Grotonian, Spring 2013

Grotonian

Spring 2013

Table of Contents Coverart by Lauren Dorsey Perennials by Leah Mozzer 4 To Whoever’s Out There by Hayes Cooper 9 Artwork by Katie Slavik 10 A Love Poem by Layla Varkey 11 The Hardest Questions by Jamie Thorndike 12 The Box by Alexis Ciambotti 17 A Change of Heart by Georgia Brainard 23 Artwork by Aria Kopp 27 Grace. by Olivia Thompson 28 And I Was Alone Again In The Unquiet Darkness by James Fulham

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Artwork by Deki Namygal 35 Baptism by Sinclaire Brooks 36 Artwork by Charlotte Mellgard 39 If I Could by Daisy Collins 40 Tacking into the Wind by Evan Long 41 Artwork by Aria Kopp

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The Contest by Melissa Cusanello 47 Artwork by Danny Lopez

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Dear reader,

As this year ends, we hope that you bring the final issue with you on your summer journeys. The quality of this year’s art and writing astounded all of us as we pieced together the book you are now reading. We hope you enjoy it as much as we have.

Many thanks, Editor in Chief Senior Editors Editors Alice Stites George Wells Daisy Collins Starling Irving Alexis Ciambotti Mitchell Zhang Derek Xiao Faculty Advisor John Capen

Leah Mozzer

Perennials

My eyes, wandering high above the corrugated roofing of the Oakridge General Store, attached themselves to a dejected pair of sneakers hung off of a telephone wire— their own laces serving as the noose from which they dangled so deliberately. They were set against a sky whose color reflected the static creeping tiredly from my radio as the rain dribbled— caught between a sprinkle and pelting sheets. I shifted forward from the back-seat of the car and ran my fingers along the inside of the driver’s head rest until the yellowed foam came off in a dusty film on my fingertips, still staring at those shoes.

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It was a sultry spring, when the frost started to melt off the shingles in the mobile home park and the tulips erupted violently in reds and yellows along the foundations of the houses and mosquitos would congregate as if called to mass down by the river and my feet were continually marred by dirt and grass and sweat, when the plum trees in my neighbors’ yards would trickle with droplets of dark deep reds and mahoganies with plums smaller than my smallest finger nails. I anticipated that when the next snow came and went I would wade into the same river and join those mosquitos like I had every year before.

The evening was so clear in my memory, unlike the ones that had melted together into one huge recollection— the petty differences fading like wisps of smoke. Twilight set over us— three figures, hunched by the cold. The moon, so vain, was staring at her own reflection on the glassy surface of the river while on either side fence posts of trees stood watch over me and my two friends. The sky floated awash in a bloom of stars. The only thing that dared cut through the mirror of water was a small island with bottle green moss and a frail tree which, as I looked harder, was almost beckoning us to join it in its peace. The bank on which I stood in bare 4

feet and torn jeans rolled up over my calves doubled as a skyline for the undulating gentle command of the current. The overhang of dirt smuggled green reeds in the shallows where small insects docked for the night, waiting for me to crouch and trap a few into my tiny hands.

Eugene was the first to break the silence with a stutter, “I heard Daniel got bit by thirteen horse flies down here.”

The night’s cold air ran his fingers over my back through my stained sweatshirt. I tugged at the sleeves whose cuffs didn’t quite reach my wrists.

I frowned without answering.

“Let’s do this and get it over with,” Benjamin thrust his hands into his front pockets impatiently while bending his neck to rub his chin on his black AC/DC shirt, “I’m cold.”

On my right Eugene shifted nervously, which caught my attention.

I turned my head and saw that he was tugging at his oversized light blue t-shirt with the print “Oakridge Tree Planting Festival.” He had big brown eyes framed by even bigger black rimmed glasses, which magnified every fluctuation in the movement of his eyes. When he noticed I was staring at him he offered me a reluctant smile, his two front teeth jutting out eagerly.

“My Gramma said that if you write down the names of the people you love and send it down the Willamette, they will stay friends forever.”

Benjamin shrugged, “Okay.” Under his breath he muttered, “Your Gramma’s an old bat anyhow.”

Before he could react, I reached out and smacked him on the arm, “Shut up.” I looked to Eugene who had produced three slips of notebook paper with our names written in his shaky handwriting. “Go ahead, Gene.”

Eugene nodded and stepped forward to the edge of the bank before stooping to loosen the greying laces on his shoes and set them carefully on the shore. Despite taking measured steps into the current, he lost his balance and in an attempt to catch himself he dunked the right half of his shoulder into the water. I failed to stifle a giggle. Gene squared what little of a boyish jaw he had and with a gracious bow, he leaned into the river and set the three pieces of paper on the surface. I caught myself mesmerized by 5

the spectacle. I looked over at Benjamin, embarrassed at first, but saw that he too was looking at our frail friend in the river with a look of curiosity and admiration. Before letting the papers set sail down the great river, he cocked his head over his shoulder and met our gazes.

“Friends forever?”

I looked quickly to Benjamin, then we simultaneously nodded in accord.

Eugene held our gazes then nodded himself before returning his attention to the surface of the water. As his small fingers released the papers, the current moved them graciously away from us.

I shifted my feet and looked over my shoulder to the trail that led from the river’s edge back into our neighborhood. The trail had been etched out of the foliage by decades of kids marching through to get to this secret place.

I looked up at the sky tentatively, “It’s getting late. I gotta get back soon.”

Benjamin grimaced suddenly, “My Pa’s gonna wonder where I’ve been.”

“You can stay over with me tonight if you want, Benji,” Gene said as he approached us.

Benjamin shook his head, “No. He won’t like that.”

Before I could cut into the conversation, the previously cloudless sky surprised us as those spring showers often do. Directly after the first crash of thunder, rain poured from the sky as if a dam had broken in heaven. I let out a shriek as the cold water stung my face.

Benjamin grabbed Eugene by the shirt with one hand and pushed me to the trail with his other. The dirt sloshed beneath my worn sneakers, and I could feel small wet pebbles work their way into the hole in my left sole.

After dodging branches and thorny bushes, we finally made it to the asphalt ground which marked the little mobile home park the three of us lived in. My house was the closest, so we sought refuge on the porch after running over the grass and gravel. I looked down and saw that I had 6

trudged a thick film of dirt over the red painted porch.

