Issue Twenty - Five
Crack the Spine Literary Magazine Issue Twenty-Five May 21, 2012 Edited by Kerri Farrell Foley Collection copyright 2012 by Crack the Spine
Cover Art “Glow� by Kate LaDew Kate LaDew is a graduate from the University of North Carolina at Greensboro with a BA in Studio Art. She resides in Graham, NC with her cat, Charlie Chaplin, and is currently working on her first novel.
Contents Caitlin O’Sullivan………...……….…..….…………..Love on the Rocks Joe Giordano.……………..….Everybody Does Everybody Eventually Chaya Murali ……….……………….…....…….……..….Bits and Pieces Kate LaDew………………………There’s an Atomic Clock Ticking by My Record Player Table Joplin Rice……………….…………………...……..………………...Junta A.V. Boyd…………………I Thought For Sure You Could Hear Them Penelope Mace…………...…..….…………..….……My Life in Pictures
Love On the Rocks By Caitlin O’Sullivan
First break after base camp. Josh says “I don’t know if ‘no’ means ‘never gonna happen,’ or ‘not right now.’”
“Sure you’re okay to climb?” I ask.
“She’s got a career, fine. I’m flexible. I can go places.”
I squint through my tinted goggles and the static-distortion of snow. He climbs like that rock he showed me is weighing him down.
The wind tries to rip us off. Ice mocks our crampons. The mountain crumbles under our gloves. We climb on curses and blasphemy.
Side by side, dangling like unwiped shit, I ask again.
“I’m good,” he says.
The snow opens underneath us, the blue walls of the crevasse gleam.
Caitlin O'Sullivan is a novelist and MFA graduate of Minnesota State University, Mankato. Someday she will reside below the snow line.
Everybody Does Everybody Eventually By Joe Giordano
Moira said, “Honey, if a man doesn’t drool or stink, I’m interested.” April nodded and said, “Everybody does everybody eventually.” Moira was a redhead, April a bleach-blonde; they sat on their stools like magpies on a wire. Moira raised her voice to the bartender. “Hey Angelica, what ever happened to Richey? I thought you and he were shacked up.” Angelica gave her a sidelong glance. “I threw him out. All he did was play video games while I worked. He adored me, but I’d had it.” Moira turned to April. “Richey the lifeguard. He attracted women like a designer shoe sale. I heard he found something younger and moved out of her apartment.” During the day Louie’s Pub in Brooklyn was cool darkness that smelled like an unwashed beer mug. Glossy photos of the owner posing with his semi-crook cronies glinted with the reflection of a yellow neon sign at the entrance. Scratched green vinyl flooring led to a rectangular wooden bar that surrounded a center island of glasses and bottles of booze. Conversation was interrupted by the jingle of the front door, and jarring sunlight silhouetted a man. Angelica said, “Frank, your smiling face always starts my shift.” Angelica poured Frank a Jack Daniels over ice. She wore a tight gray top, and her breasts bobbed when she placed the drink on a coaster. Her frosted blond hair was up. Frank dyed his moustache and had a bald patch. He pealed off a fifty-dollar bill to pay for his drink, and he let the change sit. He loved to give people the I-know-mafia-guys
bullshit. He paid for his booze as a freelance writer for a real estate firm and lived off inheritance. Angelica said, “Tonight, Louie’s brought in a blues vocalist from Nashville, Jimmy Mason; maybe he can help me with my singing.”
Jimmy Mason’s voice was throaty with an edge of hoarseness. He was slim with a hawk nose, goatee and played guitar. Jimmy’s band included Chuck, bow-legged, dark glasses on double base; Edoardo perfect hair, creased pants, on electric organ, and Al, speckled beard, ponytail, who wore a tee shirt with the words “Made in Brooklyn with Italian Parts,” and played drums. At the end of the set, Chuck and Al sauntered over to April and Moira. Edoardo stuck with Jimmy, and they approached Angelica. Edoardo didn’t soil his jacket elbows on the bar. Jimmy said, “Hey, girl, give us two Buds. What’s your name?” “Angelica. That was great, you guys can really play.” Jimmy swelled with the compliment. “Much obliged.” Edoardo ignored Angelica. Angelica leaned forward toward Jimmy. “Do you have any tips for a singer who’s just starting out?” “How did I know you sang? Shit, good for you girl.” Jimmy turned to his organist. “Edoardo, Angelica can sing. What do you think of that?” Edoardo shrugged his shoulders. Jimmy leaned toward Angelica and smiled. “Maybe we can do a little jam session after you get off work. You live nearby?” “Yeah, that would be great.” Last call at Louie’s came just before 4 AM. Jimmy splurged for a taxi to Angelica’s place. She sang to him in the cab.
The next day Angelica bopped into Louie’s singing with an iPod plugged in her ears. Moira elbowed April and said to Angelica, “Sounds like you got laid.” Angelica said, “Ladies, I’m buying the first round.” “You did get laid. Well if it gets me free drinks, I hope you get gang banged.” Angelica said, “Did you make it with Al and Chuck, or did you wind up doing homeless bums for cigarettes?” “Those stubby dick cheap skates wouldn’t even spring for a room.” Angelica said, “So, you blew them in the alley?” The door jingled Frank’s arrival. “Frank. Have a drink on me.” “Thank you ma'am.” April said, “Angelica screwed Jimmy last night. Frankie you should get in line.” Frank said, “April, don’t be crude.” He turned to Angelica. “You’re in a good mood.” Angelica leaned close. “Jimmy’s sensitive, spiritual; I sang for him, and he said I should turn professional. He invited me to come to Nashville.” April said, “Did you say spiritual?
Is that why you were on your knees?
Praying?” The two ladies fell over themselves laughing. Angelica smirked at the women, “Listen to the skin-flute pros.” She turned back to Frank. “Jimmy’s playing in Manhattan Saturday, I’m going to skip work and surprise him. Maybe he’ll let me sing a set with him.”
The pungent odor of marijuana hit Angelica at the doorway. “The band’s on break,” said the purple lipstick, short straight black hair, ring-in-the-nose girl of twenty. The hostess pointed the way to the bar with a penlight.
The Bastard’s Bar in the East Village served over-priced drinks at under-sized tables in a room so dark that the blind or the sighted had an equal chance of getting around. Angelica used the brick wall like a handrail and headed for the bar. She saw Chuck and Al on bar stools. “Hey guys, where’s Jimmy?” Al made like she hadn’t spoken. Chuck poked Al and whispered, “Isn’t she the broad Jimmy fucked last night?” Al perked up. “Oh yeah. Shit.” He turned to Angelica and said, “Did Jimmy know you were coming?” “No, it’s a surprise.” Al laughed. “Yeah, right. Jimmy and Edoardo are in the men’s room, together.” “What do you mean by that?” “You don’t know?” Al and Chuck smirked at each other. “Check it out.” Angelica sidled around the wall to the men’s room door and yelled inside behind a patron as he left, “Jimmy Mason, are you in there?” There was a long pause, and Angelica was going to shout again when Jimmy’s voice rang out. “Angelica? Shit, give me a minute.” Jimmy’s forehead glistened. Edoardo slunk out without looking at Angelica and made his way toward Al and Chuck. Angelica said, “What the fuck were you doing in there?” “Angelica, it’s not what you think.” “Really, what do I think?” “Hey, I’m not a homo or anything. Edoardo has this thing for me and, I just oblige him. It’s no big deal.” Jimmy reached out for Angelica. She stepped away from his arms. “Are you high? I can’t believe this shit.” Angelica stormed out of the bar.
