Issue Twenty - Two
Crack the Spine Literary Magazine Issue Twenty-Two April 30, 2012 Edited by Kerri Farrell Foley Collection copyright 2012 by Crack The Spine
Contents David Spiering…………….....Poem Caused by Viewing the Last Slice of Lemon Pie on the Plate David Howard…………………………..………….……...……His Treat Adam Rooke………...……….…….………………………….….Outlines Rachelle Mathis…….……..……………....………….Looking at the Sky Sikeea Graham……….……...…….….…...Somnambulated Hospitality Rich Murphy………………………...…….……...…The Infiltrated State
A Poem Caused by Viewing the Last Slice of Lemon Pie on the Plate By David Spiering
the face of death has youthful bloated expressions from swallowing too much winter sunlight it can’t burp out any necessary histories to convince scared isolated weak minds of how it’s the foremost act to fear meanwhile we watch its choking expressions the sunlight squeezes out of its mouth corners and it looks like lemon pie filling we see it and hope it feels young and bemused by the sweetness and it won’t look for us too soon
David Spiering has published three chapbooks and one full length collection My Father's Gloves out from Sol Books of Minneapolis. To support himself while writing he has been a co-op baker, a natural foods and produce clerk, a cook and a university English instructor. He is working on redrafting a novella and has another poetry collection ready to submit.
His Treat By David Howard
They had come to Pleasure Beach for the weekend, finding a small room in a motel stuck between a seafood restaurant and a fried dough stand. It only had a double bed, which made Ruth smile, thinking it had been a while since they had slept in one. He wondered about the smell of the dough frying next door bothering his allergies. “It’s a weekend away. We deserve it, Stu,” she said, not adding that he’d been annoying lately, although he knew it, too, picking at little things with more gusto than he picked at the bigger ones in their life. “It’s terrible to get old,” he’d mumbled the other night, more to himself, than Ruth, and that’s when she made plans for them to get away for the weekend. He was worried about the cost, as he always did, while Ruth just went ahead and packed. He’d almost cancelled the day before, his stomach “feeling funny” as he often told her it did, spending even more time in the bathroom, as if to provide supporting evidence. But she handed him a bottle of Pepto-Bismol, though the CVS brand, Ruth always so adept at buying things, and said he’d be fine. The drive from Greenville had been quiet, Ruth occasionally talking about a neighbor whose husband had just died, or the man at the gas station with the son who had been sent overseas to Afghanistan. Stu mentioned his own days in the service, knowing she had probably heard the story before. When he talked about how much money had to be spent on the house, she changed the subject. He worried about not having enough, living on their Social Security and her small pension. They’d been to Pleasure Beach every year after they were married, until Ruth suggested they go somewhere else. He balked, as he did when any change was discussed, but knew she just wanted to break their routine. They agreed on New York City to a see a show and a ball game, something for each of them.
Now back on Ocean Boulevard, he noted the changes along the main street, pointing some of them out to Ruth – the new food stands, arcades and surfboard stores. She pointed to the Italian restaurant they’d enjoyed so much and suggested they eat supper there that night. Stu didn’t say he was worried about the spicy food and his stomach. They watched the tide come in, people at play on the beach, stropping to sit on a bench in front of an ice scream stand, he telling Ruth it was “his treat,” getting each of them a double dip cone. “They had no rooms with twin beds, Ruth?” he asked. “It will be fine,” she replied, touching his arm. They smiled at each other as the cones dripped on brown spotted hands. A pleasure now, with others remembered.
David Howard lives in Rhode Island, and has published fiction in Boston Literary Magazine, Apollo's Lyre, Blue Lake Review, Eunoia Review and Anthologies published by the Writer's Circle of Rhode Island. He is a former newspaper editor of many years and has an MFA from Vermont College.
Outlines By Adam Rooke
There's her holy copper and sulphur, but no children. The white sheet is unrolled each morning, not unpainted.
There is mica, crushed pearl, kohl, and the indent of down, even spittle- but no form.
Step and skip of the rope, but no repeat. Colours are glossed over one another. But I can't stop smiling, to mask a glass jaw.
Adam Rooke lives in Sligo, Ireland and works in a second hand bookshop called Bookmart. Whilst waiting for customers to show up, he writes poems. He is previously unpublished.