I heard a small whine over the falling water, “I left my shoes at the river! My shoes are at the river!”

I looked down at Gene’s feet. They were covered in mud, even his jeans were splattered like mine.

Benjamin shrugged, “Get ‘em tomorrow.”

Gene shook his head adamantly, “No! I have to get them now.” He looked like a wet dog, “You guys gotta go with me! My mom’s gonna kill me— they’re only two weeks new!”

I shivered and looked between my house and the flooding road.

“Gene. Benji’s right. You have to go tomorrow. I’m sure they’ll be there in the morning.”

Gene shook his head again. “No guys! Come on.”

Benjamin looked irritated, “You can go on your own if it’s so important to you.”

I winced, “Hey Gene, look. Tomorrow, kay?”

Gene narrowed his eyes and for the first time he looked not only hurt but a little angry. “I’m going then!”

Before I could stop him he was off the porch and trudging across the inundated lawn.

I turned to Benjamin, “Should we run after him?”

He shook his head, watching the small figure disappear into the road, “Nah, he’ll be fine.”

He said his goodbyes then left me on my porch. I carefully removed my shoes and left them near the railing and quietly pushed the door. At first it wouldn’t open because the moisture in the air swelled the door in its threshold. After a good push, I slipped into the trailer. Through the blinds soft bluish moonlight filtered, leaving everything awash in grey cold overtones. I barely took a second glance at the yellowing newspapers scattered on the frayed carpeting. The house was completely silent except for my father’s snoring in the room next to the kitchen. I padded over to my end of the trailer and avoided the distended lump in the carpeting where the 7

wood foundation was swelling with age and retreated into my room. Newspaper cutouts greeted me in the darkness. Without changing my clothes, I slipped into bed and pulled the blankets over my wet body and fell into a dreamless sleep.

I woke to low voices slithering under the gap in my door from the kitchen.

It was mother and father talking. I sat in bed staring at the ceiling; my hair had matted to my head in the night as it dried.

Even through the closed door the soft voices failed to conceal the urgency which hung heavy in our trailer. Without thinking, I removed my covers and slunk to the door. As I pulled it open, a rush of silence filled the small space. My mother paled and my father stared at me blankly; both did not speak.

“What?” I rubbed my stiff hands; the morning had settled cold in the trailer.

My father stepped forward, “Go out and play.”

Shifting my attention between their feet, I backed towards the door with the groan of the floorboards beneath me.

On the porch I could see that the road was still moist with the night’s rain. The air was spiked with a smell of wet grass and dirt and I found myself running through the brush, the bushes and thorns scratching angrily along my bare legs and over my socked feet.

The deep intruding smell of pine climbed its way into my nostrils where it settled heavy on my lungs. The river had risen considerably. I saw where His shoes had caught on the little flowered island and without thinking waded out, ignoring the unkind water that severed me at the waist.

I looked over my shoulder a couple times before chucking the blue tennis shoes into the ongoing stream.

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Hayes Cooper

To Whoever’s Out There

I Every response is a slap.

Your face and my eyes form a trap.

II Warmth, breath, not-death, effect A space, calmly circumscribed with rhythmic pace.

III Here is where I am. There is where I’ll never be.

Yet There thus conceived me, enticed me with ivy, and might even slight me.

IV Devolve and sulk – hang on and attach To Whom It May Concern: e v e r y t h i n g i s h e l l…

V Okay. Debate. Prevaricate. Equivocate.

Don’t. Let. Anybody. Ever. Tell. You. That. You’re. Wrong.

VI I see briefly: All is transitory.

VII Still here in a calm cadence, still here.

Still progressing towards there, still there.

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STOP “These cold doldrums are not so.”

–the one who borders here and there (and ought to be listened to!)

REMEMBER The space under the sun where the trap was first made as a path, And the lovely beautiful undeniable end was encapsulated by the truth, FORGET THE REST and return to simple meaning, for your eyes mean more than a library, and though i am weak, it is sweet.

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Layla Varkey

A Love Poem

Love.

Not frilly doe-eyed always, I swear! love But the quieter kind, That seeps under doors and into bedspreads

weaving itself into couches and albums and the smell of home.

The heavier kind, that lies in truly unbridled laughter

in graying hair and crow’s feet.

The love that can finish sentences that knows habits, forgets birthdays,

hears the same stories exaggerated a million times.

The love that swells in the moment when a door bursts open after far too long, The love like someone has elbowed their way into your ribcage

sidling, squeezing, squishing, until your heart has no more room to even beat,

weakly fluttering against its birdcage of bone.

The swollen love that hangs from a thread

dangling high enough to snap you.

The love that doesn’t need cards or rings or fireworks,

But is fed quietly at fireplaces and dinner tables.

The love that can’t be packaged into four neat letters.

The love that is often forgotten In search of the silky secret Cupid love – Yet still armchair-warm, patient.

Ready, always, to forgive and forget And to drip-drop slowly back into your pores.

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The Hardest Questions

Jamie Thorndike

As I sit on the edge of my lean to watching the setting sun soften the jagged mountains, I think back to all the times I have gazed at this lake and the mountains growing out of it. I first came here the summer after I graduated college to find some thinking space. I was alone then, and my sacred isolation here has only ever been shattered twice. Once, I had the forgettable experience of bringing my three kids here, but they could not overcome the incessant bugs and the unending dirt. The other time…well, that experience was anything but forgettable.

About a decade and a half ago, I was doing just what I am doing now.

I had already laid out my sleeping bag on the battered wood floor of the lean to and had scrounged together a fire. Thus, I was able to just soak up the warmth of the fire and enjoy the sunset until there was only a glimmer in the western half of the sky, and then, as I started to put a pot of water on the fire for my pasta, a headlamp crossed my line of vision. From where I was sitting on the lake, it looked like it was headed around the lake in my direction, and, as the water began to boil, I closely watched this mystery traveler.

I was slightly annoyed that one of my few solitary evenings of the year was going to be intruded upon. I had never shared a lean to with a stranger before, but I knew that it was common courtesy to allow all visitors access to the shelter of the lean to. I was hoping that for some reason this traveler would turn around or continue on his way, but it soon became apparent that “my” lean to was this man’s final destination. I felt a sudden flash of fear that this man (his gender was now apparent) could be a serial killer on the run. Brutal images flashed through my head, but I pushed them out and squinted to get a better picture of this man. I could not make out any of his head because of the blinding head lamp, but his tattered grey t-shirt and green nylon shorts were visible. It seemed very odd to me that, on a sub-forty degree night in the mountains, someone would be so foolishly unprepared as to only wear an insubstantial t-shirt and shorts.

