. Then it was noon and she thought fiercely, I can't turn back just short of the summit; I'll climb just a 224

little longer. A very steep few yards ended suddenly in a small clearing of huge granite boulders. She clambered up the tallest and she was there; Massachusetts spread itself below and beyond her. Other mountain ranges etched the horizon. Linda glimpsed doll houses and farms, nestled here and there among the distant slopes furred with evergreens. Far below gleamed a dark blue lake. She wanted to stay, she wanted to take off her clothes and do a celebration dance, but it was after noon, and there were blackflies, so she planted her feet on the boulder and stretched her arms to the heavens, thanking Mother Earth and Father Sky for sharing their beauty. Snapping three quick pictures, she picked up a small stone as a remembrance and started back down. Linda had gone only thirty feet or so when the trail abruptly ended in a thicket of evergreens. Puzzled, she retraced her steps to the summit, saw another trail, and took it. When it led to a steep drop, she began to worry as she returned to the boulders again. Then she spotted a third possible trail, but when it, too, ended in a barrier of branches, she panicked. Then the importance of going downhill—no matter in what direction—swelled in her brain and obscured every other thought. She pushed on, blindly ducking under trees, knocking aside branches, slipping on fallen leaves until finally a small, sane inner voice pointed out she could be going down the opposite side of the mountain, away from her car. Her solitude suddenly did not seem so lovely. Linda remembered the sign she had seen the day before in the ski area, "Closed for spring. See you next ski season." 225

Had she left a paper trail that her husband could follow if she didn't return? No, just the scribbled number of the park service. Heart pumping too fast, dry-mouthed, dizzy with fear, she forced herself to retrace her flight from the summit once again. This time Linda stood on the boulder until her breathing slowed. Reaching into her pocket, her fingers closed on the souvenir pebble. Apologizing, she knelt and returned the stone to the earth, then willed herself to descend just as she had ascended the first time. Walking backwards, she bumped into a second boulder, climbed it, and there on the far side was another trail which looked right. Praying a quick thanks, she dared look at her watch—12:25—and started down, jogging when the terrain was not too rough. Twice she slipped, grazing hands and knees, but she kept plugging downwards, greeting each familiar landmark with relief—the fallen trunk blocking the trail, the passage between two lightning-struck trees, the swampy part of the trail, the rock road at last. Hurry! Finally the roof of the rental car was visible through the trees and then the car itself, circled by two huge black Labs, red tongues lolling. However, it was 12:55 and Linda had conquered panic and a mountain; what were two hounds from hell? Striding firmly between them, she fell into the car and tore down the mountain, arriving at the condo in a spray of gravel and dust at l:05. Dragging her hot, dusty, dehydrated body inside, she found her husband leisurely dressing. "You're early," he said. "Why's your face so purple?" 226

Deborah J. Lindsey Greenwood, Indiana, USA

Yesterday's Garden Pulling aside the lace, I drink in the fresh morning. The warmth of the sun and the fragrance of apple blossoms fill me with hope and I long to crumble the rich, brown earth in my hands. My garden sings a siren's song that excites and teases my winter-weary soul. I want to dig! A brown bird wings past and I follow his flight until he is swallowed up by the trees in the orchard. I gaze into the stillness where he disappeared and think of him there, small and brown, resting amidst the flowering branches. He flings his voice skyward and it lingers there a moment before drifting slowly back down to earth. With cupped hands, I reach out and pretend to catch his clear, sweet notes and make them mine. I slip off my shoes and feel the tickle of new grass as I walk through the garden gate. I check for signs of the Morning Glories. The brown earth seems darker, bathed in dew rather than in sunlight. The early morning is a peaceful, reflective time and I remember onions, lettuce, carrots, and beans. The neatly plowed rows stand ready to receive seed. They smile happy, brown smiles and I know that they remember, too. I smile back and bend down to retrieve a forgotten sign. It has weathered-gray over winter, and the bright red letters are faded, but still readable. I plant the sign in the rear of the garden next to the woods. "Welcome Bunnies!" it reads. A poor creature I would be not to share the wealth. I try to imagine the bunnies enjoying a midnight snack of lettuce and new green peas. 228

The thought pleases me and I smile again under layers of bandages. I look around the room and wonder if my eyes reveal my secret garden thoughts. The room is stiff-starched white and smells of antiseptic. The sheets are cold and unfriendly and I doubt that even the brightest summer sun could begin to warm them. If I strain a bit, I can just see the tops of the oak trees in the park. New leaves, fragile and delicate, whisper to me with sweet, green voices. I look down at my at my care-worn hands. The liver spots are too numerous to count anymore. I used to know exactly how many there were. "There are three more today," I would tell my husband. He would kiss my hand and quote part of Robert Browning's verse, "'Grow old along with me! The best is yet to be.'" With a smile, he always added, "And I will love you forever." How does one ever grow so old? I wonder! His love is a warm blanket and I pull it up to my chin and tuck in my feet. I smile, knowing he is loving me still, as he lies, quiet and patient, beneath the grass. The daffodils and wild violets must be in bloom by now, I think. Blue veins throb from the needle hidden under cotton and tape. I flex my fingers and touch the palm of my hand. I am amazed to discover that they have not forgotten the feel of a spade.