The next day Frank said to Angelica, “You look a little tired. Did you see Jimmy last night?” “Yeah, I saw him. We broke up. He loves me, but it just won’t work. He’s constantly on tour, I’ll never see him.” April and Moira were at their usual spot. April raised her eyebrows and said, “What, you gave up your singing career? I guess you found out that Jimmy has a broad stashed in every New York borough? You need to come drink with us, and stop with these highfalutin airs you put on.” “There’s no other woman, April. You think you know everything but you don’t. I’m not like the two of you. I don’t fuck every limp dick with at least two teeth. I’m going to sing or whatever I need to do to get out of this dump.” Angelica started to wipe the bar, stopped and put her hand on her hip. “It just so happens I met a doctor at the club, and he asked me out.” April said, “A doctor, are you serious? Honey, a doctor is out of your universe.” Moira said, “I think Angelica’s doctor is another fantasy.” Angelica said, “Oh yeah? Ask Frank, he knows him.” Frank didn’t miss a beat. “Yeah, nice guy, cosmetic surgeon. Ladies, he’ll probably give you a quantity discount on Botox. Want me to ask him?” “Sure, Frankie,” April said. While you’re at it, why don’t you ask him for some woodie pills?” Moira said, “Frankie hasn’t needed a woodie since Methuselah was in diapers.” April turned to Angelica and said, “Okay, so why don’t you invite your doctor to the bar? We’d like to meet him.” “April,” Moira chimed in, “Angelica doesn’t want him getting his head turned. Do ya, honey?” Angelica gave out a “humph” and poured Frank another Jack Daniels.
Frank put his hand on hers and leaned close. “Angelica, now that we’re coconspirators, why don’t you let me take you to dinner?” Angelica threw the bar rag in the sink. She said, “It better be a high class joint.”
Joe Giordano was born in Brooklyn, and grew up in a blue-collar section of New York City. He and his wife, Jane, lived in Greece, Brazil, Belgium and Netherlands. They now live in Texas with their little Shih Tzu, Sophia, where Joe studies writing at the University of Texas in Austin. Joe's story, "Small Men have Trouble," was featured the weekend of March 23rd in Black Heart Magazine, and his story, "To See that Look Again," will appear in The Summerset Review in June.
Bits and Pieces An Essay by Chaya Murali
About a year ago, during my last semester of college, I lost a beautiful gold earring. I was inordinately devastated by the incident, and spent the better part of the next few weeks with my eyes trained unwaveringly on the ground beneath me, hoping to catch a glint of metal and swoop down upon that beloved trinket. It was a lovely piece of jewelry: a light gold border surrounding a white, vibrant stone, the entire thing small and unassuming but perfect for the second piercing I have in my ears. Since I lost that earring, the most recent in a long line of jewelry that I have lost or irreparably damaged in some way, my second piercing has remained frequently bare. Of the many pieces of advice my mother has given me, perhaps most memorable is her admonition to check my ears, neck, hands, and nose nightly to ensure that no jewelry has gone missing during the day. Nowadays, she asks me why my ears remain naked so much of the time. I don’t tell her this, but I leave those holes empty as a selfimposed punishment, to remind myself to be more careful with my possessions. Perhaps losing that earring will lead to the closing-up of my second piercing. Perhaps that would be a good thing. It’s hard to say why I was so upset by the loss of that small stud. Though it carried monetary value, it was, after all, just a piece of metal. Really, what difference does it make when I lose trinkets? Yet mourning a tiny golden stud is precisely the type of thing with which I could easily become obsessed. The sheer amount of possibility associated with the search for such a tiny thing staggers and exhilarates me. Who knows where that earring is? It could be anywhere.
And so could the gold pendant I lost on a sidewalk in Chennai. This, too, was a lovely piece of jewelry of which I was very fond. A gold rendering of the Sanskrit word Om, it was studded, like the earring, with small white stones. Truly, my losing this pendant is a feat that attests to my uncanny ability to lose jewelry: it managed to slip off of my somehow-unfastened necklace while the chain itself remained mercifully upon my neck. As my grandmother and I began searching the cracked sidewalk for that golden Om, a few others around us joined in the search, something that never happened when I walked with my eyes cast downward on campus. Neighborly solicitude notwithstanding, the pendant remained stubbornly undetectable, and I left it behind as I walked back to my uncle’s flat in Chennai, and eventually when I flew back home to Houston. Now that pendant may still lie in a crack in that sidewalk in Adyar. Or it could have a new owner, someone who found it and thought it beautiful and decided to wear it herself. Or it may have exchanged hands many times since it slipped out of mine. Its possible fates are boundless. I got a new pendant while still in India to replace the one that got away. Perhaps not coincidentally, I ended up choosing a small representation of Lakshmi, the Hindu goddess of prosperity, often depicted with golden coins pouring out of her beneficent hand. Maybe She will keep me from letting more valuable jewelry fall out of my notice and onto the ground. I’m not so sure about this, though, because I hardly wear the necklace with the Lakshmi pendant anymore. Looking at it only reminds me of my inability to look after my things. Over the years, I have racked up a formidable history of carelessness. Before I was ten, I lost an anklet while out roller-skating in my neighborhood. It was thick and silver, with small bells all around its circumference and a little silver screw to fasten its ends together. Distracted as I was by the childish joy of zooming about on wheels, I
didn’t notice its absence until I went home, took off the skates, and felt an odd lightness at one of my ankles. When I realized that the anklet was missing, my heart sank. How long had it been gone? Why hadn’t I noticed when it fell away from me? And how would I possibly find it again? My mother went out to look for the piece of jewelry after giving me a thorough berating for not paying attention. I can see her now in my mind’s eye, searching the paved hill near our townhome in the lingering twilight as the rest of the family sat down to dinner. Surely she was wearing a sari. Surely I was picking guiltily at my food. She came back only half-triumphant: the thick silver chain hung from her hand, but the crucial screw was still missing. We never did find it. Like so many other trinkets I’ve misplaced, it is lost both spatially and temporally, left behind as time passed and I moved to a new home, a new city. Over my life, I’ve misplaced earrings and rings, silver and gold and costume, anklets and bracelets and pendants, in more places than I can count. Swimming pools have been the recipients of my wayward jewelry. So have public restrooms, nightclubs, and college campuses. I know everyone does this sort of thing, that virtually no one is immune to the occasional incident of carelessness, that sometimes things just happen and the stars align and we can’t prevent all mistakes. Yet I fret terribly every time I lose something. Panic comes first, then tenacious hope, followed by either the incredulous delight of recovering that lost item or the gradual acceptance of losing yet another thing. And always, always, is the thought that it’s out there somewhere. The idea that some piece of my life lies somewhere in the world, completely disconnected from me, is unsettling. But it’s not so strange to leave things behind. In fact, loss is part of the natural progression of life. We shed innocence as we become adults. Stuffed animals that were once our friends are donated or tucked away in dusty boxes lining our attics and
basements. Clothes that don’t fit are handed down to younger siblings, and eventually disappear from our notice and our lives, cropping up only when isolated memories swim to the surface of our minds. And as we encounter new situations and grow into ourselves, we pick and choose which parts of our personas we preserve and which we discard as no longer desired. But what about that lunchbox you loved when you were eight but can’t find anywhere in your childhood home? And the necklace you wore every day of fifth grade, but stopped wearing when you started middle school because it just wasn’t cool anymore? How many things do we lose simply because we aren’t paying attention? At the heart of my deep sorrow when it comes to loss is not simply attachment to the item misplaced but also a belief that the loss has fundamentally changed me somehow. The moment of losing becomes a bright line; on one side is the person I was before I lost that earring. On the other is the person I am now, reaching backward to that previous version of myself, lamenting not only the physical loss of a piece of gold but also the intangible fading away of the possibilities that I now believe have disappeared because that piece of jewelry is no longer in my possession. In a backwards reading of the butterfly effect, I perceive that the paths my life might have taken had I not lost that one key, broken that one necklace, are now completely closed off to me. And all because of one moment of negligence. The degree to which my life seems governed by chance is unsettling. Perhaps more disconcerting still is the fact that this type of negligent loss can be mapped onto shifts in our very selves. A vague memory of a bygone stamp collection can be likened to the way that our fingers absentmindedly reach for an earring that was lost two days ago. A sort of phantom memory of something that once was— something that no longer is, and no longer can be, especially in the case of our personalities. Can any amount of searching help you recover a pre-cynical version of
yourself, the person you were before your heart was broken? Once you’ve grown out of a phase with eighties music, will the opening strains of “Jesse’s Girl” ever again elicit your delighted squeal? Will you even notice that your response is a shadow of its previous incarnation? And if you do notice, how will it make you feel? Nostalgic? Sad? Happy that that older version of yourself has been phased out? And whatever your reaction, what are the implications of imperceptibly shedding things once dear to us? If aspects of our personalities are as losable as the trinkets that adorn our ears and fingers, is there anything intrinsic to ourselves? It’s the kind of thing young twenty-somethings aren’t supposed to think about. Fresh out of college and ready to face the wide world beyond, we are caught up in the velocity of our changing lives. The challenges of new careers and ambitious educational pursuits demand much of our energy and so we have little thought to spare for the possibilities that might have been. What does it matter that the instruments we played in high school orchestra sit in dusty cases on the top shelves of our childhood closets? Who even remembers where that journal we wrote in every day of our freshman year of college is? With everything that we are now, why squander precious energy contemplating the people that we were back then? And yet there is a part of me that can’t help looking back. At discount bookstores, I scour the clearance racks for the novels of my childhood, the ones I donated to charity in fits of maturity years ago. It hasn’t happened so far, but one day I may buy the same exact book that an eight-year-old Chaya once owned. The magic of that circular possibility, the poetry of purposefully lost and unwittingly found, enchants me. It’s this magic that makes my eyes trace the ground for a flash of gold whenever I am back on my college campus, over a year after I lost that beautiful earring. I know that by all accounts, that earring is gone forever. But I can’t stop looking. And, I suspect, neither can my peers.
