Crack the Spine - Issue 183 by Kerri Foley

Crack the Spine

Literary magazine

Issue 183

CONTENTS Julianne Palumbo Fifty Something

Nancy Scott Hanway Underside

Duke Donaldson

Gabels, Paper Routes

Debra Burks Hori Pear Blossom Fury

James Valvis

Pick Off

Michael Grant Zimmer After

John P. Kristofco

Afloat

Julianne Palumbo Fifty Something

Like a bead of water racing down the shower door, I was sliding toward irrelevance. My fingertips, thick with lines of absorption, touched nothing fully. All seemed gossamer, a pinch of dandelion seeds in my grasp. I prayed, for relevance, for purpose, to matter. And waited.

And then it came, like the floods when the spring rain tailgates the winter snowfall, purpose deluged my life, pushing and pulling and swirling in puddles of mud and tea-stained leaves and crystal matter. I tipped my head back and soaked up the rain.

Nancy Scott Hanway Underside

“You don’t have to love someone just because they’re dying,” she says. “But it does wonders for your soul. Dogs know this because they’re creatures of grace.” This is exactly the sort of thing his mother always spouts. A skinny little thing at seventy. But her eye. It glistens like the eye of her beloved orca—that is, the orca they observed from a chartered catamaran near Bolinas. His mother forever called it my whale. “Dogs are creatures of hierarchy,” Simon answers. “They appreciate order." Whenever he and his mother move through the hospice halls—“the wards,” she calls them, as if they were in an old movie about wounded sailors—she twists her clerical collar and gives Simon a downward glance, like an orca cow eyeing a dolphin she’s about to kill. Simon learned, in the first therapy dog session he attended with Brownie, that “whale eye” refers to the moment when a dog shows the whites of its eyes, out of stress. A dog with whale eye is about to bite. His mother first knocks and then calls at a patient's door, already smiling: “Here’s Brownie, the Labrador, and her pet, Simon.” This is his mother’s great joke. She thinks it is entirely original, and patients generally respond with faint smiles as Simon wheels through with Brownie on the leash. The dying are a truly captive audience. One of the tests they did with Brownie, when they first started training her for therapy work, was to see how she behaved when strangers hugged her. She hadn’t given that noble, long-suffering look common to most dogs. Instead, she

leaned into the person hugging her, even if they tugged on her fur or played with her ears. At the hospice facility, Brownie lies on the bed next to the patients—her long paws extended delicately—and sighs, as if this were all she wants in life. His mother always thanks the dog as “our sacred animal” in her prayers. But his mother never notices that whenever she prays with a patient, Brownie sits up straight and looks away. “What happened to your son? Was it an accident? Or was it from birth?” a patient asks softly, a woman who will die from a brain tumor the following week. After the woman passes, Simon’s mother will tell him that her death is surprising, considering the specific form of cancer. Simon will shrug. He doesn't pay attention to their diagnoses. He doesn't want to categorize someone as Glioblastoma Woman in the way he gets filed away as Paralyzed Man, like a supremely defective super hero. His mother is losing her hearing. She doesn't realize how loud she has become. When patients ask about him, she gives a different answer each time after he leaves the room and she thinks he is out of earshot. She once said, “A diving accident,” but that seemed to prompt too many questions. So sometimes it is “A motorcycle accident about twenty years ago.” Or “He fell while he was climbing a tree in college,” or “A balcony collapsed under him at a hotel.” These kind people, who know that their lives are measured in weeks at most, feel terrible for him. His mother then changes the topic as quickly as she can, using their questions as a chance to introduce God into the mix. Simon resents her con. Lying about his injury, tricking them into discussions of the divine. She forced herself to believe in this guiding force, this magical authority, and now she wants to convince everyone. How else can she