229

Litzi Hartley

White Wedding Carmen went to the refrigerator and got a beer. She opened it and walked back to her bedroom. Papers and letters covered the carpeted floor. There were three different piles, but a lot of the papers were just randomly scattered. She ran her fingers through her tangled red hair and she lit a cigarette. She stood there smoking, in cutoffs and a very old, Rush concert jersey. "Holy shit." She mumbled. "How in the hell am I ever going to get through this mess tonight? I suppose it's my own fault for putting this off until now." Carmen grabbed an ashtray and she sat back down on the floor. She picked up a photo of herself and a young man. She was in college; the photo was taken at the Fiji Island Spring Housedance. She wore a low-cut, lime green halter dress, which offset her hair and green eyes very well. Her date wore jeans and a blue, Hawaiian print shirt. He was a type of man that appeared frequently in photos or memories of Carmen's past. He was about six feet tall with light blond hair and large, catlike blue eyes. "Keith Stadler, the wrestler…all 210 pounds of him...that was 1983. Jesus, I was nineteen years old. He got me pregnant and I never had the guts to tell him. I didn't tell him a lot of things." Carmen tossed the photo onto a pile as she smoked her cigarette. She picked up an old Valentine. It was shaped like a big, pink heart and had roses printed on it. Inside, written in childlike, sloppy handwriting, was: "You are the melody which makes my heart sing. Happy Valentine's Day 1986." 231

"Mark Giacomi, the budding Eddie Van Halen. The guy who loved me so much but expected me to drop everything if he got a gig. He stood me up more often than not. I was already seeing my fiancé when he sent me this." Carmen tossed the card on top of the housedance photo. She then found another photo. It was of a young man: flaxen-haired, blue-eyed, with a sunburned face. He was dressed in a Royal Air Force uniform. He was British. His name was Tom. Carmen met him in France in 1984. She spent a year there in school, and she met him because he was a tourist in distress. He was sitting at the next table in a restaurant. As he spoke no French, he had a terrible time trying to order. She was fluent in French, so she went to his rescue. Her friendly gesture culminated in a whirlwind romance which lasted seven weeks and through four different countries. She tossed the photo on top of the Valentine. Carmen continued the process of drinking, smoking, and sorting for several hours. She had her letters, cards, and photos in three different piles: one to dispose of, one to save but hide in boxes labeled "high school report cards," and one which was safe enough to keep in her desk. The letters and photos to be saved but hidden were things that Carmen couldn't bear to throw away, but if her fiancé, Rob, found them, he would cause problems. Rob was intensely jealous of any man who was a part of Carmen's past, no matter how long ago, and no matter how bitter the ending. Carmen collected the pile of things to destroy and threw them into a trash bag. She walked through the 232

kitchen, opened a cabinet, and got a bottle of 151 proof rum. She opened the bag and soaked the contents with rum. She got a book of matches and went outside. It was hot, very humid, and still. Scattered clouds almost covered the black night sky. The gibbous moon was huge and yellow. Carmen could hear the sound of distant traffic. She walked across the parking lot and cut around the building. There sat a dumpster. She opened the lid and dumped the contents of the trash bag. She lit three matches and tossed them onto the pile of papers and trash. They began to burn, and soon the flames rose above the top of the dumpster. When she could see that everything was burning well, she slammed the lid shut. Tiny flames shot out around the lid's rim, but soon the flames subdued. She turned around and walked back across the lot to her apartment. With her mind at ease, she locked the door, turned out the lights, and went to bed. A large, yellow sun blazed in the June sky. It was hot and stiflingly humid. Carmen exited the silver limousine. As she stepped out, her nylons caught on the door. They snagged at the ankle. "Shit," she whispered angrily. Her father got out from the other side. He came around the car and took her arm. Carmen looked lovely. Her lean, bare torso was tan, and her red hair cascaded onto her shoulders. She wore a head wreath of pink roses, and pink silk roses adorned the shoulder-line of her ivory dress. Her skirt fell into generous waves of lace. She walked towards the church arm in arm with her father. His gray hair was elegantly groomed and his steel blue eyes gleamed. He looked handsome in his grey tuxedo. 233