Looking at the Sky By Rachelle Mathis
Anna’s favorite movie is Breakfast at Tiffany’s and she is a modern day Holly Golightly. In my twenty-five years of being her sister, I’ve never been able to figure out if it’s an act or if it’s natural. Which, I suppose, makes her even more like Holly. Her life plays out like scenes on a movie screen, and the rest of us are just the audience. We occasionally get flashes of bright on our faces in the dark, but we’re not the show. Anna’s problem is that no man has ever stood in the rain and told her that they belong together. She’s the Holly before Holly was saved. A girl who may or may not be a call girl, who takes money for the powder room and has to sneak out of windows in the dead of night. “Janie.” she says to me after she swallows back her medicine and sets her water glass on the tiled counter next to her kitchen sink. She always turns the bottles away like I don’t already know. Her prescriptions are lined up in her cabinet, the way little girls line up their stuffed animals on their beds. These dolls would be named Miss Suzy Stabilizer or Princess Amelia Anti-depressant. She lights a cigarette, taps ash on the tall stack of literary magazines that all carry pieces of her writing and says, “Don’t ever make it about someone else. Cause someone else leaves, and then you’re left with something you can’t look at without hating because it reminds you of them.” “They’re all rats,” she continues, her mouth twitching in a smile that’s about to cry. She lets the cigarette dangle from her lips as she pulls her hair back into a ponytail and leans into the wall. Her palms are flat on the white paint. Stretching, she pushes, and her shoulder blades knife out from the straps of her tank top, and I know she’s not eating. I’m about to say something about it, because someone needs to, but her phone rings. I know she knows it’s Him, but Anna still picks up. One minute into the conversation, and she’s sobbing. If Anna wasn’t Holly, if Anna was Sylvia Plath, instead, this man would be her Ted Hughes. Crushing out the cigarette on her kitchen table, she swipes her hand under each eye and says, “Look. I liked you for whatever reason, maybe you cast a spell on me, I don't know. But that's
done because you are a Super Rat and you'll die a Super Rat. And hopefully, because of it, you'll be unhappy in the interim." She clicks a button on her phone and then there is silence. Anna smiles at me with false bravado and says, “See, Janie, I can take care of myself.” Beneath her sunken eyes her mascara has made black pools, and she looks sicker than ever. When we were kids, her green eyes used to be alive with animation. Now they look like shards of a broken bottle. “Sure, Anna,” I say, “Sure. Why don’t we get you into bed and I’ll see you tomorrow?” Nodding, she holds one finger out for me to wait. “All right, Janie. Lemme just get another drink first.” Standing on tiptoe, she reaches for a bottle of Johnnie Walker. Anna can drink scotch like its water, and we both know she’s not supposed to. I stay quiet, though, and watch as she pours a couple fingers into a glass. Her hands shake as she does, but I don’t move to help. A few gulps later, she has drained it and lets me tuck her into bed. I push her rich brown hair off her feverish forehead, and give her a peck on the temple. She is quiet, and I lock the door behind me as I leave. The next day I know I have to go back and I don’t want to go back, but I do. I knock three times on her apartment door, and am not met with the typical Anna cry of “Goddamnit, I’m coming.” Inhaling deeply, I dig for my key ring to let myself in, hoping she hasn’t drunk herself into a stupor since it’s not even noon yet. When I get the door open, I peek in, expecting to see her snoring on the sofa, limbs thrown in every direction. She’s not there, but her mess of dishes, trash, and dirty clothes are all over the living room. A 28-year old shouldn’t live like this, and I feel familiar guilt riding low in my stomach for letting her. I make my way back to her bedroom, trying to ignore the cockroaches I see scattering in my periphery. She’s not in her bed, so I try to remain hopeful that she simply ran out to the store. Even if she went for more booze, it’d still be better than finding her passed out in a pile of vomit again. My stomach is still recovering from the last time. I edge the door to her bathroom open, and am relieved at first because I don’t see her on the floor. I’m about to retreat to wait in the filthy living room, when I hear the sound of water dripping.
The red on the floor means nothing to me at first, because there are so many ways my mind can try to explain it. Maybe she tried to dye her hair in a fit of impulsivity. Or perhaps she spilled some wine. Something, anything other than what I know it must be. I swallow the bile that rises to the back of my throat, and I step fully into the bathroom. She’s here, all right. Fully dressed in the bathtub, the delicate lace of her dress floating on top of the pink-red water. Her head, slumped against the bathtub wall, is completely dry, except for the tendrils of her long hair that curl down past her shoulders. Her arms are by her side, sank down into the water, hidden by the fabric of her skirt. I don’t have to look to know. She’s done this before, years ago, and this time she’s succeeded. Backing up, I run into the edge of her toilet, and drop down to the seat. I cover my mouth with my hands and stare at her. And Anna, eyes half closed by her heavy lids, stares back at me. Her mouth is curved into a last, slight smile. We sit there, her in the tub and me on the toilet, for an hour before I can even make myself move to call the police. A week later, I take my place at the front of the church, and though I try to ignore it, I can feel the stares coming from the modest sized audience dressed all in black. This time, it is my hands that are shaking. Carefully, I unfold the piece of notebook paper that I have been squeezing in my fist since this morning. I smooth it out against my stomach, clear my throat, and speak. “My sister,” I begin, “was a wild thing.”
Rachelle Mathis is a freelance writer of fiction and poetry. She spends most of her days trying to hold her tongue in classes, and most of her nights singing classic rock songs to her child. She currently lives in Colorado with her daughter and a closet with far too many cocktail dresses. Rachelle has been published in Red River Review, Anderbo, and others.