explain what happened to him? Then they come upon someone who knows the story. Room 204. A retired cop, the hospice director tells them, whose own brown Lab died around the time he entered. The worst part is that Brownie instantly loves the guy, who scratches her at that spot between her shoulder blades and croons her name. On their second visit, Brownie puts her head on his lap and gazes up at him. The old cop strokes her head for a while without speaking. Then he looks up at Simon. “I was there that night. The night your father—" Simon’s mother moves through the door in her silent blur. “What’s that? I didn’t catch what you said?” “I was at the scene. At Stinson Beach.” His mother blinks and touches her clerical collar. For a moment Simon thinks she might say something. Then her “minister mask” takes over. “I’m sorry we brought that pain into your life.” Simon is glad when the cop gives an unbelieving snort. “Not your fault. That was my job.” He points at Simon. “How old are you now? Thirty-five?” “Forty.” “That long ago.” He turns to Simon’s mother. “You weren’t a reverend then.” She puts a hand on Simon’s shoulder, trembling. She never mentions Stinson or the mildewed house where they spent every weekend of his childhood. She never mentions his father. The counselor told them not to compare notes, because this strengthens the memory, can reinforce it like a migration path, returning the pain in greater force every year. It was supposed to be the final celebratory beach weekend before he graduated from Berkeley. He was tired of the fighting—his father throwing his mother’s favorite platter, the one with embedded seashells, through the sliding

glass door. His mother yelling, picking up the phone, pretending to call 911 until his father sat down and sobbed. Enough of their drama. Simon found a party down the beach with some locals where everyone was doing ecstasy. He came back to the house, moving the cardboard his mother had placed to hide the shattered glass, and heard them in their bedroom, still arguing in venomous bursts. He lay in bed grinning—ecstasy always made him smiley—as he examined a patch of mold on the ceiling. He was coming down from the roll, with the grinding thump of dopamine loss, when he saw his father’s face above him, distorted and red, but for his eyes. Calm and blue and white. What Simon remembers most clearly is a feeling of disbelief. His dad owned a gun? Their dog, Violet, a big Newfoundland, barked crazily from behind the door. When he lets himself remember, the dog is what worries him most. How anguished Violet must have been, not being able to protect Simon. How confused. She adored his father, always exposed her belly the minute he walked into a room. Simon’s mother, screaming from down the hall where his father locked her in, tore off most of her fingernails trying to get out when she heard the blasts. The old cop’s eyes often slide to Simon’s mother’s fingers when she prays. Some of the nails never grew back, and they look hazy, as though she's underwater. “I felt so bad that we had to put your big dog down.” The cop scratches Brownie again, who leans against him. “What was she—half bear?” Simon doesn't want to visit the old cop anymore but continues anyway. It is what you do for the dying. But he always stops outside the room, letting his mother enter first. Then he leans over to pat Brownie, putting the brake on the

wheelchair. “Why don’t you bite him, Brownie?” he whispers. “This time, bite.” But she won't. He knows she won't. He never trained her to do harm. She gives him a quizzical look that reminds him that she doesn't understand any of this. That the way humans treat each other—the damage they inflict—is a mystery. That human love seems random and without order. And that she adores Simon, because he is the one in charge.

Duke Donaldson Gabels

We pick all the prettiest flowers Because we're selfish "Hey, I found something beautiful And I killed it for you" And when we make love It's the friction of our junk And the chemicals we produce But I see intimacy in full ashtrays At 2 am. When I'll be late for work Or class and I can smell you When I take a piss. The world seems lit by stark halogen Or warm bar lights. We stumble home on frozen streets And trade secrets as we share the toilet Here's my heart It was beautiful and I killed it for you.

Duke Donaldson Paper Routes

The streets were winter worn The white of a blank page from An artist with dirty hands Soot soaked channels that meandered Goddamn streams between us you can Smell the cold in the air It’ s that cold that freezes the Moisture in the air it only seems To happen around 3 in the morning In the bitter wind with stinging Red nose and eyes the air is alive And it’s kicking my lungs like A drag from a cigarette I could Smoke all night the sky is ink Black and dead quiet like us In the car We were spring time once But now we’re winter nights