"How many Bloody Marys did you have with breakfast?" He asked reproachingly. "Shhh...two." "And how many beers with lunch?" "Two," she whispered indignantly. The doors of the pristine white colonial church stood open. The organ began to play. Carmen and her father walked down the aisle, which was strung with ivory ribbon. Pink roses decorated the pews and candleholders. Carmen walked to Rob and took his arm. His green eyes sparkled and he smiled. The preacher opened the Bible. He wore a hooded black robe. It looked more like a monk's robe than a Presbyterian minister's robe. He looked up. He had a skull's face and skeleton hands. Carmen stood in shock. She let out a visceral scream like a banshee in the Irish woods. She raced back down the aisle and bolted out the door. The weather had suddenly changed. It had turned cold and cloudy, and a dense fog had set in. The groom, the attendants, and the minister chased after her. She ran towards the cemetery behind the church. The hem of her gown dragged through the mud and grass. She kept screaming as she fled through the fog. Outlines of tombstones could be seen through the mist. Carmen saw people standing in the graveyard. She slowed her run, and then she stopped. She wandered towards the people, but shook with terror. "Hello, Carmen," a British voice said. It was Tom, an ex-lover. "You left me for another man," Mark's voice called. "Why didn't you tell me earlier that you loved me?" 234

Keith asked. "You didn't tell me until six months after we broke up, and that did neither of us much good." Various voices kept calling out to Carmen. She walked towards her ex-lovers, touching them, kissing them. For some of her ex-lovers, it was wonderful because they had been separated for a long time. Then, Tom tore the wreath from her head. Her hair fell into wild cascades. From behind, a hand grabbed her by the hair and held her in a headlock. "You're coming with us now," the skeleton minister hissed. Carmen tried to get loose, but the skeleton minister dragged her by the hair. Keith grabbed her skirt and tore off a long piece of fabric. He tied it around his head like a headband. "Goodbye, Carmen," he called. "Please come back to me," Tom called. "I never had the chance to show you how good I could be to you." Suddenly, Carmen awoke with her face buried in Rob's dark chest hair. She clutched his shoulders desperately. "What's the matter?" he asked sharply. "I had a bad dream." "Well, if that don't beat all." Carmen got out of bed and began changing into her clothes. "Where the hell do you think you're going?" Rob asked as he sat up and grabbed her arm. "I'm going to take a walk. I'm a little upset." "Let me pump that upset right out of you." He grabbed Carmen's arm again. He got her down on 235

the bed, and he began to remove her clothes. He ran his fingers through her hair, kissed the side of her perfumed neck, and Carmen closed her eyes.

236

Robin Bayne Lutherville, Maryland, USA Current Publications: HIS BROTHER'S CHILD, Mountainview THE WILL OF TIME, New Concepts

The Club and the Clock "I'm not a tease." "Tees. Golf tees, golf balls. Need to find a glove, too." The joke had grown stale, as if they had puffed it out one too many times and the residue hung in the air like tar. He didn't seem to notice, though, as his attention was directed to the assorted equipment at his feet. She loved his size-ten feet in their brown and white saddle shoes; loved the smell of the leather polish he used. Nancy saw she'd lost him, at least for the moment. Typical for any Sunday morning, as predictable as the automatic timer on her coffeemaker. Typical as the clucking cuckoo noise from that darned clock, scratching the noon announcement instead of singing. Who had bought that thing anyway? Otherwise, her traditional living room remained silent, day and night. Predictably, he asked her to come with him. What would he do if she agreed to go one Sunday? She gave her usual response. "No, thanks. I'll wait for Tim." She sipped her coffee, that was strong but comforting, steaming in a green ceramic mug. He nodded, his head bobbing like a golf ball settling onto the head of a tee. Just as if it were waiting to be smacked, almost shivering with anticipation. With one hand he smoothed thick velour headcovers onto each club. "Thanks, hon. I appreciate it, as always. Love ya–" His lips barely brushed her forehead before he was gone. Watching his backside, she tried to picture him in a Scottish kilt, like one of the original golf players would have worn. It was still a very attractive bottom, but 238