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By this point, the water was boiling, and so, I rummaged through my bag to find the box of pasta and then dumped it into the water. I also broke the lid on a small can of Hunt’s tomato sauce and put it in a separate pot on the fire. By now, the man was only steps away from the lean to, and the glow of the fire finally allowed me to fully glimpse him.

His headlamp was wrapped around a faded Pittsburg Pirates hat that casted a shadow over his tan face. A thin brown beard obscured his cheeks and jaw bones, and his nose was particularly pointed. Long blonde hair jutted out of his hat, and he appeared to have gone a considerable amount of time without bathing. His legs and arms were covered in a blanket of hair, but even this natural sweater could not hide his cold-induced goose bumps. He only wore flimsy Teva sandals as shoes, and, as a result, his feet were dirty and callused. On his back hung a ragged, medium sized backpack that appeared too light to contain the requisite materials for survival in the mountains. However, despite his peculiar appearance, this stranger’s most puzzling trait was his exuberance. He appeared to have too much energy for someone arriving to camp past dark, and it looked as if he had only been walking for a matter of minutes. He walked with a bounce in his step like he was just going to work, and his eyes seemed to glow as bright as his headlamp.

The man waved when he was close to the lean to, and I nodded in return. When he was within ten feet, he said, “How’s it going?”

I repressed my annoyance with his disruptive arrival, and said, “It’s going well. We definitely picked the right night to come out here.”

“September is the most underrated time to be up here. This is the best weather, and the foliage is also incredible. I spend time here throughout the year, but these fall nights are always the most memorable.”

By this point, the man had set his things down on the ground and was about to unpack. He then turned, and, at last, he asked me, “Do you mind if I stay here?”

I wanted to respond, “Well, I can’t really say no, can I?” Instead, I said, “Its fine by me.”

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By this point my food was ready, so I poured out the pasta and later the sauce into my faded yellow plastic bowl, and, as I was about to take my first bite, I realized that I was obligated to share my modest meal with this traveler. When he was done unpacking his sleeping bag, the man just sat down and gazed out at the lake. I then handed the man the plate of pasta, and he accepted. He devoured a significant amount of the remaining meal, and then handed it back to me. I finished it, and, surprisingly, the small portion of food satisfied my hunger from a day of hard hiking. In order to avoid eye contact with the stranger, I examined all of the flames, coals, and ashes in the fire pit with great intensity, and, for a while, we sat in total silence.

Eventually, I felt compelled to break uncomfortable the silence.

“You were out a little late?” Looking back, it probably sounded slightly obnoxious and condescending, but, at the time, the man seemed unaffected.

“Yeah, I hiked from Elk Lake to the top of Mount Colden and spent the afternoon basking in the peace and beauty of the summit. I headed down when I noticed it was starting to get dark, and I ended up here.”

“How long have you been in the backcountry?”

“Oh…since about May.”

I was shocked and gave him a skeptical look. I then asked, “So you just lived out here all summer?”

“Yeah. Every once and a while I go into one of the local towns to buy food and supplies, but I mostly live out here.”

At this point, I was interested. My life as a Manhattan banker did not provide me the opportunity to cross paths with someone like this. So, partly joking, I said, “So you’re like Survivor Man?”

“Well not really, I don’t use any crazy survival strategies like drinking my own pee or building rafts out of only sticks and leaves—I’m just trying to stay alive and enjoy this beautiful landscape. I have nothing to prove. I’m not out here to protest world hunger or to become the subject of a newspaper article. This magnificent wilderness is the only place I love and can truly feel free, so I see no reason to leave it.”

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At this, the banker and skeptic in me took over, and I asked, “How do you support yourself?”

“I don’t really have that many expenses—I spend the winters living in my buddy’s garage, so my only costs are food and clothes. I can cover most of these costs by pumping gas at the Shell station, and the rest comes from my savings.”

“Where did your savings come from?”

“When I graduated college, I was hired by Goldman as an analyst, and I worked my way up the ranks until I was laid off during the recent banking disaster. At that point, I judged I had enough money saved up to last a while, and I headed up here. I have lived here ever since, spending my summers in the park and the winters in my buddy’s garage.”

It became clear that this guy was no bum. I certainly did not assume he had a college degree, and the fact that he had turned down Wall Street, flat out astounded me. I was raised in a lower class house hold, but my parents gave me the opportunity to succeed. I grew up thinking that, if I could get a high paying job at some big bank, I would be successful. This one goal motivated me to work hard in high school, to do well in college, to go to business school, and to spend fourteen hours in my office a day, desperately striving for that next promotion. Now that I was there, I had finally reached my life goal, and I was supposed to be happy about it.

After focusing my whole life on achieving what this man gave up, I could not understand what motivated him to leave behind success and spend his whole life hidden up here. So, I stared at the fire thinking about both of our lives’ paths, and, this time, the silence between us did not seem daunting. It felt as if we were both watching the fire like it was some popular form of entertainment. The fire deepened my thoughts and provoked new ones. It pushed me to ask myself hard questions about myself— those for which I had no answers, and still might not have answers. Eventually, all my uncertainty prompted me to ask him, “I work on Wall Street, and, now that you have some distance from it, any advice?”

“As long as you love it, I’ve got nothing. I didn’t love it, so I left.”

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That was the hardest question.

There was a prolonged silence, and, in order to break it, I started to pick his brain about different trails and mountains in the area, and he talked about all his favorite places to hike, swim, and canoe. Eventually, he started to get tired, and said he was going to sleep.

As he slipped into his sleeping bag, I stocked the fire, and then walked to the very edge of the lake. I sat there thinking for a long time. This has always been my cherished thinking spot, but, this time, I focused on the important and difficult thoughts that I had previously avoided. As the night passed, I thought more and more deeply about myself, and about what I wanted out of life, and, after a while, I finally started to find some answers.

It was not until the eastern half of the sky began to glow that I felt satisfied enough to go to bed.

When the sun fully rose, I heard a rustling, and the man quickly packed himself. Right as he was about to leave, I opened my eyes, and I asked him what his name was.