Especially in young adulthood, life gives us precious little opportunity to even realize that we lose things as we age. A well-worn catchphrase here, a characteristic mannerism there—all slip away before we know it, and our personalities and lives change as smoothly as a flipbook, the pages flying by so fast that we forget that the transitions aren’t as fluid as they seem. This is the beauty of physical loss: I know when a necklace goes missing. Life pre- and post-loss stand in stark contrast, and I can’t possibly miss that something is missing. But pinpointing the exact day I stopped watching I Love Lucy nightly or the moment I decided not to listen to the N’SYNC album on repeat for yet another day? Impossible. And precisely because I do not recognize those watershed moments for what they are, I cannot mourn or mark the infinitesimal shifts that ultimately shape my life. The truth is, we’re losing things all the time. Yet every once in a while, the things we lose come back to us when we least expect to find them. Case in point: I found the tiny screw that went with that lovely diamond stud the very night the earring had gone missing. There’s no guarantee that we will recover any of the things we lose, whether knowingly or unknowingly. Still, it’s nice to know that our bits and pieces are out there somewhere. And maybe, one day, we’ll stumble upon those glittering parts of ourselves again, pick them up, and put them back into our lives. Or maybe not. For my part, I’m keeping my eyes peeled for a fleeting flash of gold.
Chaya Murali is a second-year medical student at Baylor College of Medicine in Houston, Texas. She studied English at Rice University, where she discovered her love of the personal essay form. Through personal essay, Chaya seeks to touch others’ lives while staying firmly grounded in her own. Chaya hopes to continue writing throughout her career as a physician, and she plans to use creative writing to empower children with genetic conditions, as well as their families. She has published two other personal essays during her years in college. Chaya's favorite book is Kartography by Kamila Shamsie, and she is currently reading Louise Rennison's Dancing in My Nuddy-Pants.
There’s an Atomic Clock Ticking by My Record Player Table By Kate LaDew
there’s an atomic clock ticking by my record player table it’s able to recalculate itself, blinking at the same rate as the world, accurate to infinity, dropping down to the hundredth of any given second, cooling atoms to absolute zero, measuring clouds of fountains, atoms tossed into the air by lasers, all this sits by my record player table I watch the thick vinyl turn, looping out sounds that will be stored in my brain for eternity while everything else trickles through my heart like rain they say ted williams could read the label of a spinning record from 60 feet away I wonder if he counted the stitches on every baseball, one by one or twos or fives, flying towards him in wavering lines, atoms are weightless in the toss, invisible to any human eye would ted have caught them with his bat, sent them over that great green wall in splatters? does it matter if we’re all one second off? when it’s finally time to die will we raise our hands into the air, grasping at something we’re told is there but have never seen? one eye on that atomic clock, the other blinking with the rhythm of our slowing heart give me my last second back, we’ll shout at God you owe it to me after all this living
Kate LaDew is a graduate from the University of North Carolina at Greensboro with a BA in Studio Art. She resides in Graham, NC with her cat, Charlie Chaplin, and is currently working on her first novel.
Junta By Joplin Rice
Arthur was staring blankly into his drink, mostly ignoring his wife apart from slipping in a wry comment once in a while. Sometimes she’d talk for hours, staring directly at Arthur all the while, without getting so much as a grunt or nod. This was his first drink, though, and she knew that at least some of what she was saying was getting through. This in mind, she was going at it harder than ever. Her voice swelled and deflated without any rhyme or reason in a way that would give someone unfamiliar with her speaking habits a kind of nausea not unlike car sickness. She went on and on in this way; Arthur didn’t so much as turn his head. He looked like he was trying to solve a crossword puzzle at the bottom of his glass, but without the benefit of being able to read any of the clues. “You know what, Art? I really don’t care that you’re not listening to me right now. Do you know why? Do you?” He exhaled deeply without looking up. “Because you’ll be begging to talk to me tomorrow afternoon – begging like a dog. And I won’t even look at you. You just wait.” “Why, exactly, am I going to be begging?” he mocked, breaking his silence. “I know how you hate my family. They hate you too, Art – did you know that? So when they’re all singing ‘Happy Birthday’ to my mother and you’re trying to find another beer –” “Birthday?” he spat. “Just who the hell told you I’m going to your old mother’s birthday? You just said yourself she hates me. I heard ya. I wouldn’t even get out of bed for that old hag.”
“That’s great, Art. That’s really cute of you, saying that. ‘Old hag’... and how much money has she loaned you over the years? Two thousand? Three?” she asked rhetorically. “All the more reason not to go,” Art said. He took a drink. “You’re impossible. Has anyone ever told you that? You’re just goddamn impossible – that’s all there is to it.” “I guess,” he said and got up. He walked over to the sink and discarded his glass haphazardly. If he would’ve tossed it from any farther away it would’ve shattered, and any closer the impact wouldn’t have been quite dramatic enough. Obviously, he’d tossed a few glasses into the sink before. He stretched his arms into the air sleepily and yawned, perfectly aware of the stare that Melissa was giving him behind his back. Just to keep her glare fixed on the back of his head a bit longer he decided to make a sandwich. He looked toward the corner on top of the counter and there wasn’t any bread. Art turned around to Melissa. “So you expect me to go to your mother’s god-awful birthday party, do ya? And you can’t even keep a goddamn loaf of bread in this house? Jesus Christ, I swear…” “What does that have to do with anything? The bread doesn’t have anything to do with –” She paused abruptly as Arthur brushed past her and started for the door. “Now where the hell do you think you’re going?” “I’m going to Franny’s to get some bread. Want me to pick you anything up?” he asked. His tone of voice gave her the impression that he’d somehow forgotten the entire argument they’d just had in an instant. That or he was trying, successfully, to show how little it had affected him. Melissa filled with frustration. “Yeah, Art, I do. Get me a pack of goddamn cigarettes. Reds—no filter. Get a whole carton while you’re down there. Get two cartons if it’ll make you feel useful.” “Since when do you smoke? If this is some new kind of way to piss me off, it won’t work. I’ll gladly pay to watch you kill –”
“I’ve always smoked, Arthur. At least since we got married. I sit on the back porch all day chain-smoking just so I can deal with your sorry ass when you get home. It’s the only peace and quiet I can get. That’s why I wear so much of that cheap fucking perfume. That’s why I walk around this house smelling like a French goddamn whore.” She paused long enough to bite her quivering bottom lip and shake her head a few times before focusing back on Art’s face. He looked unfazed. “Did you never wonder about that, Art? Did you ever think that I might wear that perfume to try to impress someone else, maybe? You know, that’s what most men would think. It really is,” she finished and pursed her lips. Her hands had been firmly planted on her hips since she’d started talking. “I thought you were just trying to get me hot,” he said. “Real cute, Art. That’s real fucking cute. Just go on. And don’t forget my cigarettes. Reds, I said, and with no –” “I heard you,” he said, and walked out the side door straight into the garage. It smelled musty and he accidentally inhaled a few cobwebs when he bent down to open the garage door. A fit of cursing and sneezing broke out that didn’t stop until he’d sat down in the car. The keys had been in his pocket since he’d gotten home from work. Usually he’d leave them in there until the next morning so he wouldn’t forget them; he only changed his jeans once or twice during the workweek. He started the machine irritably as if somehow it wasn’t running well enough for him and he smacked the dashboard a couple times out of habit. The night fell like a pitch-black curtain as he backed down the driveway and onto the road and the glow coming from his headlights was too dim to cut through it. He didn’t notice. I can’t believe that bitch, he thought. ‘Thinks she can drag me to her old ma’s birthday after I never asked her to go to any of my Dad’s little parties. No, sir. Not even his last one right before he died. Jesus Christ...like I’d wanna sit around and shoot the shit somewhere like that. I’d probably drop dead as soon as I stepped into the place – you know, with any luck.