Somnambulated Hospitality By Sikeea Graham
I wasn’t expecting her to answer the door in a nightgown. As I stood in her doorway with the oppressive pall of the stifling summer heat weighing heavily on my back, what she was wearing should’ve been the last thing on my mind. But, isn’t that what girls always do, size up each other’s clothing to measure where we stand? I was already sweating through what I had thought was a good choice: capris and a black cotton wrap top with delicate flutter sleeves. My mouth was so dry and I was sweating so much. I thought I was going to pass out. Still, I had trouble pretending that my eyes weren’t awkwardly drawn to that large hole on the right sleeve of her yellow nightgown, which was also frayed at the neck and hemline. From her voice on the phone, I guess I had expected something like a perfectly dressed and coifed Indian Stepford wife. I was relieved when she finally invited me inside. She didn’t offer me a glass of water. She told me that her name was Shelly. I wondered if that was an Americanized version of her name, or her real one. I followed her receding back and lilting voice through the darkened living room, which, by the way, would be off limits. She explained that only one of four burners on the stove worked, but it was only be temporary. Shelly giggled when she told me this. I didn’t know what was so funny. But I wanted to be polite and friendly, chosen, so I also laughed. I looked around and tried to make a quick assessment. The kitchen table was covered in senior-citizen plastic and hosted two rusty looking folding chairs. To its left was a large china cabinet filled entirely with dolls. There were ghostly, smiling porcelainskinned Victorian dolls. There were immaculately preserved Happy Meal™ dolls, miniatures of beautiful fairy tale princesses from popular children’s movies. They were the same ones I had coveted and collected, till my immature fascination had worn thin. They were just mildly attractive promises without any real value. There were a few pairs of shoes lined up against the kitchen wall and I wondered if I should remove my sandals. But Shelly hadn’t said anything about it. There were no
photos stuck to the fridge with magnets, or anywhere else in the two-story house. Large, heavy-looking pots and pans hung from hooks on the kitchen walls, collecting a thin layer of dust as they waited to be used. Apparently, she didn’t cook. At least we had one thing in common. I remembered my dad making fun of me for not being able to cook. Immediately, I felt homesick. Shelly called to me, snapping me out of my thoughts. She wanted me to follow her again. She led me up a flight of blonde hardwood floors. But the passage was so narrow and the steps were so close together that I almost felt like Alice in Wonderland trying to squeeze through a too-small doorway. The bedroom was in the attic. I realized then that “cozy” meant “smaller than your closet”. The air there felt stuffy and heavy. There wasn’t an air-conditioner, but there was a ceiling fan. It wasn’t moving. For some reason, I thought of a femme fatale in some black and white detective movie. Sensing my hesitation, Shelly was quick to point out the walk in closet with adorable wooden doors. The turquoise carpet looked cheap, but also clean and fluffy. She had probably shampooed it recently. She told me that the current tenant had not moved out yet. She took a seat on the other woman’s neatly made bed—men were not allowed into the house—and patted the space beside her, inviting me to do the same. I did, because I wanted her to like me. And I was really tired of viewing other rooms to rent. There were just too many crazy people in New York City. Shelly turned and stared at me. Instantly, I felt like an illegal immigrant in a foreign country: panicked, uneasy, and annoyed at having failed to fit in. I would always just be a girl from a small town in Maryland. I took in Shelly’s copper colored skin and large dark eyes and watched as she asked me to tell her something about myself. I always thought that was such a weird question, too broad. What if I gave my life story, stating from my childhood, or just gave a speech about what kind of dental floss I liked? I cleared my throat and tried to dissolve my nervousness. I told her that I grew up in a single family household, raised by my dad. I didn’t mention that my mother ran off when I was young. I told her that I had just graduated from college and was looking for a publishing job in the city. (I was so proud of myself for referring to Manhattan as “the city”, like the locals, as if it the other five boroughs were merely countryside.) It turned out that our birthdays were only two weeks apart in the same month, even though I was twenty-two and she was thirty. Somehow, this made Shelly seem less like
a de facto real estate broker and more like a relatable person, a potential friend. We giggled at the birthday coincidence, and at the thrill of being young women starting out in the world, almost all alone. She asked me if I planned on having any children. I wanted to continue to belong, but I didn’t know what the correct answer could be. So, I just said that it was really too soon for me to think about it. This seemed to both disappoint and please Shelly. She stared off into a corner of the room and confided that she loved children. But, having any right now would get in the way of her career as a makeup artist. I nodded dumbly. Then Shelly brightened up and told me that the room was mine, if I wanted it. Eager to please and happy to be chosen, I accepted. I felt as if I had been elected into an exclusive sorority. I hadn’t joined one in college. Shelly drove me to the nearest ATM so that I could give her a cash deposit. I didn’t know if that was standard procedure or not, never having lived anywhere but home. But I had finally found a place and knew that I would be okay. So, I brushed away the tiny sprig of apprehension and yanked it out like a weed. I wanted to remain heady from the intoxication of certain independence. I wanted it to continue to melt with the vivid memory of the quaint, dollhouse charm of Shelly’s easy-to-find-home, and the summer heat, which had made me soft and agreeable. On the mercifully air-conditioned train ride back to my cheap hotel room in Harlem, I imagined Shelly and I learning to cook Indian dishes at her house in Queens. We would giggle conspiratorially at random things, like we did about the broken stove burners. We would become friends. I would know that it was the right decision to leave Maryland. Then, I became aware that I was smiling and straightened my face; I pretended to take a nap, the way I had seen real New Yorkers do. The next day, when the gypsy cab dropped me off, Shelly cheerily greeted me and all of my boxes. She waved, as though welcoming me back from service in a war. “Do you want me to help you?” she asked in her rolling, lilting voice. She remained where she was, standing and watching through the screen door, a detachable burka, as though she were forbidden to step outside. “No thanks. I’ve got it!” I called back loudly, even though she was looking down at me from only a few feet away. I didn’t hear a response. I figured that she had disappeared into the house.