“Jeffrey,

“If you are ever in town, ask around—see if you can find me.”

Before I could even ask which town, he was gone. Whenever my travels bring me through one of the local towns, I ask about Jeffrey, but I have yet to find anyone who recognized his name or appearance. I guess I should have expected him to be hard to track down, but whenever I sit on the smooth wooden base of this lean to, I hope that I might see that bobbing headlamp and again have the pleasure of sharing this weathered lean to.

That morning, I packed up my stuff, and, as I turned in the direction of the parking lot, I was suddenly crushed by the stress of my job, my family, and the rest of my life, so I said, “One more day,” and turned one hundred and eighty degrees back towards the glowing foliage.

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Alexis Ciambotti

The Box

As a child, I liked to sit in cardboard boxes When I had the chance. The People Would sometimes leave one lying around, no longer Needed. I would eagerly climb inside.

It was my own haven where no one else could go; Mainly because they wouldn’t fit.

That was one of the perks of having a box. There Were many others in boxes-mostly my Brothers and sisters; however, I came up with It first. In the beginning, I Did indeed encounter structural issues–if I left the top open, I had To crane my neck, only to see the sky.

But it was dark, and I grew older, and the box Became small. (Or had I gotten Bigger? No, it was most definitely the box.)

What ever became of the colors outside that I had loved–and had almost forgotten?

I could tell you this story like T. Steams: with deep, Profound bits and pieces–oh, please!

As if I could ever have that eloquence! Ha! The day has come, though. I was not Expecting it. I’d had no idea it Was coming...much like a mother-in-law.

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As I now sit in my cardboard enclosure, I’m just realizing what has happened: A hole has been poked in the box.

It’s a tiny hole, but a hole nonetheless.

Within my dark space, I thought that I knew how close the walls were; I thought that I Held Perspective in my hands. But In the darkness it was like smoke or waterEscaping my grasp, and almost Mocking my attempt to contain it.

But that small cylindrical beam Now suspends itself before mine eyes like the Lightning of the Sun. Suddenly The walls are close: I see there is dimension.

Breath confined, constricted, bound by A rope, my stomach turns. It’s really quite small in Here. And there is Something out there now.

Slowly I prod the opening; Little by little curiosity gains control over me Until I am completely without inhibition, Clawing, gnawing, tearing at the hole.

Ripping away at it just to glimpse this new--whatever it is.

But what if it’s a mistake And I should stay inside? Maybe this is already enough light.

And what if it’s not worth it?

Oh Confines! how you plague me so!

But as quickly as they came, the thoughts leave my mind.

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Besides, the hole can already fit a head, so I gaze outside.

I now wonder what it must have been like To see the first morning break and think, “This is going to happen every day.”

The brightness overwhelms me, but I look on. There Are the others; with our chthonic Ways, we push up through the dirt like snakes, swaying our Entire bodies back and forth to push through.

There are the others; I watch them break down their cardboard confines.

Something glimmers across from me; A man crouches down next to one box. I hear a soft pbmh, and he rises.

As he marches on, I see a finger poke through the newly-formed hole.

Carrying the pin by his side, the man approaches another box.

Loosening his sword, he strikes one side, swiftly making an incision.

He was sent to give the others all the Light that from Him flows.

I can see his shoulders rise and fall, his jaunty marching shows His contentment with the life around, his calm and tranquil prose.

His truth is marching on.

It’s as though he’s broken up a dam, and like a river this new Light rushes past. Oh, but this time, Noah, we go toward the Flood. Though the River does not reach some, the man tries them All. Some confines are just too thick, and so he marches on.

Ah! But now I am afraid!

I am exposed!

Nothing divides me from all the others, 19

From all other things.

I can be seen! I’m clumsy, ungainly And they can all see! Γνώθι σ ‘αυτόν * What? How?! So speaks that wretched temple. It’s Like the wilderness!

The savage wilderness!

Fear sucks back my heart. Γνώθι σ ‘αυτόν Stop saying that! How can you be so calm?

How can you know for sure?

You’re wrong! That’s it-you’re wrong!

You don’t know me-I see myself! Γνώθι σ ‘αυτόν Oh! But you gave us light!

You gave me light.

And you’re right-You do know me.

Better than I know myself.

And so does He. θα σας διδάξει να γνώθι σαυτόν.

By way of example.

I have come to wonder how those boats Bob upon the Infinite Sea. How are they calm, even when It rages?

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Subject to Its power, but free from all Restraint. Is that even possible? Yes, I suppose; they have a place, but so does It. Untouched by human hand, as It will Always be. Why? Because it has the best Defense imaginable: I’m brought to See my grapes of wrath; That sinking feeling Is the facing of this raw, wild thing, Untouchable by human hand: Truth! You cannot be held– Absolute and overwhelming–just like Like the Infinite, But still there are those who fish.

There will always be some with their chthonic Ways, hiding out under the earth, as they Commiserate with each other over Their ‘afflictions.’ Until one day something Happens, and then they emerge. But then there will Be those who are simply underground, those Who are ignorant of what’s above just Until they given Light.

In the beauty of the lilies, Christ was born across the sea.

With a glory in His bosom that transfigures you and me.

As He died to make men holy, let us live to make men free While God is marching on.

Glory, glory Hallelujah!

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Glory, glory Hallelujah!

Glory, Glory Hallelujah!

His truth is marching on. †

*Inscription on the temple at Delphi, meaning “Know Thyself ’.” † This piece includes many references to “Battle Hymn of the Republic,” including diction, sytnax, and direct quotation.

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A Change of Heart

Georgia Brainard

Fact #1: I like the smell of hospitals. Yeah, I know it’s not normal.

Maybe the sterile smell of antiseptic and rubber gloves is actually pleasing to my senses, maybe it’s just because I’ve spent so much time in them. Or maybe it’s because I’m simply not normal.

Fact #2: I’m a transgender. Curveball, right? People usually expect “struggling leukemia patient” after the hospital-smell bit. Well, technically I’m not a transgender yet. Doctor Wiese suggested that I call myself a “developing male.” The kids at school suggested I call myself an “orphaned wannabe-hipster drag queen.” Either way, I’ve been undergoing a sex change for a little over a year: estrogen stoppers, puberty suppressants, psychiatrist visits, the whole nine yards. I haven’t always been like this, but I couldn’t tell you the exact day I decided I belong as a boy. You can’t pinpoint a day like that because it was never “decided.” It was more of a realization, the time when I finally understood why I wasn’t just like everyone else.