That last thought amused him and he chuckled while he examined the dry expression covering his face in the rearview. Confounded by how suddenly old he appeared, he turned his head more and brought the rearview to a more suitable angle. He ran his hand along his jaw line slowly, starting with a “V” shape at the back of his jaw that became thinner and thinner until his thumb and forefinger met at the tip of his chin. It felt rough, used up. He turned around just in time to hit the brakes at a red light in the middle of town. Turning back towards the mirror, blue-lights caught his eye out the passenger’s window. They were flashing incessantly, brightly, and it took him a moment to realize that they weren’t moving. The patrol cars were all parked in such a way that the noses of the vehicles seemed to be pointing towards the scene unfolding nearby like children pointing to a schoolyard fight. A black van was parked, cock-eyed, across three spaces; on the curb next to it there were six kids—no more than eighteen or nineteen, any of them—sitting side by side, a few with their heads in their hands and the rest looking up at the police officers with looks of drunken despair on their faces. On the roof of the van sat what can only be described as a drunkard’s dream. Half-empty bottles of whiskey, beer, and wine were lined up from one end to the other. The cops had turned away from the kids for a few moments and Art noticed that a couple of them were talking frantically on their phones. They’re probably calling their parents to come pick them up and take them down to the station, he thought. One by one, by the looks of it, to entertain the cops. In a big city they all would’ve been taken down in cruisers, naturally. But here, where police officers and parents of delinquents were often drinking buddies, there was a more traditional (and degrading) approach. One of the girls, a particularly young-looking brunette, vomited onto the asphalt while one of her friends held back her hair. A cop glanced over his shoulder in disgust
and took a few steps away. He poked one of his friends and said something to him. The friend turned his neck to look behind him reluctantly and then quickly brought himself back around, shaking his head and looking at the ground. The other cop slapped him across the back repeatedly and began laughing. None of the kids were handcuffed but that only seemed to add to their embarrassment. A few mall employees out on their smoke break were staring at the scene like vultures, waiting to see what would happen next. Arthur saw them and thought of how some had probably been watching since the whole thing started. It depressed him and he ran a hand over his jaw line again, this time feeling for every bump and wrinkle. As his fingers came back together at his chin, the light turned green and he continued to Franny’s. He thought of the cop laughing at the young girl as the car moved along.
***
Feeling first for his wallet, then for the cigarettes in his shirt pocket, Art started for the door. It seemed unusually heavy and he had to use both his arms to push it open. Franny’s was calm. The fluorescent lights reflected off the freshly waxed floor so brightly that for a moment Arthur thought he’d gone blind. Adjusting to the brightness, he blinked firmly as he walked up to the counter. No one else was in the store except for the cashier. “Howdy, Art,” he said innocently, a five-cent smile plastered across his face. Art was never sure if he’d known the boy before he started working here, but he was always greeted as though they were lifelong friends. The boy’s shaved head and
large ears accentuated his buck teeth and acne, so much so that he almost looked like a cartoon. “Gimme a pack of Camels, the hard ones, and a carton of reds. No filters.” “Changin’ it up a little, aren’t you?” the clerk said as he turned around and ran his finger up and down the shelves in search of the cigarettes. “The reds aren’t for me. They’re for Melissa.” “Yeah, that’s right… She usually gets a carton or two every week,” he recalled. “I’ll be damned,” Art muttered to himself. “What?” “Nothing.” Art told the clerk to charge him for a loaf of bread, too, and handed him a twenty. He walked to the end of the aisle and had just grabbed the bread when the bell over the door gave a metallic jingle. An explosion sounded off as the gumball machine next to the door hit the ground and shattered. A man with a pair of pantyhose covering his face and a pistol in his right hand came into Art’s view and he watched him walk up to the counter through a kind of tunnel vision created by having to look down the full length of the aisle. The man hadn’t seen Art. “Listen to me, asshole. You gimme all the money in the fuckin’ register, all right? Just gimme the goddamn money or I swear to Christ I’ll kill you,” he demanded though clenched teeth. The bucktoothed clerk was visibly shaking and already had his arms up covering his face in a crooked cross. “Please,” he pleaded. “I’ll lose my job, mister. I swear to God I will. Won’t be no place that’ll hire me, either…Oh God, oh God…” he murmured. “I said gimme the goddamn money,” the robber repeated. He was speaking in a hushed growl, as though if he spoke any louder he’d wake up a nearby infant, fast
asleep. “I ain’t fuckin’ around, you hear me? I’ll blow your goddamn head off. I swear to Christ I will. Now open that fuckin’ register,” he said and pointed with his gun. By this time Art had dropped his bread and was crouched in the back of the aisle, still no more than twenty feet from what was happening. He felt like he was watching the robbery on television, and he reacted to it accordingly with a strange sense of detachment. The clerk had apparently sobered up a bit, and he took the situation into account. He mouthed something unintelligible and brought his arms down. Sobbing, he popped the drawer open with his right hand and pulled out the tray with the cash. The robber began lifting the clasps and stuffing the bills into his coat feverishly rather than dumping the tray’s contents and running. Apparently he hadn’t brought a bag. While he was distracted the cashier backed up slowly and, keeping his eyes on the thief, moved his left hand cautiously under the desk as if he were reaching for a dangerous animal. The robber proceeded with the money, oblivious. Without a word the clerk jerked a mammoth revolver from beneath the counter. He raised it with both arms, pulled back the hammer, and aimed it at the robber. During the brief moment that it’d taken him to cock the piece the robber ducked down behind the counter. The gun went off and the echo reverberated inside the tiled store like a car crash. Before the kid could pull the hammer back again, the robber popped up like a jack-in-the-box, took aim at his chest, and let him have it, twice, without so much as blinking. “Goddamn Good Samaritans,” he chuckled, and grabbed the last handful of cash to stuff into his pockets. His voice had lightened noticeably now that he thought he was alone. He almost seemed relieved to have killed. As the body slumped back against the glass cigarette cabinet and hit the floor, Art let out a gasp and fell backwards, mortified. Scrambling to get up, he shielded his face—making the same crooked cross shape the clerk had made—and tried to look as
helpless as possible. The robber heard him and turned around, gun in hand. He took a good look at Art and then brought his left hand up to his face to confirm that his features were still hidden. “Hey, chickenshit,” he roared down the aisle, growling like before. “You ain’t a goddamn Good Samaritan, are ya? ‘Cause if y’are, you better speak up now before I get away,” he teased deliriously. He emulated Art’s defensive stance and laughed before straightening back up and aiming the gun down the aisle. The barrel, no less than half an inch across, looked like a hungry vacuum to Art. “No, I’m…I’m not a Good Samaritan,” Art stammered. “Poor son of a bitch...good answer,” the robber said. He brought the gun down and bolted out the door. Art collapsed onto the floor and came to a few minutes later. His knees were still weak so he made his way to the door by putting most of his weight on a shelf running down along the aisle. After taking a few deep breaths he used his whole body to knock the door open and stumbled to his car. He never looked back over the counter; the reflection on the door as he’d walked out had revealed a red stain streaking the glass cigarette cabinet, and that was as much as he’d wanted to see. Art fell limply into the front seat of the car and immediately rolled down the windows for some air. After his breathing slowed to somewhere near normal he jammed the key into the ignition and turned it violently. His tires made the asphalt hiss as he gunned it out of Franny’s parking lot and onto the road. Hey, chickenshit—you ain’t a goddamn Good Samaritan, are ya? The sound of the murderer’s voice lingered in his head, uninvited. Art came to the stoplight, glad for once that it was red. He wiped his hands compulsively on his pants and out of curiosity glanced over toward the mall parking lot. The sick brunette was the only kid left, now. She was still sitting in the same spot, head in her hands, a stagnant puddle of vomit at her feet. The laughing cop was the