Debra Burks Hori Pear Blossom Fury

My son comes home from school early with a head full of lice. I vacuum, wash his clothes and linen, pick nits from his scalp, and I sob. My eighty-year-old mother is in a nursing home recovering from congestive heart failure. This is my first Valentine’s Day in twenty-two years without my soul mate. He died five months ago. Robin taught me how to see. I, the more task-oriented of the two of us, would be the one with my head down getting this and that done. I was the one who planned, even under the guise of “relaxing,” how to complete everything on my “to do” list, the one who was in constant battle with the clock. Then, Robin would say, “Look, Sweet Plum, look at this,” and I’d pull up from whatever it was that was so important, and I would see a tree branch casting an angular shadow onto a crumbling brick wall, or a fiery orange rose petal blushing into creamy peach and buttery yellow. Robin had this way of making the world around us a magical place, timeless, a never-ending supply of wonder and surprise. He’d call me on his way home from work with our code phrase, “Sunset alert!” That was my cue to stop what I was doing, rush outside, and gaze up at the sky. Robin taught me to love those moments of stillness. This is how I knew he loved me. It was better than getting a box of chocolates or a bouquet of flowers. Now it’s Valentine’s Day, and instead of finding ways to tell my sweetheart I love him, I’m eradicating lice and worrying about my mother. At 2:30 in the afternoon I run to Panda Express and grab lunch to go, then I sit alone in my

car. Sunlight filters through the flowering pear blossom trees. “Mm-m-m,” I croon. I shovel fried rice from the takeout box, taste the spicy tang of ginger and soy sauce. A warm breeze blows in the car window, and brushes the hair away from my face. I’m grateful I live in Southern California, where February can have balmy days like this. I look up to see a shower of white petals floating toward the windshield. They slip down the side of the car and spiral to the asphalt. I am in a pear blossom flurry, and I feel the illusion of forward movement, even though I am still. Petals find their way through the open windows. One drops into my rice. I pick it out, balance it between the tines of my black plastic fork. It looks like a saucer for a tiny porcelain teacup. Blossoms sweep across the asphalt, shape and reshape themselves in an instant, a glittering school of sardines. I stop worrying. I feel the wonder of this moment. I think about how lucky I am to be in this special place. I hear Robin say, “Look, Sweet Plum. See?” I smile at this living valentine unfolding before my eyes. I start the engine and I pull my car out onto the street. The petals trail behind me.

James Valvis Pick Off

Crenshaw is standing on second base. It is between batters and the other team is changing pitchers. He is waiting and daydreaming about the woman in the third row who is not his wife. It’s late in the game, two outs. He kicks the bag with a pointed toe, removes his cap, wipes his forehead with his forearm, returns his cap. He again looks at the woman, promising Jesus it’s the last time. He wonders what kind of pick up line would work for a woman that beautiful. She’s wearing a blue dress and her body— oh, for heaven’s sake. The pitcher turns to look at him. He is just starting his warm-ups, but for a moment Crenshaw forgets he’s standing on the bag and panics, thinking he has taken a lead and will be picked off. Without thought, he dives back toward the second base bag that of course is not there and really he’s diving toward shallow centerfield.

He gets a mouthful of grass and briefly wonders why they sodded second, and then realizes what heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s done. Sadly, so has the pitcher, who throws toward second. No time to get back and he rises stiffly in the outfield, peering into the stands. As heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s tagged out, the woman throws down her peanuts in order to stretch out a fine finger.

Michael Grant Zimmer After

The first dream of him, after. He's driving. The car is some seventies sedan like a cop might have in a Steve McQueen movie. Her legs stick to the old vinyl of the passenger seat. She notices the soft, bright greens all around them and thinks this must be Colorado or maybe California after a rain. They coast through some tall grass at the bottom of a hill. She turns to ask where they are going and notices how much younger he looks. Maybe she comments out loud because he smiles at her, and she can’t help but laugh because of the old inside joke that she feels him say but doesn’t hear. He keeps driving along the hill’s base, which seems to have an infinite circumference, when it’s suddenly apparent to her in urgent, but generalized dream logic that this isn’t safe, that they have to get the hell out of there. There’s only one way out; he swings the nose of the car skyward and they charge up the hill. But now there are so many cars between them and the summit, all parked horizontal to the slope, close together as though at a giant, scenic car show. "Go!" she cries, and he floors it, trying to weave around the first row of cars and gaining speed, but this won't get them over. He makes a choice, he must make a choice. Because they turn upwards again. Suddenly she hears the screech of metal on metal and she understands they are