Fact #3: I’m in love with my best friend.

Fact #4: She has no idea. I spend half of my time trying to figure out how she hasn’t noticed yet and the other half just thinking about her. Renee is astonishingly beautiful. Maybe there’s a word in German or Arabic or Japanese that captures her beauty just right, but I have yet to find one in the English language. She’s not beautiful like your cliché American spraytanned swimsuit model. She’s beautiful in the subtlest of ways: her thin, nimble fingers that dance along the edge of a table when she’s nervous; her fragile wrists where the pale skin stretches taut to become barely transparent to the warm thumping of her veins; the cape of billowing, black-blue hair that tickles my forehead when she leans back to laugh from the top bunk in my room. I’ve known Renee since my first day of Ms. Walling’s kindergarten class, and from that moment on we’ve been inseparable. We did the typical best friend things -- slumber parties every Friday night, painting toenails and giving makeovers, , confiding in each other our deep23

deepest darkest secrets. But we did some not-so-typical things as well. We carved tiny hearts into our wrists with plastic knives and mixed our blood until we were convinced we were sisters. We forged our elementary school report cards so we would have identical grades and comments. When Renee’s cat Harold died, I laced my cat’s Meow Mix with enough rat poison so we could mourn together. I revolved around her as the earth to the sun; my every action was a direct and immediate consequence of her previous. So at our class’s Christmas party in second grade, I tried to kiss Renee under the mistletoe like I had seen Benny kiss Clarise. Renee pushed me back hard, and I fell onto my sorry little rump. I asked her why and she told me that boys kiss girls and girls kiss boys, and that’s the way it is. Ever since then, I could always imagine the little second grade boy growing in my brain, filling into my chest and my arms and my heart. The little boy who wanted to kiss a little girl. We became less reliant on each other when we hit middle school; Renee started mingling with other people, going out at night, and kissing other boys. And I let her, ready with a broad smile for the sappy stories of sensitive guy Shane and a tight comforting hug when bad boy Brad broke her heart again and again. It was always hard, sitting back and watching immature prepubescent boys take for granted the most precious thing in my life. But I gritted my teeth and held on to the tiny piece of hope that someday in the future, I’d be the man she’s always wanted.

Fact #5: I don’t have a mom. I mean, I used to have a mom, back in my childhood before The Big Decision and everything after that. The only thing I’ve seen of her in five years is the occasional child support checks that sit unopened on the kitchen counter for a few minutes before I promptly feed them to my savage, flesh-shredding pitbull. (That’s a lie; I feed them to my savage, paper-shredding papershredder, but a carnivorous dog sounded much more appropriate.) Anyway, the point is that I’m not your average sob-story “I want my mommy back” kind of guy. I hate that woman and I’m glad she’s gone. I’m glad she’s off with that French asshole Sebastian making herself a perfectly fake family in her sheltered fantasy world. The world where her daughter isn’t trying to be her son.

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Fact #6: I’m going into my first surgery in five minutes. It’s the first of six total gender-altering procedures, which are usually spaced out over two or three months. Dr. Wiese has agreed to attempt all six surgeries today after my breakdown at my last therapy session, where I learned that I was expected to live a month in between genders. If you’ve ever seen the America’s Next Top Model episode with the half man half woman, you’d know that’s not a pretty sight. Dr. Wiese has been chief endocrinologist at the Boston GeMS for five years, and I trust him like a second father. So now I’ll walk (or have my bed pushed by my super hot nurse Shelby) into the operating room as the girl I’ve always despised and walk out like the man I’ve always meant to be, like a butterfly shedding its oppressive cocoon. I’ll waltz into the waiting room and sweep Renee in my manly arms, and she’ll dump that bastard Mark in a heartbeat. And she’ll kiss me because I’m a boy and she’s a girl and boys kiss girls and girls kiss boys, and that’s the way it is.

Fact #7: 7 is my lucky number. And this is the last fact. **************************************** “Patient #7 to intensive care room #38, STAT!”

“We’ve got a degree 4 MRSA infection, begun its spread to the kidney.”

“I need a scalpel and a vacuum. Doc, we’ve gotta get this out fast.”

The patient’s sallow eyelids twitched back and forth, almost as if she were trying to follow the frantic strands of demands being shouted across the operating room. A stand-by nurse noticed.

“She’s on four doses of Propofol, she shouldn’t be waking up for eight hours!!”

A second nurse nonchalantly jabbed a needle into the girl’s flesh, and the tiny movements ceased. As the patient calmed, the room calmed. It fell into the languid melody of instruction and understanding, swinging to the beat of metal on metal and heavy breathing. Suddenly an urgent screeching sou sound erupted through the room, obliterating the fragile balance that barely existed before. Chaos broke loose instantaneously as the fire sprinklers went off. Doctors and nurses scrambled around the patient, ripping 25

out tubes and stabbing in syringes and viciously prodding where no one, even someone on four doses of Propofol, wants to be prodded. The smell of burning metal and smoke snuck under the door and filled the room. A nurse coughed violently. The fire alarm screeched once more, and the room went black. ****************************************

Fact #1: I don’t like the smell of burning hospitals, which is probably pretty normal. I’ve spent the last few days in a recovery shelter in the next closest hospital, about fifteen minutes from the Boston Children’s Hospital.

Police were unsure about the cause of the fire until yesterday, when mechanics determined it was a frayed wire in the Intensive Care Unit which was meant to be repaired weeks ago. Most patients were unscathed by the fire. Two amateur firefighters and one civilian died in the accident. My operating room was on the second floor and luckily I escaped the raging hospital fire with only a minor burn and scratches.

I escaped as a girl.

Fact #2: That one civilian was Renee. She was in the third floor bathroom on the phone with my father, giving him the update on my surprise infection when the alarms went off. The emergency doors sealed before she could get out. The only evidence of her struggle was the plastic wedged under her corpse’s fingernails from trying to claw her way out.