I bought my things inside in record time. I was exhausted, but also bored. So, I decided to take a brief tour of my new neighborhood. Further away from the residential side streets, there were a couple of token trees. City buses doddered around on massive four lane streets. I saw more buses than people. In the span of five blocks, I counted two used car dealerships and four places with drive-thru windows. I picked one of those fast food places that specialized in pizza, fried chicken, seafood, and a hundred other things. I was lumberjack-hungry. I chose a combo meal. My dad would lecture me about nutrition and frugality when I called him tomorrow. Feeling guilty but satisfied, I walked back to my new home. Parts of Jamaica, Queens was like something out of a 1950s sitcom, I thought to myself. There were backyards and driveways. Moving boxes didn’t get stolen when you left them on the corner for a few minutes. Birds chirped as cicadas lazily rubbed their legs together. I watched the sun set into a hazy mix of violet and orange hues. I sighed and tried to conjure poetic thoughts to match. I couldn’t. Queens was the most lovely parking lot I had ever seen, and that was the best I could come up with. It was like Manhattan’s less glamorous, fat cousin with the pretty face that you never mentioned unless you needed something from it, like a house to own or tickets to the U.S. Open. The next morning, my tongue felt heavy and furry. I must have slept with my mouth open. I was stiff from sleeping in a fetal position on the unfamiliar, inflexible twin bed. The sunshine streaming in through my naked window was too bright. I wondered if this was what a hangover felt like. After I cleaned myself up, I wandered downstairs. I felt the sort of quiet where I instinctively knew that I was alone. Then, I remembered that I hadn’t bought any groceries and had nothing to eat. Sigh. I tip-toed along the carpeted borders of the offlimits living room and the bar island it contained. Shelly had told me she was Muslim, but I knew that I would never ask about the bar island. I placed my sweaty hand on the screen door in the kitchen and hauled my lazy bones outside. I found myself in the comforting arms of the jezebel known as McDonald’s. It was always so familiar and welcoming, and thoroughly understanding about those extra pounds it was about to seduce you into adding. When I realized that it was already lunchtime, I ordered a chicken nugget combo meal and added a chocolate sundae, congratulating myself on the fact that it was only a dollar.
I went outside after lunch. It was the first time I became aware that Queens, for all its rugged, almost bucolic innocence, could be dangerous. There were warning placards on the islands between the street lanes, with sexless, featureless black stick figures cautioning that someone had been killed there. I watched as other people blithely outsmarted the changing traffic lights, determined not to have to wait. They all had someplace to be. I kept walking. Right around the corner from discount stores that stocked everything from toilet paper to the latest bootleg Bollywood movies were row upon row of mirages of prosperity. These clusters of Americana, made up of unassuming pastels or deep brown brick, were strung closely together, as though held together by an invisible thread or a softly held breath. They were inhabited by determined newcomers who wanted a backyard and maybe a vegetable garden. They wanted to complain about weeds and termites and taxes. I had thought that Manhattan was diverse, but Jamaica was really something else. There was Indian, black, Hispanic, and mixes of every kind. And we were all being baked into one cohesive clump by the brutal midday sun, bound together by a sticky, prickly sweatiness, because we were either too brave or stupid to be outdoors. I kept going until I was in a place called Elmhurst, according to a sign on a nearby subway station. I wound my way past the heady aromas emanating from the numerous restaurants crowding the sidewalks: Indian, Malaysian, Chinese, Korean, Vietnamese, and more. I ducked into a shop selling something called bubble tea. I chose a seat near the window. I savored the sweet and mildly spicy cold tea, flavored to taste like almond chocolate milk. I rolled the small tapioca pearls around on my tongue and thought about how much weight I was going to put on if I kept eating this way. I saw a glint of something fast in the corner of my eye. There was something about seeing the 7 train barrel down an elevated subway platform, past billboards and dramatic-looking apartment buildings that made me feel like I was in the middle of a scene from Chungking Express. When I’d had enough of air-conditioned safety, I ventured outside to a nearby park. I found a shaded bench, just off of where the monkey bars sparkled like a shiny new toy. There were a few kids crawling around, with their parents hovering close by. Through the park’s black wrought iron gates, street vendors hawked everything from jewelry to
children’s books to enchiladas and hot dogs to heavenly, vanilla scented nuts as the 7 train rumbled overhead like a lion holding court. Queens seemed to be just the right blend of mega mall and mom and pop. There was a coffee shop across the street. Inside were real writers. They had deadlines. I saw them squeeze their laptops and coffee cups onto the small tables and use them as makeshift desks. I vowed to bring my notepad with me the next time I came to the park. I heard the jingle of the ice cream truck and saw it at the other side of the small park. The truck was behind a young blonde woman sitting alone on another bench. She was watching children play in the sandbox. I knew that neither of the children in it was hers because one was black and the other was Asian. She couldn’t take her eyes off of them. I was close enough that I could tell her eyes were red and raw from crying. I wondered if this was what it looked like when someone’s biological clock started ticking. *** I didn’t see Shelly around the house very much. When we crossed paths, we wound up being pretty formal with one another. She didn’t ask me very much, except about my job search. She was probably concerned with how I’d be able to continue paying her in cash every month. Because of the poor economy, I wasn’t making progress with getting a job. I’m honest, but also good at lying, although I try to avoid it. So, I just avoided her. The sound of her bare feet on the creaking, winding stairs, or strains of a tune she hummed sent me running like a guilty kid from a school principal. Almost immediately, our food sat on separate sides of the fridge. But, one morning, I went looking for her, in violation of our ridiculous passive aggressive pseudo-feud. I had burned through the light in my room by staying up late at night and writing, and needed a new bulb and a ladder. Her bedroom door was closed and I knocked on it. “Too much noise!” Her hoarse voice sounded like it came from her bathroom, in the hall just to the right of her bedroom. I knew because I wasn’t allowed to use it. The bathroom door was partially open. She was on her knees in front of the toilet. Her long dark hair hid her face. Disgusted and alarmed, I nudged the door open a bit more. “Oh, my gosh! Are you okay?” I asked. I didn’t know what to call her; we had been speaking without names or salutations since I moved in.