driving on top of all the cars parked together. And making remarkably good time. Driving over cars is at least as smooth as regular hill driving, she thinks with a bit of surprise but mostly hope as they continue to rise. At this rate the summit is getting close; she sees the hill cresting and feels giddy because they will get away-Until there's another loud jolt, nearly dumping her out of her seat. She turns frantically back and sees an older man shuddering on the hood of a car behind them, his body crushed, run over, several people rushing to him. "Keep going," she shouts, panicked. The car slows down. "We can get away," she insists. "Come on!" "I can't do that," he says. She grabs his shoulder and feels him, so warm. Her chest floods with shame. She would leave that other man dying. To keep him with her, to drive with him to the horizon.

John P. Kristofco Afloat

My parents did what they could do to stay afloat, Scrabble, movies, Jeopardy, as evenings came and went, as they both came and went, apart because the world demands, insists on it like ships move to horizons, in our vision, at our fingers just a moment in this span between the stars. We take them with us as they fade, as we move along on wind we cannot own, turning with the tide as best we can, looking for whatever hands there are beneath the clouds that form and fail, form again and fail, just like us.

Contributors Duke Donaldson Product of the working poor from the Rust Belt. Thick-skinned bar room hero. With all his tattoos, scars, and grime he looks like his city but beneath all the dirt, something gold beats. Nancy Scott Hanway Nancy Scott Hanway is a graduate of the Iowa Writers’ Workshop. Her work has appeared in The Florida Review, North Dakota Quarterly, Willow Review, Washington Square, WomenArts Quarterly, and Southern Indiana Review, among others. She lives in Minnesota, where she teaches Latin American literature and culture at Gustavus Adolphus College. Debra Burks Hori Debra Burks Hori has been published in “This I Believe, For Reader’s Edification and Debauchery” (FRE&D), Silver Birch Press, and the Health Section of the Los Angeles Times. She has attended several writing conferences, including: Calling in Your Muse with Roger Housden, 90-Day Novel with Al Watt, and poetry workshops with Jack Grapes, Richard Jones, and Ellen Bass. After her husband was diagnosed with terminal brain cancer, Debra decided to use writing to help comfort herself and others who feel the same experience of grief. Debra finds peace and self-renewal in hiking, yoga, and getting lost in books she brings home. She holds a master’s degree in special education from

California State University, Los Angeles, and a bachelor’s degree in psychology from Occidental College. John P. Kristofco John P. Kristofco’s poetry and short stories have appeared in about two hundred different publications, including: Folio, Rattle, Slant, Nerve Cowboy, Cimarron Review, Sierra Nevada Review, and The MacGuffin. He has published three collections of poetry with a fourth due out in the spring. He has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize five times. Julianne Palumbo Julianne Palumbo’s poems, short stories, and essays have been published in Literary Mama, Coffee+Crumbs, MomBabble, Kindred Magazine, Poetry East, Mamalode, Manifest Station, and others. She is the author of Into “Your Light” (Flutter Press, 2013) and “Announcing the Thaw” (Finishing Line Press, 2014), poetry chapbooks about raising teenagers. Julianne was nominated for a Pushcart Prize in 2013. Her essay will be published in the upcoming HerStories Anthology, “So Glad They Told Me.” She is the Founder/Editor-inChief of Mothers Always Write, an online literary magazine for mothers by mother writers. You can find her on her website, facebook, twitter, and MothersAlwaysWrite. James Valvis James Valvis has placed poems or stories in Arts & Letters, Barrow Street, Ploughshares, River Styx, The Sun, and many others. His poetry was featured

in Verse Daily. His fiction was chosen for Sundress Best of the Net. A former US Army soldier, he lives near Seattle. Michael Grant Zimmer Michael Grant Zimmer is a writer and filmmaker based in Los Angeles. He directed the award-winning feature documentary THE ENTERTAINERS, about the World Championship Old-Time Piano Playing Contest. His fiction has recently appeared or is forthcoming in Pithead Chapel, Spelk, Linden Avenue Literary Journal, and Akashic Booksâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; Mondays are Murder.

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