only officer still at the scene. He’d turned off the lights on his cruiser and was chattering rapidly into his radio, presumably arranging for the girl to be taken to the station by someone other than himself. Blue-lights filled Art’s eyes again, this time zooming past him on the other side of the road. He assumed they were going to Franny’s. You’re too late, boys, he thought. They all passed with the same determined look on their faces. The cop in the parking lot watched the procession of cruisers fly by and the look on his face was one of either jealousy or disappointment. It was hard to tell. At any rate, he was plainly aggravated that his drunk-driving bust, which had been big news earlier, was now playing second fiddle to a grocery store hold-up down the street (shots fired and a possible homicide, his radio had teased). The officer’s expression made Art’s stomach feel suddenly ill, and he drove through the red light after making sure it was clear. He thought briefly of how Melissa’s mother had given him a red paisley tie last year for Christmas, and how he’d never sent her a card.
***
After a few minutes Art arrived home and drove the car into the garage, pulling up far enough so that he would have enough room to shut the door behind it. He left the windows rolled down and, after shutting off the engine, put the keys on the dash rather than back into his pocket. He pulled down the garage door reluctantly but seemed satisfied after he’d done so. He walked into the kitchen and Melissa was cutting up some fruit, facing him. “Did you get the cigarettes?” “What?” “Cigarettes. Did you get my reds?”
“Oh, uhm, no...” his voice trailed off like a nervous witness lying to a judge. “Franny’s was closed—light wasn’t on or anything.” “Closed? I thought Franny’s was open all night?” “Yeah. I mean, no, no. Not tonight,” he said, pressing his eyelids together for a moment. “Isn’t it a holiday or something? Labor Day, maybe?” Melissa tightened her entire face in thought for a few seconds. “I don’t know. Probably…you never know,” she finished. Her words came out delicately, now, and she seemed apologetic. Art didn’t notice this, nor did he hear what she’d said. He just kept staring ahead at the wall, his look reminiscent of the one he often used to solve imaginary puzzles at the bottom of his drinks. Thinking that Art was purposefully ignoring her, Melissa cut a strawberry and then spoke up. “Look, Artie. I’m really sorry that I upset you and made you run out like that. Really, I am. I’ve been thinking about it ever since you left…and take back those old reds, please. I’ll stop with the cigarettes right now, I swear. I just…oh, I don’t know, Artie. I just get so frustrated with you sometimes,” she confessed. “And don’t worry about my mother’s party, really. You don’t have to go. Actually, it’s probably better that you don’t –” “I’ll go,” Art cut in flatly. “What? Will you really, Artie? That’s just great. She’ll enjoy you coming out—” Melissa gasped as she sliced her finger. Quickly abandoning what she was going to say, she rushed over to the sink and started to run cold water over the wound. “Goddamn it. Goddamn it all, that hurts,” she muttered under her breath. Art decided he’d had enough of the conversation. “I’m really tired, babe. I…I think I’m going to go take a nap until my head clears up.” “Well, all right then. I guess we can talk tomorrow before the party…but don’t you think it’s awful late for a nap?” The sound of a door shutting answered her. She
looked up but Art wasn’t in the kitchen. Gone to sleep in the guest room, she thought. I’ll never know why he likes sleeping in there alone some nights. She leaned forward to peer down the hallway and, sure enough, the guest room door was shut. After carefully bandaging her finger, Melissa gathered the fruit she’d cut up and placed it into a bowl in the refrigerator. For a moment she considered going to check on Arthur, but she decided that it would be best to let him sleep until the morning. She thought that he’d seemed a little shaken up. Struggling to hold her eyes open, she determined that it was time for a little sleep herself. Melissa walked into the bathroom quietly, as not to wake Art, and washed her face before undressing and slipping into a nightgown. She crept back up the hallway, past the guest room, and almost walked into the bedroom before realizing that she’d forgotten something. Hurriedly, she ran back into the kitchen and locked the garage door. Positive now that she’d done everything, she crawled into bed. Poor Artie, she thought, I just don’t know what’s gotten into him…he knows that I love him, though. That’s what matters. She pondered briefly what her mother’s reaction would be tomorrow if she brought Arthur along in his current state, then finally decided that he’d be better off staying at home tomorrow afternoon, whether he liked it or not. Especially after everything I’ve put him through today with the cigarettes and all, she mused. She felt good about herself, and confident that tomorrow she and Artie would be just fine. Just before Melissa fell asleep, she was momentarily annoyed by the muffled sound of a car engine starting up nearby. Her dreams were filled with vivid, horrible images the whole night.
Joplin Rice is a writer currently residing in a small town just outside of Lexington, Kentucky. In the coming fall semester he will begin classes at the University of Kentucky where he plans on majoring in Secondary English Education and further honing his writing skills. When not reading or writing Joplin enjoys hiking in the Red River Gorge, a place teeming with artistic inspiration and near and dear to his heart. Currently, he is working on a collection of short stories accompanied by a novella, which he hopes will illuminate the pros and cons of being a teenager coexisting alongside a confederacy of dunces. Joplin's fiction is forthcoming at The Zodiac Review and Fiction365.
I Thought For Sure You Could Hear Them By A.V. Boyd
Mark Lewis fiddled with the hard plastic straps holding their bikes to the roof rack. The car was almost packed. Next, they would get the U-Haul. The sun beat down on his head, bounced off the asphalt, bounced off the row houses, bounced off the cars, and slowly baked him alive. He cursed the stubborn strap when it bit the tender side of his finger and hit the car with the palm of his hand. He wiped his forehead and cursed again and wondered why they were leaving in the middle of August. Across the narrow street his doctor wife tried to open the front door to their apartment, a three-story brownstone of which they occupied the top 2 floors. She didn't really want to move away, he knew that. She liked it here. She had found a job at a hospital in New Brunswick. But she didn't want to support them on her own either. His wife shook the key inside the front door. Sometimes the lock was sticky and wouldn't open right away. She pulled up on the knob. Sometimes that helped. Lewis saw two brown men on the other side of the street walking in the direction of his wife. He got a bad feeling in his stomach, and messed with the bikes some more. He saw them walk by his wife and one of their heads turned. His wife had an ass like a brown girl, but she was light complected and looked like a white girl, and she was trying to open the door to an expensive brownstone on a good street. Lewis saw the two men slow and look at his wife. He opened the passenger side door and rummaged through the glovebox. He heard them say something and then keep walking. He saw his wife open the door to their apartment and go in. He shut the door to the car and followed her inside. They packed another two boxes and went to
pick up the U-Haul. "I can't wait to get out of here," she said. "The men here are so creepy." "I think it's the Dominicans," he said. "That's just their culture." "You didn't hear those guys, did you? You know what they said?" "Oh, those guys?" She looked at him. "Yea, those guys that walked by when you were putting the bikes up." "Oh, I think I know who you are talking about." "Did you hear them? Did you hear what they said to me?" "They said something? Those creeps. What did they say?" "You didn't hear them? I thought you could hear them." "No, those guys? I saw two guys. I think I know who you are talking about. They did say something, didn't they? What did they say?" She looked at him again. "They said, 'N-i-i-i-c-e,' and then I got the door open and went inside. Did you hear them?" "I heard you slam the door. Those creeps." "I thought for sure you could hear them. You didn't see them slow down and stare at me?" "I saw them walk by, but I was certain there wasn't a problem." "Well," she said, "there wasn't." "I know." "I'm just glad to be getting out of this city, the men here are so creepy." "I know, me too."