“What do you want?” she groaned. I hunched uselessly in the doorway. For some reason, my first thought was to call my father. I couldn’t remember if there was a list of emergency phone numbers in Shelly’s kitchen. “Is there someone I can call?” I asked tentatively. I ventured closer. The door hit something with a clang. An empty liquor bottle rolled out from behind the door. “Just mind your own business and get out!” she croaked. Her voice didn’t sound quite so lyrical and pretty anymore. I stared at her dumbly for a few shocked seconds before turning towards the stairs. Bitch, I thought. “No, wait!” she called out. I narrowed my eyes and turned around to face her. She asked me to help her into the tub. She can’t be serious, I thought. But she extended her arms to me. Reluctantly, I hooked one of her arms around my neck and helped her to stand. Once she was safely inside the tub, she closed her eyes. “I think I’m still drunk,” she mumbled, more to herself than to me. “Turn it off, please,” she begged. She covered her eyes with one hand and gestured towards the light with the other. I turned it off. I stood at the edge of the tub, waiting to be told what to do next. I thought of the times I had passed her door on my way down the stairs and heard her whispering or chanting in a prayer or something. I wondered if it was the first time this had happened, or if other tenants had moved out because of it. A horrible noise burst from her throat suddenly. She was trying to hum. Through the bathroom window, an invisible orchestra of insects provided an eager accompaniment. They worked in impressive symphony to sound like a band skilled only in playing the maracas. “Oh, god, I’m so tired,” she said. She threw an arm across her face. “This is a bad time. I’ll come back later,” I said. I turned to leave. “No, stay here,” she ordered. Her muffled voice was small; she sounded like a defeated child. I sighed and perched myself on the edge of the tub. I had the sinking feeling that this whole thing would take a while. She tossed and turned in the tub, as though she were
trying to settle into her bed for the night. The invisible orchestra worked even harder, as if this were a melodramatic movie scene that needed to be heightened on cue. I followed Shelly’s instructions and fetched a bottle from the island downstairs. It was against my morals and my better judgment. But how did I know that she wouldn’t just kick me out if I didn’t do what she said? It wasn’t like there was an actual contract; we had an oral agreement and I paid her in cash. My savings account couldn’t handle the cost of moving again. I slumped over and buried my head in my hands as she wound up telling me her life story. This was more than I had bargained for. When I pictured us bonding, I always imagined trips to the mall or something. Her story poured out of her quickly and almost mechanically. She told me that her life back home in Bangladesh was boring and that she hated it. Her family was always pushing her to get married and have children. I imagined her standing in a bright green field in a bold-colored sari, with her shiny dark hair alternately flowing behind her, eager to escape, or enveloping her protectively. She had been desperate to leave. For a long time, she considered slitting her wrists in the bath. Then she set her sights on America. The idea came with this guy named Robert. He was a Peace Corps volunteer who came with a crew to do something about clean drinking water. He got her pregnant. When she could no longer hide her condition and her family found out, they immediately disowned her. Robert bought her with him to the States, illegally, of course. She and Robert didn’t last. They ended before Shelly had a miscarriage. It had been a boy. Afterwards, Shelly stayed in Queens. She managed to find a couple of Bengali families to take her in for a little while, till she got back on her feet. She said that she still missed her parents, sometimes. It only happened eight years ago, but it felt like a century. She said that she felt disconnected to that part of her past; it was almost as if it had never happened. “All that time, I was so anxious to escape from the quiet family life. And now, here I am, living that same life. But now, I am living it by myself,” Shelly whispered hoarsely. I couldn’t think of anything appropriately comforting to say. Suddenly, Shelly sat bolt upright in the tub. The alcohol from the bottle she held splashed onto her nightgown.