instead she conjured up Mel Gibson as he looked in Braveheart. Now that man was unpredictable. "Mom," Tim said, "thanks for waiting around. I brought Carla." He paused, then reached into the refrigerator for a bottle of cola. "Where is she? I've been dying to meet her," she said, smiling at her stepson. He had grown even taller, she was sure, since his last trip home. "In the car. Just wanted to make sure you were home." He grabbed another bottle and closed the avocado paneled door. "Dad playing golf?" "How'd you guess?" She knew her answer sounded flip, but the irritation racing inside her veins lessened, and she felt better for it. Tim grinned and went to get his friend. His twill pants stayed crisp at the pleats. He looked impressive for a college student, clean cut with short hair that stayed clean and soft. She followed him through the back door, stepping barefoot onto grey patio flagstones. Tim helped a blonde pixie from his white '65 Mustang. He introduced her as Carla; he was proud, in love, if her memory of that look served correctly. She extended her hand to the pixie, an adorable girl of nineteen or twenty in a white sundress with little flowers. She even shuffled her tiny feet. "Would you like to come in?" she asked, watching the young people twist tops off of their sodas. "Can't stay. Carla has a golf lesson in a little while, and then we have term papers to work on." Nancy nodded, forcing a smile. "Well, it was nice to see you for a few minutes." God, she hated how she 239

sounded like her own pathetic mother, grateful for any family time at all. Carla asked to use the bathroom, so Nancy walked her into the house, through the kitchen. She wondered if the pixie thought Tim's home was large or small. Could the girl reach the uppermost cabinets in her parents' home? She waited for her to return, rubbing the back of a vinyl chair, swiveling it left to right under her fingers. "Come with us," Carla said, her pert nose leading the bounce into the room. "Come watch my lesson. It will be a riot—it's my first one ever." Nancy smiled. The girl was sweet. Perhaps, if Tim didn't mind, she would go along, strictly as a silent observer. After all, she didn't understand what pulled her husband to the time-consuming game. Then, maybe she'd stay later and have lunch at the club. They predictably served a mouth-watering tuna melt. "So, what do you think?" Tim asked, passing time while Carla changed into shorts. Nancy had been amused at the girl's excitement over a brand new, Callaway shirt Tim had bought her. To Nancy the shirt was dull, not trendy or sexy or young. "I like her. She's cute." Tim nodded, cleaning one of his fancy clubs with a brush, a chore golfers typically used to kill time. They waited outside the Pro Shop, between carts, caddies, and the putting green. "Thanks for bringing me," she went on, always insecure about the feelings her stepson held for her. There was so little history between them. His smile was all the answer she needed. "No 240

problem, Mom." It felt good to hear those words, made her feel warm in her gut. Had it been for Tim or for her husband that she'd gotten married? With a jerky motion, Tim slammed his driver back into the leather bag, turned, and stood in front of her. His face turned white, grim replacing grin. "Let's go wait in the clubhouse," he said, and she could tell he was looking past her. At what? She whirled before he could stop her, her stomach clenched in dread of the revelation she'd always expected. It was him, Tim's father, and her, Tim's mother, sharing the joys of the nineteenth hole, arms wrapped around each other like old-time lovers. Which, of course, they were. "I'm sorry," he said, his voice a whisper. She patted his arm, while he mumbled something about the embrace probably being innocent. "It's okay, Tim. I've needed to get out on Sundays myself, you know, to develop some of my own interests. I've been considering it for a while." She kept watching, unable to drag her attention from the couple. Her breath stuck in her lungs, hard to draw, like the time little Billy next door had swung a golf club across her windpipe. How could she explain that she was stunned, yet not surprised at all? "I know things might change between you and Dad," Tim said, his gaze also fixed on his natural parents. "But you and I, we'll stay the same, right?" Nancy sighed a little sob. He had the same fears she harbored, and relief washed through her, making her 241

stomach weak as if someone had squeezed dishsoap into her coffee. Thank goodness, she had only lost one man today. A masculine throat cleared behind her. "Would you like me to arrange a golf lesson for you, Mrs. Williams?" The tanned pro had come up behind them, leading Carla, who looked adorable in her new outfit. "I think I just had one, thank you." At midnight the cuckoo scratched at his wooden house, and Nancy recalled that it was his first wife who had bought the stupid thing. Although her life had fragmented twelve hours earlier, Nancy was dry-eyed and in control of her emotions. Her windpipe had recovered. She brewed coffee and sipped it, the bitter taste almost appropriate. Of course, he had an explanation, and it made sense. She could have accepted it and went on with her life. He didn't care enough to lie. Perhaps she would have taken him back. Had someone asked her last month, she would have predicted her own forgiveness. But not now. It was time to step out of character. She had a fleeting image of that cuckoo meeting a seven-iron. Under her bare feet, a tee poked into her skin. No, she was no tease, but he had teased her with promises of lifelong love and a country club life, and had not fulfilled either dream. No, that wasn't quite right—he had given her a son, and a new understanding of course etiquette. Ha. Perhaps, sometimes, you have to tease a new life from the fates. 242