AV Boyd was raised in Peralta, New Mexico - an obsessive basketball player good enough to sit the bench in high school and then again his freshman year at Knox College, IL. After two years, he returned to Albuquerque where he completed a degree in pharmacy at The University of New Mexico, then traveled to Richmond, VA for graduate school. He decided there was not enough time for his true passion, writing, and moved home where he now writes full-time and supports himself part-time as a hospital pharmacist. He currently resides in Los Ranchos, NM with his girlfriend and their cat, Freddi, his editor.
My Life in Pictures By Penelope Mace
Uncle Karl didn’t get out of a car like other people. To Cassandra, watching from the window, he seemed to be following some protocol, semi-military, precise. Slowly, he unfolded himself from the small station wagon, stretched, then squinted up and down the street, as if expecting resistance. Was it possible he carried a weapon? God, she hoped not. He looked smaller than she remembered, thinner, his shoulders sharp under the black turtle neck, his upper arms stick like. But it had been years and maybe it was the angle. Why didn’t she rush outside to greet him? For days she had been madly anticipating his visit: an entire evening alone with her Uncle Karl, but suddenly she didn’t feel well. Probably the fist gripping her stomach was partly hunger but she knew it was more than that. The word that kept bouncing around her mind was dread. But of what? She gulped down the confusion and nausea and went outside. His hug was prolonged and full body, despite her effort to pull back. She was acutely aware of not wearing a bra. When he finally let her go his long hands gripped her shoulders. He grinned and said, “My God, it’s good to touch someone of my own blood. I’ve been on Long Island with your Aunt Ingrid’s people and they, well… later.” At his insistence they ordered Chinese and from his leather pack he produced two bottles of white wine, vaguely chilled, with curly-cue labels and a name she could not pronounce. As she stood in the doorway to her kitchen he popped one open and poured and talked. The black beret clamped to his head must conceal thinning hair, she decided, and glimpses of his ropey neck escaped the folds of his pull over, detracting from his swagger. The voice, though, it still rumbled like a force of nature,
full of authority and intelligence exactly as she recalled and the confident tilt of his head almost offset his stature. The glass in her hand, a juice glass, she had no wine glasses, grew heavy so she put it down. He continued to talk. She’d never had a visit with him alone. Before, always, her mother was there and the two of them, no matter how long it had been since their last meeting, instantly locked onto to each other no matter who else was there, Cassandra, her father, his wife Ingrid, their daughters. The two of them. Locked, like magic coordinates from star trek, unbreakable, inexplicable, unique. Ingrid had once said to Cassandra’s mother, I know you will always be his superstar. And she’d sounded so matter of fact about it, almost cheerful. It had made Cassandra cringe. So now that she had him all to herself, why were her guts twisting themselves into painful formations? Why was she sweating, almost shaking? She continued to stand at the edge of her kitchen as if waiting for him to invite her inside. He gulped wine and strolled around eying details of the room that suddenly made her ashamed: the chipped counter and scratched up cabinets; the faded store coupons on the slightly askew bulletin board; the jumble of mismatched cereal bowls and mugs in the sink. This was as it was for the last two years, since she kicked her husband out and went back to school. This was as it was for good reasons, she told herself defensively, as he talked on and she tried to focus on him instead of the grinding in her gut. Good reasons, she shouted in her head, like school and the children and writing fiction and earning money, not laziness or indifference, but their opposites. When he sat down at the rickety table she sat down too and forced herself to sip the dry wine. He was talking about his wife Ingrid and her current important project, the reason she had been unable to come along on this trip. He went on to his daughters, both in high school now, one a brilliant (he pronounced it brill-ee-yunt) actress, the other a brill-ee-yunt mathematician like her mother, bound to be a brill-ee-
yunt researcher, already being courted by brill-ee-yunt Ivy league programs, while the other one had been written up in local papers for her brill-ee-yunt interpretations of Shakespeare - and – All she had wanted was to have him all to herself for one evening and talk about writing. Earlier as she had waited obsessively, she’d made lists of things not to mention:
her only brother who had killed himself years ago; her enrollment at
community college; even her own children who were bravely picking their way through the sharp stubble of a nasty divorce. Basically, everything that highlighted her inferiority, her failures. I am not my mother, she wanted to tell him, I am not a mess. She wanted his dark intense eyes on her and her alone as she described her budding writing career, a few things published and even paid for, acceptance into a local writer’s group that included many published writers, an interview with a local TV station. Now she seemed incapable of saying anything. Though he did not seem to notice, and he rumbled on happily about Abigail and Elizabeth, his daughters. She always forgot which was which but one thing she recalled vividly from previous visits – no nicknames. No Liz or Abby or Ab or Beth. Years ago on a visit to her parents he had given a long convoluted speech about the reasons behind the no nickname rule but at the moment Cassandra who had always been plain old Cassie to everyone, could not recall them. Ab and El, as she thought of them but of course never called them, had been at that visit and had sat through the lecture about their names impassively. What must it feel like, Cassandra wondered back then, to have this fascinating man so enamored of you that he delivers passionate lectures about your name? The food arrived. They used chopsticks and he poured more wine. She had lost so much weight over the last year she dared not drink much but she did anyway, a
second cool tangy glass with her tofu then another as they cleared and decided to sit in the front room where a breeze had begun to ruffle the curtains. Outside a street hockey game ended abruptly to the calls of impatient moms and the raucous sounds of birds settling in for the night filled the void. The dusk brought on a sudden wave of loneliness for her children and her eyes burned. She turned away so he would not notice the tears but he had launched into an intense monologue about, was it Abigail or Elizabeth, the actress, she forgot. “…so mature an interpretation her drama coach said he’d never seen such depth in a young actor, and this man, mind you,”
here he tapped her thigh just above the
knee, rather hard, and she jumped, “…this man isn’t some low level hick high school teacher, mind you, in fact-“ It took several attempts before she managed to interrupt him to say that she had to use the bathroom. In turn he said, fine, he would unpack and call Ingrid, if she would show him his room. She led him upstairs to her daughter’s room which had a full sized bed and was not too messy for a regular weekday. There was an extension phone on the landing and as he dialed she hurried down the hall to her own bathroom but nothing happened. She sat on the cool edge of the tub and hunched over the white toilet bowl and wished that she could just vomit and feel better. It felt like she had swallowed a toxic cloud. Her stomach roiled and ached and she wished she had a joint or a valium or anything. Goddamnit, she thought, if I were my mother I’d be drinking gallons of gin, smoking up a storm, eating enough fat to choke an ox, and still be sparking and sexy and witty. His superstar. Trying to make herself gag did not help so she crumpled onto the tile floor, lowered the toilet lid and put her head down on her arms, like she had in grade school. When she closed her eyes she did not “see” anything but she knew something. She