She was always wearing a nightgown. She giggled and smiled with a fervor that was markedly different from the flat tone she used to tell her story. “Okay, you can go now,” she told me. She laughed. That was all I needed to hear. I wanted to go to the park and get some fresh air. I needed to get away in order to wrap my head around everything that had just happened. But I had some misgivings about leaving Shelly alone, despite what a crazy bitch she was. I’d feel responsible if she did something to herself; after all, she had considered suicide in the past. I sat at the kitchen table and stared at the china cabinet and the dolls trapped inside. I replayed Shelly’s monologue in my head. Her musical, yet still-tentative English reminded me of those ubiquitous billboards in Jackson Heights, the ones advertising English lessons. The ads featured confident, smiling young men and women with backpacks slung over the shoulders. I wondered if Shelly was still illegal, and how the hell she wound up in this house in the first place. *** That night, I tried to write in the kitchen. I still hadn’t told her that my light was broken. But I couldn’t write a single word. A Robert ruined her life, and it made me think of mine. My Robert and I met through a mutual friend at the beginning of my senior year in college. Before long, we became one of those obnoxiously happy couples that everyone loves to hate. Except when they are in a relationship that makes them just as happy, of course. I couldn’t help but have a sappy grin on my face whenever I was around him. I loved everything about him: the dark hair that was forever sweeping across his forehead in the most appealing way. His olive skin. His melted chocolate brown eyes. The sexy stubble around his mouth that, thankfully, didn’t conceal his perfect deep dish dimples. The knowledge that he was mine made me completely delirious. I failed a bunch of tests because I couldn’t think of anything but him. We were waiting in line to see a movie the night he told me he didn’t love me anymore. I wanted him to fold me into his leather-jacket-clad arms and nuzzle my neck and whisper my name. But he just stared at me as if he had never seen me before. My mouth ran dry. I fled from his loose grip. He didn’t follow me. The next day, he called, in tears and full of apologies for not being able to return my feelings. For weeks,
we played a sick and torturous game of pretending to try to be friends. It was his idea. I clung to all the hope I imagined into it. His logic was that the one who broke the heart should try to heal it. In the end, neither of us could stand it. In order to save my sanity, my grades, and my cell phone minutes, I began to ignore his calls. And eventually, they stopped. Sometimes, my heart—that twisted little traitor—still wondered, What if? And what exactly was it about being loved that was so scary? Maybe, one day, I’d like to try again with someone else. Maybe by that time, falling in love, and all the shit that comes with it, will be worth it. *** I never mentioned Shelly’s breakdown. She didn’t, either. And I never asked her about my light. But she began asking me for help with little things. Stuff like picking up an apple or the dry cleaning. That was the only thing that changed between us. I didn’t think I could say no, and so I didn’t. It wasn’t as if I had a job, or a better way to spend my time. I still had writer’s block. But, our food was still separated in the fridge, and we still only made the smallest of small talk. So, naturally, it was decided that the best possible thing would be to make an addition to our dysfunctional little makeshift family. That’s when Julie entered the picture. She arrived at just the right time. I still didn’t have a job. Well, a real job. I briefly took one as a telemarketer. It felt like one step above prostitution. My shift was from six to nine in the evening, which, I was told, was prime time. I was responsible for convincing strangers over the phone to accept cheap vacation packages to the Bahamas. And I did it in an office in a desolate-looking, industrial part of the Bronx that made me think of that city in Mexico I kept hearing about, where female factory workers disappeared on their way to or from work. My co-worker Angela was pretty cool. She took it kind of seriously, though. I guess it was because she had a two year old at home. Our supervisor, Jerry, always punctuated his sentences by clapping his hands together, probably to keep us awake. But, after two weeks of being told to “be a rhino” and constantly getting cursed out over the phone, I’d had enough. The last straw was when I accidentally cold-called an entire office full of lawyers, who threatened to sue if I called again. So I walked out. It wasn’t like a profound or moving
or even dramatic moment, nothing like in the movies. I would’ve been able to exit completely unnoticed if the hook of my umbrella hadn’t gotten caught on the cord of Jerry’s phone, ensnaring me like a web, as I tip-toed past. We held eye contact for a few seconds. Then I turned away and that was it. When I returned home, I felt like an inept burglar because I couldn’t seem to get my key to work. The only light came from passing cars and buses or fireflies, and that never last long enough. I hated walking into the kitchen alone at night, and that moment of panic before I felt the light switch. I hated seeing those dolls in the shadows, their eerily luminous pale skin cut off at the neck by the design of the cabinet. I always felt like I was walking into a trap, a faux museum of cute Victorian era vampires, harmlessly posed but waiting to strangle me with their perfect ringlets, or slice me with the impeccable hand sown lace on their petticoats. Just when I was so ridiculously desperate for another job, just as I was eating ramen noodles for breakfast, just when the prospect of becoming a phone sex operator and listening to strange men masturbate began to seem do-able, Shelly approached me with the idea. It wasn’t legal, of course. But it was still appealing for many reasons: I’d no longer have to worry about a Metrocard; no more ramen noodles for breakfast; and I wouldn’t have to become homeless or admit defeat and move back home. None of these things mattered to Shelly, but that was okay. I accepted it the way that I knew she wasn’t a makeup artist, that she didn’t have a job any more than I did. So I helped her to place the babysitting ad on a social network, and, in almost no time at all, Julie arrived, like a foreign mail-order bride. If I were a Hollywood casting agent instead of a serious writer, I would definitely have cast Julie if a scene called for a child so heartbreakingly adorable that a vicious divorce would improbably be eschewed, or a down and out adult needed hope and motivation to save the world from an alien invasion. Julie was four years old. She had skin the color of a fifty-three percent cacao organic fair trade Swiss dark chocolate bar. She made me want to bite her cheeks to see if I’d get a sugar rush. She had large brown eyes, like a Precious Moments figurine or an anime heroine. She had perfect dimples and a constant and contagious tinkle of a giggle. She had ornately braided hair decorated with a rainbow of sparkly barrettes that jangled when she laughed. The child just radiated sunshine. If it could be guaranteed that it would turn out exactly like Julie, I’d probably consider a child of my own someday. Probably.