Fact #3: I haven’t cried yet. Maybe it hasn’t hit me yet, or maybe this is the numb feeling I’ve always heard about in novels and movies. I feel like there’s nothing to drive my life anymore, no force willing me to tough it through every day. I lived every day up until this point with the incentive that if I were successful enough as a man, Renee would want to spend the rest of her life with me. And now that she’s gone, I’m not sure what my incentive is supposed to be. I dissolved fifteen years of my parents’ marriage in a single day and inadvertently murdered the love of my life, all while selfishly trying to match my inside to my outside. And turns out I was wrong all along.

Fact #4: I never wanted to be a boy. The only thing I’ve ever known for 26

certain was that I loved Renee with every fiber in my body, but I always thought only boys could love girls. Because that’s what she had told me.

Loving another woman is so perverse and sick in society’s eyes that I was biased against myself. I hated the lesbian inside of me.

Fact #5: I am happy with the person I am and my place in this world. I feel that society accepts me as an ex-transgender lesbian, and I believe I can move on in my life past this hard time.

Fact #6: Fact #5 was a lie.

Fact #7: Today will be the final day of my life. And this is the last fact.

27

Olivia Thompson

Grace.

I used to know a girl named Grace When I was six Or seven She wore a pink vest And orange rain boots And she laughed with her eyes squinched shut And her mouth wide open So you could see her molars And she had green eyes And so did I And that was enough for both of us.

And then when we were nine Grace stopped riding the bus And her father picked her up in a silver car Because her mother wasn’t feeling well But she would be better soon.

And then when we were ten Grace stopped coming to school And she told me we could write But I lost the yellow post-it With the address I did not recognize And then the words “used to” slipped Between “I” And “know” And the last time I saw her She had cut her hair a little shorter And she still wore a pink vest But it seemed a little loose around her shoulders And she still laughed with her mouth 28

Wide open But it never reached her eyes And they were still green But it wasn’t quite enough For either of us And it used to make me feel And now it doesn’t any more And there is something beautiful About that.

And there is something fragile In the gauzy wash of light Late in the afternoon In January And there is something faded In the half moon of a coffee ring On the kitchen counter Which echoes with The quiet impermanence Of infinity And there is something beautiful In these things And I don’t know what it is And I never did But there is something in me Which knows Better than I do And there is something beautiful About that.

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And I Was Alone Again In The Unquiet Darkness

James Fulham

To my friends, those of whom I have yet to abandon: As I stand here gazing at the stars wavering over my three-sided view of the profound blue depths beyond the rocks, I can’t help but reflect on my past. In my younger and more formidable years, I traversed this Point in midsummer trying desperately to escape from the troubles of the outside world. Often I found myself wandering down Garrison’s Beach, past the Frisbees’ and the Douglas’ and where the old Dinosaur House used to lie, all the way to Gaga’s Rock—an endless daydream, a sort of meaningless meditation which came to enshroud me like a thick fog.

My father once told me not to write about the dead, something about their inability to review my portrayal of them; so…John, Isabel, Emma, I hope you can forgive me one day…

I remember most vividly my first summer on the Point—one night more than most. John and I had hired a car to pick up our girlfriends at the airport, Emma mine and Isabel his. By the time the girls had arrived at our house, the party at the end of the Point had already started. Expensive cars full of expensive people in expensive clothing drinking expensive liquors were whizzing down the Point, completely ignoring the yellow flashing lights of the safety signs, as if they were above it. I have always held in contempt this sort of people—those born into luxury with the firm belief that they themselves are above not only the law, but also other individuals; strangely enough, and I didn’t realize it at the time, I was one of those people.

Years later, as money started to become a much bigger part of my life, my

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father, and I thank him for this, told me something that I will never forget: ‘Money doesn’t matter, it only seems like it does.’

John and I sat out in the big lawn chairs behind our house waiting for the girls to get ready. We were only seventeen at the time, but our dinner clothes and bottles of champagne and our two beautiful girlfriends made us both feel older, more mature, superior. Taking a cigar out of his pocket and touching it softly with his fingers, he looked at me: ‘You think we’ll still be here in twenty years?’ All I said was: ‘I just hope we don’t turn out like our parents.’

I can still remember every single detail of that night.

We four started walking towards the party at the end of the Point. The stars hung in the sky, motionless, watching over our every move. Late for the party (as we almost always were), we stopped at the yacht club on the way, wandering down to the end of the dock and leaning against the wooden railing. The raft swung back and forth with the waves, drifting seemingly farther and farther away from the end of the dock. We stood there silent for a long time—after all, it was peaceful, so peaceful. Where has that peace gone?

For a while it seemed as if we were never going to leave, and for a while I don’t think any one of us wanted to. The sounds of the far off party—the fireworks, the shouts, the songs—kept trying to draw us back to the main road; on the other hand, the calm breezes moving gently through our hair and the occasional creak in the wood kept us still. John wrapped his arm around Isabel, and she leaned her head on his shoulder, the bow in her hair pressing closely against his lapel.

John and Isabel had fallen deeper in love since the last time I had seen them; each of them had a newfound appreciation for one another; they had learned to love the small eccentricities of one another. As I stood next to them on the end of the dock that night, I realized the extraordinarily defining nature of 31

the night and the inevitable parting the next day promised. John was headed off to college on the West Coast but ended up taking a spontaneous trip to Argentina with his cousin (Lord knows what happened to them), and Isabel was headed back to boarding school in New Hampshire. Though they didn’t know it at the time, they would never see each other again after that night, despite their various attempts to meet up in some strange far off corner of the globe— futile grasps at the past which we cannot relive.

We left the dock and made our way back up to the main road, heels in hand, jackets drawn over our shoulders. As we passed the Auchincloss’ House, the splendor of Jerry Jordan’s mansion and the long line of cars became a magnificent sight, the lights and buzz of the place radiating through the broad checkered windows on the front of his house. We walked across his long flat lawn hearing bits and pieces of different conversations of crowds of murmuring people, all of whom, like us, were uninvited. But that’s the way it was at Jerry Jordan’s house, people came as they pleased and left when they wanted to; there was no one to greet at the door or to exchange pleasantries with in order to gain entrance; instead, you simply said which year you graduated from which Ivy League school you attended, and you were granted acceptance into the seemingly tight-knit community of party-goers, tight-knit but highly judgmental.