knew something that she did not exactly know but sensed. Like a whisper, like a fragment of a melody that wanders through your head and taunts you. She had no idea how she knew this thing that she did not exactly know. But she did. She didn’t want to, but she did. She gulped down the bitterness rising in her throat that was either garlic from the tofu or a part of this forgotten, never quite known story. She forced herself to go back downstairs. Uncle Karl was walking along the wall of the dining room where she had family pictures. He had taken off the beret to reveal a coating of thin graying hair that accentuated his narrow head. She stood back and glanced at the photos as he stepped slowly down the row, slender arms folded across his chest, dark eyes keen. There was the famous one of the two of them, Karl and his beloved older sister Freda, her mother, his superstar, the one that was in the Detroit Free press, of them wining a dance contest, arms around each other, spinning, their laughter a secret to themselves, their features intense echoes of each other. Despite her blondness and his darkness, how, she wondered, could anyone have seen them and not known they were brother and sister? The noses, the chins, even the long narrow ears. And if all that did not tip you off, you should have known by the gestures, that way they had of leaning over to tap your knee if they thought your attention was waning during a long story, the eloquent way they used their hands like conductors, orchestrating everything and everyone around them. Her mother had told her they could make anyone fall in love with them in an hour. Men or women, boys or girls, any age or type. During the depression they made money that way, placing bets with rich kids on the dance circuit about their legendary love powers. It led to problems of course. Hurried exits from towns across the Midwest when someone’s fiancé slit her wrists over Karl or someone’s brother bankrupted himself to give Freda a ring. If things turned physical, they always won. Her mother, a
person who claimed to hate violence, could only barely conceal her pride when she told stories about her and Karl going up against a roomful of rich kids and emerging without a scratch. Cassandra realized, watching him study the photos in silence, that she herself fell in love with him every time she saw him, as far back as she could recall. She remembered one visit when she was 12. When she saw him walking up the drive way to her parents’ house, a heavy pack on one shoulder, his other arm around his daughter, the two of them leaning in, laughing from some private joke, Cassandra was smitten, hatefully jealous of her cousin. The phrase animal magnetism had sprung to mind though at that age she was unclear exactly what it meant. Now, though, the animals had aged and then there was all this bitter stuff in her belly, crawling up her throat, making her cough and shudder. She went to the kitchen and got a glass of cold ginger ale and when she got back he was studying the photo that she called The Group, the family passport photo taken just after the first world war. He was 10, her mother 12. To her, the photo had always been like one of those perception tricks – one time she’d swear she detected the shadow of Karl’s later craziness, his violence and excesses, the next time she saw only a thin wary child in a thick suit, about to be dragged off against his will to a so called new life in a strange country. And what about the girl to his right, his beloved sister, his superstar, who would become her mother? Did a raw quality inhabit her deep set eyes, a hint of seduction and lies? Or was there merely a put upon teen ager, resentful of her sisters, chafing at the rules of her mother’s Nazarene church, hating the baggy dress she wore? Among these photos were several of Cassie’s children but she herself appeared in only one, taken at the Jersey shore, a few years ago when she and her ex were still pretending to be happy with each other. Now she stood behind her uncle as he studied
her tanned body stretched on a lounge chair, hair swept back, the small bathing suit showing her slender waist and firm breasts, skin shiny from tanning oil. To get a better look, she took a step away. Had she never noticed the resemblance to her mother? She squinted at herself, then craned to look again at the photos of her mother. Karl stayed very quiet, staring. Was there a strong resemblance? Her stomach flipped. Why should I feel horrified, she accused herself, by noticing that I look like my own mother? And why did I not see this before? These photos have been here for – what – years? She wondered if she truly were going insane. Karl had moved on to the living room. He said, “That painting over the fireplace; is that your brother?” “Yes. My aunt painted it, my aunt from the other side, my father’s sister. She did it one summer when she was visiting. He was 17.” He stepped back and stared at it. Her aunt Lois was no artist but she had captured Jake’s endearing shyness, the dip of his head, the beginning of a smile that never quite materialized. Jake had refused to sit for the painting so Aunt Lo had chased him around flashing pictures until she got a whole roll of him. From those hurried photos she had pieced together the portrait. “It’s not interpretive,” Karl said flatly. She blinked. She was thinking how much her husband hated the painting, thought it morbid to have him on the wall, a mentally ill guy, a suicide, he did not want it around his children. The day after she’d kicked him out one of the first things she did was to move her brother’s picture down here into the dining room. “The real portraitists, what they do is-“
“I always have this picture up. Wherever I live.” He was close to her as he spoke now, his long hands in a complex gesture between them. “No, no, what I need to explain is-“
He began the story about the
portrait of Ingrid, painted by some Michigan artist friend of theirs who had gone on to become famous and how everyone who knew Ingrid was horrified and shocked by the portrait, it was not Ingrid, their fine and good Ingrid, she of the brill-ee-yunt scientific mind and spotless soul, she who did good for everyone everywhere, she whoCassandra heard her voice say, “I’ve heard this story.” During the pause that followed his sinewy hands stayed frozen in their gesture for a moment before he let them drop to his sides. Then he went to the kitchen and got the other bottle. They settled on the couch in the front room and despite feeling tipsy already she took another glass. The darkness that filled up the front window made her feel lonely again, out of place and disconnected, though she was in her own house. Late September, school just a few weeks old, and she wondered how the children were tonight, if they missed her, if he had fed them a good dinner, if he remembered about all the paper work and permission slips you have to send back the first few weeks. She hated this joint custody thing but her ex insisted and he had more money for lawyers. She tried to focus on the almost cool breeze filtering in through the big front window. Finally she did some of the talking and lost control, rambling on about classes at community college. He quickly appeared bored and annoyed, his attention wandering around the room as he gulped wine and she yelled at herself in her head but couldn’t seem to stop. It was as if the bitter pouch in her gut had ruptured and the poison had invaded her brain. When she got up to adjust the window – the breeze had picked up as if rain were in the offing – she realized that she knew what that ramble was about and it had nothing to do with her English prof, she wanted to ask him: why were you
sent away to your aunt’s farm at age 14 and not allowed to see my mother for a solid year? Was it what I think it was? But she did not even know how she knew that, if she knew it. Had she dreamed it up like a story she was working on? But why would she? If not, where did the idea come from? And why was she so convinced of it? Had she ever discussed it with anyone? He talked on, and drank more but showed no signs of drunkenness. Ingrid’s people, as he phrased it, his previous stop on this cross country trip, were stupid, shallow, vapid, boring, it had been only through heroic self discipline that he had not exploded and told them exactly how useless they were, and how incredible it was that his brill-ee-yunt and talented wife was related to them. Their house, he was saying, an eyesore, the husband a lunatic who spent his weekends on crack pot “inventions” and their daughter was, you won’t believe this, an actual cheer leader, she came out in this absurd outfit, carrying pom poms, did you ever? Glancing at the clock she realized suddenly how tired she was. Usually she was up by 4 AM. It was the only way she could get it all done, the school work, the house work, her part time jobs, a little writing when she could. Maybe, she thought, if she let him ramble on he’d come to it – to whatever it was that she needed to know and yet feared and dreaded. Was it possible that he might blurt out something? He talked so much and about so many topics, surely it could happen. But it did not. Somehow they got onto the topic of doctors and unbelievably enough, Karl and Ingrid knew all the best physicians in the country and believe it or not, the finest health care in the country was in Ann Arbor Michigan and –
Her attention must have lulled but she snapped to when he repeated that he wanted to see her foot, up here, on the couch. She stared.
He’d moved closer to her. She inched away. “What?”
“Your foot,” he repeated, with some irritation. “I just told you. I want to illustrate the techniques I’ve learned from Shi Suy Chi, the brill-ee-yunt healer I know in Ann Arbor. As I said, the foot has a particular spot that corresponds to every part of the body, and,” he reached for her right foot. She was wearing her old often patched leather sandals. She pulled her foot away. “Uh, You know, my feet are ticklish.” His irritation increased. “It doesn’t matter.”