I couldn’t believe that we would actually get paid to babysit her. Shelly and I would be her official fan club. Her Yes Women. Because, really, there was nothing else to say to such a cute little face except for “Oh, look how cute you are!” Shelly wore a strange frozen smile on her face but was afraid to approach Julie. It was almost as if she thought Julie was a fragile and expensive doll that would break at any moment. Julie’s mother, Kimmy, was a young black accountant and single mother. She was from the real Jamaica, and ironically lived a few blocks away from us. Kimmy was amused by Shelly’s quiet hesitation. She noted that usually, it was children who were nervous about meeting new grown-ups. I knew that it would be up to be me to break the ice. I noticed Julie looking in awe at the dolls in the china cabinet and hinted to Shelly that maybe Julie wanted to play with one of them. Shelly hesitated. Then, for once, she actually did what I said, instead of the other way around. Pretty soon, she began taking the time to serve up snacks like mini-pizzas made from English muffins; chopped hot dogs mixed with rice and vegetables; and homemade chocolate cupcakes topped with thick gobs of frosting. There were other changes, too. The nightgowns disappeared. Shelly had dug out her old maternity shirts and tucked them into jeans. Those ready Chesire cat smiles of hers began to actually seem more genuine. The only thing missing was the short, manageable mom-haircut. I enjoyed having Julie around, too, even when she wasn’t so fantastically perfect. And by that, I mean that she wasn’t fully potty-trained. And sometimes, she wasn’t accustomed to hearing the word “no”. But she kept at bay the numbing depression that came with being unemployed and homesick and generally hopeless. Julie’s presence reminded me of a time when everything was simple and innocent. When your biggest choices were things like the zoo or the toy store, not lie to your father, whom you love more than anything in the world, or tell the truth and return home. Oreos or animal crackers, not be Mary Poppins or be homeless. Over time, Shelly let me have the majority of the time with Julie. Which was fine with me, because I think that Julie liked me best anyway; I was the fun, cool babysitter. All we did was play. One day, we were running around the house like maniacs when I had a really terrible idea. I wanted to sneak into Shelly’s room and see what it looked like.
Ninety-nine percent of the time, Julie was one of those magical kids who behaved and made it seem weird that other kids didn’t. She had a natural affinity for the poise and grace that many thirty-somethings wished they possessed. She could’ve been one of the dolls in the china cabinet, she was so perfect. So, naturally, despite being a goodytwo shoes myself, I wanted to corrupt her a bit. Shelly was out running errands. Her bedroom door was unlocked, in an apparent act of busy faux-mom forgetfulness. Julie and I padded up the stairs in our socks. A conspiratorial and wicked hush surrounded us as we approached the door. Julie and I looked at each other and giggled as I turned the knob. It was the kind made to look like a large diamond and no one ever believed was real. I opened the door. Suddenly, I felt like a boy in my Hello Kitty™ tank top with hearts and flowers swirled around it. Every item in the room was a different variation of the color pink. Fuzzy heart-shaped decorative pillows were lined up along the head of the neatly made bed, with its satin sheets the color of strawberry ice cream. Sheer curtains, the color of cotton candy, fell all the way to the cherry red carpet. The walls had been painted the shade of pink a girl might be allowed to wear for her first lipstick. Shelly had the bedroom of an eight-year-old girl whose biggest dream was to be homecoming queen. It was hard to imagine Shelly in that room, and even weirder to invade it. So I ushered us both out of there and into the living room. I let Julie use the couch as a trampoline and that seemed to be just as much fun for her. *** One bright and sunny morning, just after Kimmy had dropped Julie off, I was surprised to hear Shelly hiss, “All these black people are ruining this neighborhood, you know that? It is like they want to sit around and make babies all day long.” Shelly looked directly at me. Even though I am half black and half white, I wondered if she was thinking the same thing about me. Or, if she expected me to follow her lead and join in the head-shaking and tsk-tsking. I didn’t bother pointing out that Kimmy was a successful young woman and that we worked for her. Instead, I bit my tongue and went upstairs to my room. Shelly had a few hours with Julie before I took over in the afternoon. I decided to try to get some writing done. ***
Sometime around lunchtime, I headed downstairs with my iPod. It wasn’t my shift yet, but I was hungry. A children’s show was playing on the TV in the living room. But no one was watching it. I turned off my iPod and put it on the couch. I felt a certain spooky stillness and thought I was alone. But I wasn’t supposed to be. I crept into the kitchen. The door that led downstairs to the basement was partially open. I reached for one of the pans hanging on the wall. I padded slowly towards the door in my socks. Suddenly, I heard the sound of heavy breathing behind me. I spun around and raised the pan in my hands, ready to attack. I looked around wildly. I saw only Julie. Shelly must have been in the middle of changing her pull-up, because she was wearing only that and a t-shirt. Her face was covered with the streaks of dried tears. Fresh ones were welling up in her eyes. It was the first time I had seen her like that, and it upset me. “What’s wrong? Is a stranger in the house?” I asked. Julie shook her head. Her barrettes jangled. “Where’s Shelly?” I asked. Julie pointed towards the stairs leading to the basement. Shelly must have been doing a load of laundry in the basement and probably got hurt somehow, or drunk again. I picked Julie up and carried her up the stairs to my room. On our way up, we heard a noise coming from Shelly’s room. With my free hand, I opened the door. Shelly was lying flat on her back. Her hands were folded neatly across her stomach. But she was thrashing herself from side to side. Her eyes were flashing open and shut. She was whispering to herself through a smile that was fixed onto her face. Immediately, I backed away. I ran up the stairs with Julie and put her in my room. I was terrified. I didn’t know what to do. But I told Julie that everything would be okay. I explained that Shelly was just having a bad dream and didn’t know how to wake up. I dialed 911 on my cheap cell phone. I began counting the minutes until help arrived. “Julie, what happened to your clothes?” I asked. What would the authorities think when they showed up and saw a half-clothed toddler? “I had a acci-dent. Shelly took my pants to make them clean,” Julie responded. Fresh tears cascaded down her cheeks.