Rosalyn Wraight Illinois, USA Current Publication: WOMAN JUSTICE, DLSIJ Press

Steeplechase "Four score and seven—what the hell does that mean anyway?" "What the hell does it matter?" "I suppose it doesn't. It just crossed my mind," I conceded and shook my head in an attempt to hurl the nonsense from my skull. It didn't work. My gray matter continued to ooze monosyllabic banter to each synapse, shooting impulses that rushed to my vocal cords, forcing me to announce everything like some PA system. May I have your attention please? Why the hell do they ask that, knowing there is no choice, not really? "Like I said, I suppose it doesn't matter," I repeated. Then what did? The day stretching before us? The monthly ritual of following her around town? If not, then what? Surely it had to be something profound—enough to justify two calls on the car phone to the office, claiming sickness that prohibited work. It was a sickness all right: sick to death of robotic routine, arbitrary demands, and impervious dreams. The tires squealed as I rounded the corner more quickly than I had intended. My coffee sloshed and splattered. Sunglasses were flailed across the dashboard and onto the floor. Whiplash. Tonguelash. She franticly seized an armrest and the console. Her head twisted toward me. I expected it to spin, projectile vomit shooting at the windshield, attesting to the demon within her that wanted to lunge at me. "Help me," my gray matter oozed—backwards, into the very flesh of her abdomen. 244

"For God's sake!" she spat. "Can't you—" And then—right there—right in front of us, like a hundred times before—we saw her. I screeched to a full stop and we just stared, both of us motionless, mouths hanging open; maybe the saliva had even begun to pool and descend toward our chins. "Just look at her!" I declared, as I clutched the steering wheel with both hands and pulled myself forward. "The entire meaning of life is right there in front of us." "Ain't it just," she agreed, paying no mind to the droplets of coffee being sucked into her pant leg. She smiled, a broadening of the face that convoluted every fiber of stress and anxiety into a great tapestry, a work of art. "I love her, you know," I declared. "Sometimes she is my only reason for living. Well, her and sometimes—" "She's mine, I tell you, mine. I saw her first!" "Like hell you did! For once these little gray buggers shooting out of my head like bean sprouts have a divine purpose: I'm older than you, I saw her first! Now don't act juvenile." She shook her head and rolled her eyes. I expected the wrath of her humor to subsist our play, but it didn't. She continued to stare at her and then, damn it, she suddenly turned melancholy on me. "I wonder sometimes if he left because I couldn't give him my undivided attention," she began. Her mind's reversal into the past was nearly audible. "He wanted kids, you know. I figured I already had one, every time I tossed his fricking jockey shorts into the washer, or 245

poached his fricking eggs every fricking morning of our fricking marriage. Truth be told, I'd just as soon have poached him. Just 'cuz there's a fricking hole, doesn't mean ya gotta put something in it!" Okay, so the melancholia was short-lived, as shortlived as a marriage onto which the gray matter oozed an "until death do we part." There were lots of kinds of death, some much worse than being denied breath. "Fricking," I repeated, snatching but one from her long trail of them. "Yeah, that word'll assure my spot in some heavenly afterlife. ‘But God, I went through my entire life never once uttering the real F-word!' 'B-word, the F-word is the Pass-word. To hell with you.' And with a mere wave of His hand, I'll be back where I started. My luck." She laughed. Her head nodded as only true empathy could dictate. Suddenly, she screamed, "She's leaving. Follow her! Follow her!" Frantically, I grabbed the shifter, intent on shoving it into drive, only to discover I had never successfully parked. The car lurched forward and off we went. Like two old broads with gum on their shoes, we tailed her, we trailed her, trying desperately to see but not be seen. There was comfort in watching her brake lights, her blinkers, even the sunshine glinting on the chrome. It was as if she knew we followed her and mechanically winked at us, urging us on. Occasionally, I'd spy a face in the sideview mirror. It was all such a voyeuristic thrill, and yet, it forced me to beckon my self-control to slow us down. The last thing we needed was a cop to cite our indecent 246

exposure of needs. Finally, she pulled into another parking lot. We stopped not fifteen feet from her, and inconspicuously returned to our conversation, in fear of getting caught. My peripheral vision minded her as she went on about her business while my mind continued on its bloody tour of duty. "I think sometimes I'm a mouse." I began with a bitter taste in my mouth. "A mouse trapped in a burning, exit-less maze. It doesn't matter how fast I go, I'll get burned no matter which way I turn. I think like that and then I holler at myself for the unseemly selfpity." "Yeah," she said with a laugh, "I got a ring around my ass from sitting on the pity-pot too long, too." "So what would make it right for you? More little clandestines with her? A lottery check? Someone else's jockey shorts in the washer? What?" "Time, I think." "Four score and seven?" "When I was younger," she began, emphasizing the ger, "it seemed liked I had all the time in the world. Then those little lines started on my face. I think they're a perpetual Etch-a-Sketch® working to make the ultimate frown when ya gotta look back on it all and say goodbye. Age makes me feel like I'm being dragged to the inevitable end, all the while kicking and screaming." She paused and then thoughtfully added, "It feels like I forgot something along the way and I can't go back and grab it, not if I'm being dragged in an opposing direction." "So what are you saying? What would make it right for you?" 247