He grabbed her ankle but she
resisted. He pulled harder. “My foot’s all sweaty and gross.” “I don’t care.” Eventually she let him lift her foot to the couch and remove her sandal. She heard none of his lecture about this technique of pressing or rubbing parts of the foot to relieve headaches, high blood pressure and so on. Gritting her teeth, it was all she could do not to scream and bolt away. She found his touch excruciating, almost nauseating and almost as horrifying was the look on his long narrow face, the absolute intensity boring in her, the eyes seeming almost demonic in the dim light. In her head she taunted herself: you wanted his attention all to yourself, didn’t you, didn’t you? “Thanks, that’s enough,” she heard herself say. He was not pleased but the moment passed and he went on to another subject while she pulled her leg to her lap and held the foot tightly with both hands, as if to make it forget. Why had she let her mother die without asking? But wouldn’t it have been cruel to badger a dying woman about family secrets and nastiness that happened decades
ago? And had she even suspected all this when her mother was still alive? Though it seemed insane, today, just within the last few hours, it was as if she had discovered something buried deep inside herself that she had always known was there. Something as blatant as the bitterness in her gut, which was not going away despite cold ginger ale and cracked ice. He’d moved on to European travel now, something she had never done of course, that he and Ingrid and the perfect daughters without nicknames had done. A visit to Paris that he had made the year before, alone, staying with a woman friend of theirs, a professor who had lived in Ann Arbor for a time. Now she lived alone in Paris and every day, he was saying, she would get up early and leave for work and he would then get up and go to the bathroom to shower. Her nightgown would be hanging on the back of the door, he said, and one day he seized it in his arms as if the nightgown were the woman herself, embraced it, buried his face in it and it smelled deeply, richly of her, her perfume and soap her natural body odor. Just as she had when he’d demanded to touch her foot, Cassandra found herself suddenly alert. Without meaning to, she had flattened herself against the far end of the couch and pulled up her knees. He did not seem to notice. “I don’t know how much you know about men,” he said, shaking his small head, “but a man’s erection reflects just how aroused, how intrigued he is by the woman who causes it and in this case, I swear to you,” Later she would never recall how they got off this, if she changed the subject, if he simply moved on, but somehow the subject changed and she would never get the punch line of the hard on story, as she came to think of it. She did recall how chilly it had become or maybe she was getting sicker. By the time she told him she had to go to sleep it was very late, and she was nearly punchy as
she led him upstairs and gave him a clean bath towel and again showed him his bathroom though he did not seem to be paying attention. Standing outside her daughter’s bedroom, she said good night and headed down the hall. It was not until she was in her room that she realized he was right behind her. She jumped and turned to face him. “Did you need something?” “No, no, no, I wanted to tell you something about the poetry I’ve been writing, you know, well, you might recall, I’ve been writing a long time and now I’m seeing the results. I’ve learned my craft, I really-“ Cassandra’s gaze went to her shabby but neatly made bed where her nightgown waited for her, folded and tucked under the pillow. The wine, the emotions, the spicy food. She had a lecture at 8 AM and then half a shift at the book store, and had to be home for the children’s arrival. Normally she would get up at 5 and do some reading but now -she wanted to ask him – was it true as her mother had said that during the war he’d gone completely nuts and tried to kill a whole bunch of guys in his battalion, that he’d been brought back to the states in a straight jacket and Ingrid was told he should never be let out of the asylum. If it were true, as her mother had said, that he’d been so obsessed with her, with his sister, that she’d had to move thousands of miles away to get rid of him. Were you in love with my mother, she wanted to ask but instead, when he paused to breathe, she gestured at the bed and told him that she was tired. Of course, of course, he murmured, and continued. She went to the other side of the bed and drew out her nightgown, held it up, fluffed it, then remembered the hard on story and quickly shoved it back under her pillow. Now he was onto Ezra Pound. Somehow, eventually, he left. bothering to brush her teeth.
She changed quickly and got into bed, not even
Even when close to exhaustion, she’d often fret and sniffle for some time before sleep came, but tonight she was instantly asleep. When she woke she had no sense of time, of how long she had been sleeping. Karl was in her bed, under the covers with her, close enough so that their shoulders touched. Though she had awaked abruptly, a strong sense of calm and control had settled over her, a sense of intelligent caution as if she were dealing with a dangerous animal and every syllable, every small motion mattered. Without drawing away, barely breathing, she said, “What are you doing?” He must have turned the hall light on. She could just make out his creased face and distressed mouth against the white pillow. “Can I sleep here? I can’t sleep and-“ “Uncle Karl, no, you can’t stay here.” “I won’t bother you, I swear, I just need to sleep here.” “You can’t stay here,” she repeated, in a slightly louder but still neutral tone. As soon as he was gone she leaped up, all modulation gone and slammed the door. The house shuddered. There was no lock. Heaving and sweating, she paced and then began pushing her heavy old fashioned dresser across the bare wood floor, a bumpy and noisy undertaking. She knew he must be able to hear it even at the other end of the house and she found that knowledge deeply satisfying yet bitter, a bizarre sensation that she’d never experienced before, even through her divorce and custody battles. It took more straining and scraping to lodge the dresser flush with the door and then she threw herself on top of the covers and wiped her sweating face and neck with the sheet, then slept, this time until the alarm went off at 5.
When they’d arranged this visit he had said he’d be happy to get up early as she did and that he would simply go without coffee or breakfast since his next stop was in the DC area, a long drive. He awoke easily and she went quickly from her daughter’s room without saying good morning then waited by the front door with her book bag and keys until he came down. She never looked at him. She did not know if he looked at her. She said nothing. He might have said something but she did not hear it. She waited in her car with the doors locked until his car disappeared down the street and turned right, toward the interstate. Then she drove away. That bitterness that had squatted in her stomach migrated that morning to her lungs. It was not anatomically correct, she told herself, but there it was, that toxic taste, the wringing that had tortured her guts now would not let her breathe. The whole day she could not catch her breath. She could barely swallow and ate nothing. By evening her back and neck ached from the effort and she couldn’t move without wincing. Luckily the children were in a good mood and went to sleep easily and fairly early. She found it impossible to read or study. TV did not help nor did aspirin or a hot shower. Finally, barefoot, in her nightgown, down in the kitchen, she poured herself ginger ale and dialed Aunt Ingrid at home. As always, she was quietly cheerful, the undertone of a German accent making her sound more charming than she really was. After a minute of small talk, Cassandra said, “I have to tell you something.” “Oh? What is it, my dear?” Cassandra thought of Ab and El nearby doing their high level brill-ee-yunt homework. “Last night, after I was asleep, Uncle Karl got into bed with me.”
She never lost a beat. “Really my dear? Is that right? Well, you know, he might not be getting quite enough rest. When he takes these trips people are always so willing to keep him up late because he is such a fascinating talker, and you know I should call him and make sure he’s getting enough sleep.” Not that night or for some nights, until she had composed and revised the letter to him, could she truly draw a deep and easy breath. Not for some months until she stopped thinking of him every night in the dark. Not for years before she could tell anyone about it. And she never saw him or spoke to him again.
Penelope L. Mace writes fiction and an occasional one act play. She has been published recently in numerous small or literary journals such as Moon Milk Review and Iconoclast. She has returned to the artful punishment of writing and attempting to be published after a long hiatus during which she raised children and worked outside home in health care. She is currently finishing up a novel about coming of age in a racially charged, volatile and deliciously exciting time in history - the summer of 1968, the setting, the Poor People's Campaign in Washington, DC. Currently she lives near Minneapolis and enjoys the great honor of helping to care for her younger granddaughter, Alexis, born in Dec. of 2011.
Visit www.crackthespine.com to subscribe to our online magazine or review our submission guidelines