The party had died down slightly by the time we arrived due to our initial unpunctuality and our hour-long delay at the yacht club. Like everyone else, upon arrival we sought out the bar, the only bar in my memory where free drinks, jazzed up with every twist and tweak you can imagine, were handed over to high-society ladies along with a free compliment or two, and nods of both respect and subordination to men of the same stature. It has always intrigued me as to why exactly people indulge in those glowing poisons much more at the start of a party than the middle or even the end—is it the rather natural loosening of the mind and spirit, or is it the occasionally well-timed sip in the midst of those seemingly endless pauses in a very polite but obvious 32

ly forced conversation?

We wove our way to the bar through retiring crowds and weary waiters whose arms were soon to collapse under the weight of the trays of canapés they had carried so elegantly throughout the night.

The splendor of the bar amazed us four, as it did most people. Above the bar hung a massive sign which stretched the length of the bar; in an old fancy cursive was carved an inscription—‘Mishaum Point.’ I can see the sign from where I stand now, no farther than twenty paces. But, like everything else in this world, it too has lost its splendor. I presume that it’s just another failed attempt of mine to recreate what once was, what once illuminated both this Point and my soul.

We thanked the bar master for our drinks and headed out to the pool behind the extravagant mansion. John and Isabel sat by the edge of the pool, their bare toes skimming the water as the wind blew separated ripples towards the steps. I sensed John’s desire to have a moment alone with his lovely lady—the last they’d ever have. I let my hand dangle next to Emma’s until it brushed back and forth against her studded bracelet—a gift of mine—subtly inviting her towards the rocks.

The winds rolling in from the ocean in every direction had picked up by now; the flag was whipping violently against its cold pole; and the frequent roars of the crowds had become by this point incessant murmurs, as if the words bellowing from their open mouths had been swallowed up by the sea and wind.

Far off beyond the pool, beyond the last row of garden lights encircling the mansion, stood a concrete slab. Three or four feet tall, cylindrical—nothing immense. Years later, as I was traversing the grounds with a long-time veteran of the Point, I learned of its importance, its significance. Looking back on it, I wish no one had ever told me that awful story.

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To this day, it haunts my memory. Together, Emma and I walked towards it, our hair and clothes blowing back more strongly towards the mansion with each gust, our drinks barely clinging to our icy palms. We sat on that slab for nearly an hour until the winds lost power, until the waves storming against the rocks thirty feet below us came to a steady stop.

As I sit here writing this, I can see that concrete slab, and I can see Emma and me sitting on it years ago; in my mind, our shadows, ghosts of years past, traverse this long flat lawn—the coat tails, the gowns, the cufflinks, the bracelets—I can see every detail.

My, how things have changed! I remember only the happiest of times, but then again, doesn’t the exuberance of youth numb all pains?

Time is a funny creature: it changes people, things. Tans fade, highlights go dark, and people once so close to you eventually drift away…into the profound blue depths beyond the rocks…

Many times since that night, I have dreamt of reliving it, of summoning together once again John, Isabel, Emma, and of course, my former self. Yet, despite my repetitive dreaming, I have forced myself to come to terms with the fact that no matter how strong my desires, how desperate my attempts, I can never recreate that night. Nor anything close to it.

And so, I leave this world the same way I entered it—morally penniless, longing for some place else. I think there was a short period of my life where I was completely and utterly content. That period is confined to that one night; that one night that plays over and over again in my memory. Not to say that my time on Earth has been wasted, for truly I have cherished every moment, but although I have learned many great things from many great people, I cannot honestly say the reward has been worth the struggle.

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A broken heart bleeds through the ages.

Parting at last‌

P.S. More specifically, to the one who once loved me, so many years ago: I love you. Come back. Come back to me.

35

Sinclaire Brooks

Baptism

The sky was torn into long grey ribbons and small drops of rain slithered across the windshield just out of reach of the frantic wipers as they slowly made their way up the mountain, cutting back and forth across narrow switchbacks as if escaping some unseen pursuer. The boy sighed and buried his head further into the collar of his coat and was content to stay there until the sun rose, which at that point seemed only a distant possibility.

“You OK back there?” his dad asked, and he nodded silently. It was one of those times where his thoughts were all that was real. Everything else was merely illusory, viewed through the fogged glass of a lens he hadn’t bothered to clean. The inside of the truck was warm and friendly and the prospect of leaving it was not. Necessity didn’t make it easier though, as necessity often has a way of making the necessary act seem altogether unappealing. The truck pulled to a stop near a small clearing of new growth pines and the boy got out and stretched lazily, shaking the morning calm out of his limbs. The rain had slowed to a drizzle and the pine needles felt soft and moist under his boots. He spat into the soggy life beneath him and grabbed his rifle out of the back seat.

“Let’s get on with it, good day ahead of us if the weather holds.” He nodded dutifully as he slung the rifle across his shoulders, adjusting the strap so it wouldn’t rub his collarbone as he walked. He felt sluggish and the weather seemed to agree with him, and only his father’s rampant enthusiasm threatened to ruin the perfect dreariness of the setting. He walked in his typical fashion, shoulders set back with purpose, eyes gleaming with possibility or whatever it was that compelled men to tromp through a damp forest this early in the morning. He didn’t understand hunting, he never had, but since it was his first trip he felt as though he must at least act the part. His father’s mood was infectious, however, and soon enough he found himself walking along side him, smiling and nodding to the staccato 36

beat of their footsteps. They climbed steadily as the rain turned to snow, tossing flakes like small beads of glass onto the forest floor.

“It’s really nice out here dad,” he remarked, surprised at how genuine the statement felt. He looked down at his feet, taking in the snow that blanketed the earth like fresh linen and examining the intricate pattern of lines and ridges his boots left behind. He wished he might walk forever over that ground. He was the center of it all, the snow, the trees, everything. The sky looked like a canvas that someone had spread over the trees, careful not to wrinkle the corners of the page.

He was in a near trance, and only the occasional mist of his breath reminded him of his own life, until his father jumped with such excitement that he might’ve jumped clear out of his overalls if both straps had not been tightly secured.

“There!” he shouted, jabbing a gloved finger into a stand of trees that looked to the boy like just another stand of trees but for a brief flash of dark brown. The boy gulped and he felt fear well in his stomach, blossoming into an angry flower that soon found itself lodged tightly in the base of his chest. As the flower was blooming into his throat he caught a glimpse of the doe his father was pointing at. She wasn’t running so much as floating over the ground, the splashes of white fur melting into the snow until he could not tell what was moving from what wasn’t. She looked spectral and rather beautiful just gliding there amidst everything that was so still.