"Just that it would stop for five minutes, so I could go back and find out what it was that I missed. Let me get it, then maybe this dragging wouldn't feel so much against my will." "Recapture your youth, is that what you mean?" "No, I left my lava lamp and an 8-track tape back in '75. I want them back." She rolled her eyes like a timelapsed moonrise. Again, we watched her get back into her vehicle. Knowing the drill, I followed, but this leg of the journey was filled with nothing but silence. Perhaps inside we were both contemplating the greater meaning. Perhaps we were digesting our guilt over escaping the 9–5, only to dump our hefty helpings on someone else's plate. Maybe there was just nothing to say, or maybe, too much. Ooze on, gray matter, ooze on. I pulled back on our pursuit. She neared the part of our route which we knew left us the most vulnerable to getting caught. 11:05, she was right on schedule. She drove effortlessly into the parking lot of Mini Market, eased next to the building, and immediately thrust the vehicle in reverse. She moved directly toward us and then circled around to a side door. Once she parked, I entered the lot and we stared at her again. I lowered my window, retrieved a lighter, and proceeded to light a cigarette. She stared at the smooth, dancing flame and asked, "And you? What would put the fire out in your exit-less maze?" "Hmm," I sounded as I began concocting my lifesaving scenario. I began arranging images in my mind: 248

memories, encumbrances, obstacles, pitfalls, all the things in my life that I felt were in my way. Then I tried to interpose my fantasies: of answers, of all those things I figured would make me feel as if I had arrived, somewhere, anywhere. But nothing—a complete and literal blank—filled the canvas of my imagination. It confounded me to draw a blank on such a heavy question. "Ya know," I confessed, "I haven't a clue. Isn't that bizarre? Perhaps I spent so much time bitching that I never quite got around to seeing if there were any alternatives or not." With that, I laughed one of those fake laughs, the one that announces failure—May I have your attention please—without summoning the subsequent humiliation. Sometimes I figured that if I spoke the words for the Fates, they would voluntarily go silent. "There she goes!" I shouted as the object of our affection began driving away. "Hurry up, do your thing!" My best friend, my only true friend, jumped out of the car and hurried into the Mini Market. Within a matter of minutes, she returned just as I lost sight of the vehicle down the busy thoroughfare. I swung the passenger door open for her and she fumbled with two large coffees and a small grocery bag. Before the door even slammed shut, I had the car tearing out of the driveway. I aimed the metal monster and its posterior cloud of smoke in the direction of our prey. After a few short minutes, her vehicle was again within our sights. It pulled smoothly into yet another parking lot—this time, the gravel side-lot of Oscar's Deli. I pulled the car to the curb across the street and killed the engine. Then we began to get ourselves situated for the 249

next half-hour, the pinnacle of our monthly adventure. I sipped the hot, creamed coffee, demanding its caffeine to rejuvenate me. She tossed the grocery bag to me and I dumped the trove between the seats. A line of Swiss Rolls®, Nutty Bars®, Banana Twins®, Oatmeal Crème Pies®, and Fudge Rounds® cordoned us off from the real world. I made my first precious selection, skillfully removed the cellophane, and slouched back in my seat. She did the same, and eventually, we were synonyms who continued to stare are her from afar. "You think she's pretty?" she asked me with a question mark twisting her crème-dotted face. I studied the scene before me. I thought—I thought hard as I shoved the sweet snack into my drooling mouth. "Not really. That hat's pretty sucky. But her smile, her sweetness…how could anyone not lust after her? Why, she could make the straightest of women question their sexuality!" She, too, thrust the sweetness between her lips, closing her mouth with a triumphant Mmm. With a nod, a blink, and a thumb in the air, she smiled at the Little Debbie® truck, at her, and said, "Beats the crap out of jockey shorts—no pun intended."