“Okay, look. I’m gonna go downstairs and get your clothes. I have to, okay? Stay here and I’ll be right back,” I instructed. Julie shook her head. “That’s what Shelly said, too.” She began to cry even harder. “Julie. Julie, look at me. I’ll be right back, I promise,” I assured her. Then I took off. I fled down the stairs and hovered at the entrance to the basement. There weren’t any lights on down there. Shit. But time was running out. I took a deep breath and inched my way down the stairs. I was so busy trying to feel for the light switch that I almost slipped on something hard and round on the stairs. I picked it up and carried it with me. Once I was in the basement and it was illuminated, I saw that I was holding a blue baby rattle. I threw it on the ground. I zeroed in on two baskets of clothing on the floor in front of the washing machine. I didn’t know if the clothes were dirty or clean. I didn’t care. I grabbed the first thing I saw—a denim skirt—and grabbed it. I stood. I was ready to make a run for it. Then I saw the car seat on the floor, beside the washing machine. Inside was a baby boy. I had never seen him before. His small brown face was frozen in a look of dismay. His eyes were not blinking. I later found out that Shelly had smothered him with one of his own blankets because he wouldn’t stay quiet. I heard the sirens approaching. I ran back up the stairs. I dressed Julie quickly. I carried her as I let the police into the house. She wrapped her little arms around my neck and clung to me. I had kept my promise to her that everything would be fine. I felt proud of that. “I want my mommy,” she said, weeping. “I know, sweetie. I know,” I murmured. As one of the officers stormed upstairs to Shelly’s bedroom and the other raced to the basement, I thought of my dad. It occurred to me that I hadn’t spoken to him much since I came here. I wasn’t used to not hearing his voice for so long, but, for some reason, I just couldn’t do it. I couldn’t answer his calls or make any of my own. I knew I’d have to, eventually, when the officers started asking questions and found out that this was an illusion, that everything was illegal. My dad was a lawyer. “I want my mommy,” Julie said again, crying harder. Her sobs shook her tiny body.
“I know. It’s okay. She’ll be here soon,” I said, trying to soothe her. For some reason, I thought of the blonde woman in the park in Elmhurst. I wondered whether she would have done the same as Shelly. Was it even possible not to love or want something so much that it hurt? As much as I adored Julie, I was relieved that, deep in my core, I never wanted to find out.
Sikeea Graham is a graduate of the Media and Communication Arts Program at the City College of New York. She has worked as a reader for the Development Departments of Laura Ziskin Productions and Paramount Pictures. Sikeea currently works for a small not-for-profit organization. She has previously published pieces for Les$ Magazine, a local New York City magazine.
The Infiltrated State By Rich Murphy
Under siege for a hundred years, the resident at Ft. Psyche, knees to chin against an archway, pinches a leg or cheek to prove consciousness owns a lid or two. Colonizers landed on the assured countenance and independent id and dug in for the fright: a pox on all the guts. With spectacle and fanfare, the march for dimes swarmed the cities to build character. Marketing champagne rallies hurled distraction into dreams and with intoxicants punched holes into the bulwark round play. The secretary for the interior dangles by the staple that sanity requires, a post-it-note for effigy seekers. Mr. and Mrs. Lego find paradise in the slave-to-debt department. Staring back at whoever looks up, the big eye bought the sun and moon that swing in the sky and from ‘toons to doom occupies the regions around each thought. Well intentioned allies and partisans
in the sewers and in the attics give away the store and address a Russian doll via satire. Governing platitudes and treads elevate trances to calm nerves with opportunities to experience, through sit-coms and video games, the empathy and envy bungee cords. The surgical strikes against the pneuma to drag Élan Vital through the streets for stoning and the yoke, deprive bliss and will.
Rich Murphy’s credits include books, The Apple in the Monkey Tree (Codhill Press) and Voyeur (Gival Press); chapbooks, Great Grandfather (Pudding House Press), Family Secret (Finishing Line Press), Hunting and Pecking (Ahadada Books), Rescue Lines (Right Hand Pointing), and Phoems for Mobile Vices (BlazeVox). Recent poetry may be found in Pennsylvania Review, Fjord Review, Otoliths, Epiphany, Euphony, James Dickey Review, and Trespass.
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