250

Kay Jimerson Sandy, Utah, USA

The Grass Tomorrow Shelley feels shy touching her mother's neck, tucking in the collar. She warms the shampoo between her hands before applying it. That's what Doreen would do. "Can you bend over any more, Mom?" Joan shifts, rests her forehead between the liquid Joy® and an S.O.S.® pad. "How's that?" "I'll try not to splash." Shelley works the shampoo into a lather. Her mother's hair is brittle and blonde at the tips, coarse and gray at the roots. When Shelley was twelve, she got into her mother's supplies and bleached her bangs. Maybe it's the dye, Shelley thinks, or the permanents, seeping through the pores, destroying the organ, stealthy, insidious. More and more studies show—all those laboratory rats: there's got to be a connection. Shelley glances out the kitchen window, past the snarl of icicles. Already daylight is failing. Somebody was out shoveling earlier but gave up after clearing the condo steps, two stories down. A teenage girl hobbles by wearing open-toed high heels. She leaves a trail of exclamation points in the snow. "Easy! You're pulling. You mad at me, Shell?" "Sorry. Just about done." Shelley tried to get out of it. When Joan said she couldn't reach and needed a hand, Shelley joked, "You don't want me in your hair, Mom. After all the grief I gave you?" "You were a handful," Joan agreed. The way Shelley remembers it, she was always in hot 252

water: for slitting the seat of her brand-new jeans, for painting her lips black, for smoking. She never got away with anything. When I'm a grown-up, she thought, when I'm a mom, I'll never… Shelley fills a measuring cup with water above the numbered lines, all the way to the beak. She pours the water evenly over her mother's hair and rinses it section by section. "Not quite done." Shelley flips the cap off the balsam conditioner. It smells clean like sawdust. She kneads the goo into her mother's hair, which is already kinking. "This stays on thirty minutes." She wraps the hair turbanfashion in a towel. Joan's blouse is damp. It is yolk yellow, trimmed with eggshell lace, a get-well gift from someone. All Shelley brought to the hospital was a card, and then she didn't want to give it to her mother. Too late— Joan spotted it protruding from her handbag. "Is that for me?" What could Shelley have done then but hope it wasn't taken wrong? The card was green, a hill carpeted with grass, the sort Shelley used to somersault down. "I'm lucky you're my mom. I inherited your beauty, your charm, your brains—" "But did you have to give me your flat chest, too?" Fortunately, Joan laughed. Shelley cried when Luke said she was just like her mother, all because she made the perfect scratch pancakes. "Am not, I'm not at all like her," she said, slamming a crock of apricot jam down so hard, its spoon flew up and stuck in her hair. When they were newlyweds, Luke used to make a tray and serve her in bed. The flowers and love notes had 253

stopped, too. She wanted the romance to last and last. Shelley tries not to look, tries not to see how the yellow fabric cleaves to the lumpy bandage and bunches under the arm. Was it the deodorants and anti-perspirants that clogged the pores, kept the body from ridding itself of waste? "Oh dear, I'm all wet." Joan begins to unbutton. "Wait, don't—" "Don't come unglued. You don't have to look." Shelley's luggage blocks the bedroom doorway. Joan pushes a suitcase aside, cradles her arm. Now I've done it, Shelley thinks. I've gone and said the wrong thing. I didn't fly all the way here—I didn't leave Luke and little Gary—to make Mom feel like a freak. The cannery supervisor looked sore when Shelley asked for the week off. "We got six truckloads of grapes out there, and they won't keep." Shelley doesn't know whether she'll have a job when she goes home. She can't eat fruit after seeing it overripe and bruised, stewed in its own juice. She gags at the sight of warts, dirty ashtrays, bad teeth. How can she pretend her mother's disfigurement is nothing? When Joan told her about reconstructive mammoplasty, how Dr. Collins recommended tattooing an areola and making an erect nipple out of ear cartilage, Shelley tried not to listen. "He said it won't taper, it won't look natural, and it won't match the other. But the alternative—" Shelley never liked her own breasts, really. They are small like those of pubescent models advertising beginner bras in the Sunday paper. She tried creams; she tried a 254

pink, plastic exercise tool. "At least you'll never sag," a busty friend consoled her. "Have you considered implants?" a hairdresser—not Doreen—asked. Would she be able to breastfeed? Didn't they harden and leak? What if she got a lump? There are too many what-ifs. "Neapolitan!" Luke teased that first time. "Vanilla breasts, strawberry nipples, chocolate tan-line." He made Shelley feel okay. "And they're the same size. Perfect symmetry." When Joan gave the biopsy report over the phone, Shelley choked as though she inhaled an ice cube. All she could manage was "Oh." Later, reading the pamphlet Joan sent, Shelley realized her own risk was suddenly three times greater simply because she was her mother's daughter. I'm glad, she had thought, glad I don't have a girl, but a son—a fat, freckle-faced four-year-old—who needs me. Shelley felt herself in the shower: Circling the nipples and out to the armpits, probing, dreading what she might find, not letting go until she was satisfied. "At her age, it's not like it matters so much," Luke tried to console her. Shelley knew better. "Maybe to you." Joan emerges from the bedroom wearing a cotton top with blue boats rowing across the pocket. Although it is February, she looks tan and fit. You hardly notice how the left shoulder slumps, Shelley tells herself. Other than her hair color, her hairstyle, she hasn't changed. How could 255

Dad? If he could see her smiling now, if he only knew what she's going through… Maybe it was the stress. The divorce was nearly two years ago, but all it takes is one insurgent cell. Shelley shakes her head, surveying the kitchen. Clutter, clutter everywhere: carnations from well-wishers next to a Kleenex® box stuffed with coupons, sheet music pinned with magnets to the fridge, dry cat food spilled on the floor. The condo is so unlike their home in the foothills, where Joan was the model housewife. After the divorce, she rented a condo on E Street, within walking distance of downtown. She found a job as a cashier at a pharmacy, joined the church choir and a bowling league, and even went on an occasional date. Shelley is the one who can't get used to the idea. She finds the broom fallen behind the refrigerator. "Don't bother with that." Joan's fingertips brush her front. "It itches. Dr. Collins says that's a good sign." Shelley minds her mother and puts away the broom. "You know what, Mom? I'm going to treat you to a makeover. Who does your hair?" "That's sweet of you. But Ludwig and I need time to review the house rules. Five days on his own, and he thinks he can get away with murder." Joan shoos the white cat sitting on the stove wagging his tail like a metronome. "It'll make you feel better. It does me—a good haircut makes me feel like new." Shelley blushes, regretting that last word. Someone once told her everything is in a state of decay, which is why she mopes all winter and Luke accuses her of 256

sulking. "Spring will get here when it gets here. Promise," he says. Still Shelley frets, and when the snow finally melts, she stretches out on the yellow, matted grass and searches for a green blade, one that isn't mottled or split. Joan turns the thermostat up a notch. The furnace yawns. "No, no makeover. Besides, the roads are slick. Why don't you give me a trim? Is it too much trouble?" "I don't know how." "That's okay, I trust you. Just snip off the dead ends while I catch up with my mail." Joan nods toward a mound of cards and letters ready to tumble off a chair. "I already told you. The conditioner has to stay on thirty minutes. And then it'll be time to start supper." That sounds lame, Shelley knows. "We'll rinse after it's cut." Joan opens the fridge, sniffs the milk, and drains it down the sink. "How does pizza sound?" "Okay. Anything but pineapple." "It makes the crust soggy, anyway. Want a pop? I have diet." "Not now." What does the warning say? Or was it only on saccharine drinks? Everything is suspect. While Joan is on the phone placing their order, Shelley gets the scissors and a hand mirror. Mom starts chemo next week, she reminds herself. Clumps will probably fall out, anyway. "Just take off the very ends." Joan slits open an envelope with her comb handle as though parting a head of hair. Getting a haircut used to make Shelley anxious. She hated herself bibbed with sopping brown hair clinging to 257

her scalp like boiled spinach. Her jaw was too square, her eyes too close. Everywhere she looked, a mirror disclosed a flaw in her complexion. If her hair didn't turn out just right, she wasn't one who could think, "Oh well, that's that." A bad haircut was enough to send her to bed for a week. Finally, Shelley found Doreen. After some small talk, Doreen confessed, "I got my cosmetology license just last week." Too late to run—Doreen's scissors had already taken a bite close to the scalp. When it was over, Shelley didn't feel like hiding under a sheet. Doreen even showed her how to tame her cowlick with mousse. Joan returns a letter to its envelope. "What I really need is a new color. What do you think, am I too old to go red?" She scoops a lock off her lap. "Shell?" Shelley pauses. She examines her mother's face, her mother's hair…the hair…the face. The hair skirts one ear, hems the other. "Oh, no! How could I—" "Never mind. It's not your fault." The ice cube lodges in Shelley's throat. "But I messed up!" "It happens. We'll make an appointment and get it fixed. I'll have to go with a shorter style, is all." "You're not furious? You won't get depressed?" Her mother's hair might as well be her own. Joan studies her lopsided reflection in the hand mirror. Her eyes darken and brim. She cocks one shoulder as though to ask, "What's the use?" A shovel, scraping the sidewalk below, answers. Shelley swallows. "It'll grow back in no time." She 258

takes a breath, lowers her head, and blows, whisking away the hair clippings that fringe her mother's brow. "It'll grow back in no time. It will. Promise."

259