He felt his fathers hand on his shoulder and he knew what he was saying even though the thick glove seemed to create some distance between them. The boy could sense the electricity boiling inside his father, that somehow he might transfer it to his son because the actions of his blood were his actions and he owned them as much as anyone could. He unslung the rifle, if only because the hand told him to, and caressed the receiver as he fiddled anxiously with the safety lever. The gun was cold but so was everything else and he was careful not to breath on the scope lest he fog the glass. The trigger was even colder as he nestled the butt of the rifle into the soft spot of flesh between his chest and shoulder. It all felt oddly familiar 37

and he knew that the warm rush through his veins was power and nothing else, yet he could not say he did not like it. It scared him, but then his father’s hands were on his back, steadying his aim, and he was electric then.

He closed his eyes tight against his cheeks and squeezed.

His father had taught him to hold his breath until after the shot, and the icy air burned his lungs until he thought he could not stand one more second of such torture. He exhaled greedily, sending forth a tendril of cold mist that wholly enveloped the stock of the rifle. The boy shuddered with dread. It would take him years to figure out why exactly he was so afraid, eventually coming to an understanding only through another similar, gut-wrenching experience. He had fallen of his bike one night two years earlier, racing home against an angry sky that was clenched in the promise of a late autumn storm. He hit a pot hole and felt the weight of his frame shift over the handlebars, sending him crashing down onto a pile of dirt and gravel. In the split second before he crashed head first into the earth, his heart was wracked creeping dread as he registered the inevitability of his fall. That’s what he felt that morning in the woods – utter certainty, the kind only afforded by a head first tumble or a 150 grain bullet.

The shot rang out loudly, cutting through the morning quiet like He felt the sound reverberate in his chest, sounding an echo in some dark and very hollow part of his being. He shuddered.

His father was beside himself with excitement when they reached the stand of trees where the doe fell. The snow was dotted with specks of dark, angry blood and the air was soaked a heady scent of death that made the boy feel queasy. His father drew a thin, sinister blade from his belt and together they knelt to dress the animal. They worked silently, completely engrossed by the task, sawing and tearing until their hands were covered in a thick film of plasma that made an awful sucking sound as they wrenched their fingers through the doe’s life. Their butcher’s work complete, his father stood, awash in the fetid stench emanating from the stinking pile of viscous life beneath him, and smiled. He stretched out an arm, the deep red globs of blood glowing in the morning light like the wraith like twitches 38

of a dying candle. He placed his hand on the boy’s head, tenderly, as one would stroke the cheek of a sick relation, splashing the boy’s sandy hair with warm trails of gore.

39

Daisy Collins

If I Could

I would rearrange each and every star To mimic the ones in your eyes, The constellations that almost left me that year.

I would hold your heart, delicate, Next to my own in the nest of my hand Until they began to beat together: Their first song.

I’d make that river’s face growling, angry, bellowing So you’d never want to kiss it again.

I would call out to you over the great Rockies just to hear your laugh, Like waves crashing, Across this rain shadow.

And your laugh would crash and smooth over every hot tear, wound and scar you’ll ever have over and over the broken pieces till we’d made sea glass.

Because you are my compass, my singing wind, my sunrise My silence and my sound.

The gentle rock of your tide carries me The stars in your eyes guide me home.

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Tacking into the Wind

Evan Long

Tyler Struan’s career in the Royal Navy began with a crash course in

fluid dynamics. He would like to think it began when he first put on his uniform at Bimble & Bimble Tailoring & Emporium, or even when he first set foot on board the Enterprise, but according to his father’s notebook, “No endeavor ever begins until it has failed.” Internalizing this nugget of supposed wisdom more deeply than any derived from his own experience, he chose to regard his stint as an occupant of Portsmouth Harbor as his true induction into the Royal Navy.

Tyler never had the opportunity to read through the rest of the accumulated wisdom of his father, a parting gift given by the doting physician.

Enclosed within was a letter of thanks to the ship’s captain, Patrick Leslie, a man whose granting of a peacetime commission to Tyler constituted a more than sufficient fulfillment of the debt Leslie felt he owed Dr. Struan for the latter’s life-saving care. As Tyler exited the tailor shop, resplendent in his freshly starched midshipman’s uniform, he carried beneath one arm the tired black notebook of life lessons and the much more supple Admiralty Manual of Seamanship under the other. Between the two he hoped to learn everything necessary for success in the Royal Navy, and therefore he refused to let either of these treasure troves of knowledge out of his sight.

His baggage and his paltry growth of facial hair – “lamb chops,” the crew took to calling them – made him unique among the other traffic on the dock. If there had been sunlight enough to glint off his freshly polished buckles, Tyler might have retained some degree of public respect. However, this less-than-august appearance drew snickers from onlookers, one of whom wipedthe area behind his ears with a rag to raucous laughter. Tyler felt their weight of their stares on his back disrupting his measured, dignified strides. Fortunately, the distance from the tailor’s shop to the harbormaster’s office was short. The harbormaster met him with a sarcastically appraising glance, framed by one raised eyebrow; Tyler returned fire with a pointed look at his new acquaintance’s ruffled collar. The two continued 41

thus until the harbormaster spoke, effectively ending the match in a stalemate.

“Uh, your orders, Midshipman…”

“Struan.” With a modest flourish, Tyler drew from one of the myriad pouches of his uniform the Admiralty orders assigning him to his first posting.

“Eh…” Tyler noticed that it took the harbormaster much longer to read the papers than Tyler thought normal. “All seems in order. HMS Enterprise, yes? She’s the seventy-four betwixt Repulse an’ Trafalgar, just there.” He gestured towards the water, but Tyler gleaned no insight from his directions other than that the ship was one of seventeen that happened to be in the water. How insightful. Leaning to the side to see around the harbormaster’s bulging, greasy hair, Tyler inspected the ships for numbers, but there were none to be found, much less one sporting a golden “74” on the stern. Tyler had no idea what to do.

The harbormaster harrumphed awkwardly. “The Ariadne” – this time the target of his gesture was much more readily apparent – “is the ship’s launch. Your sea-chest should already be aboard.” He turned away, leaving an unsaid “I have other business to attend to,” in his wake.

Tyler sauntered somewhat authoritatively towards the indicated launch, keeping his head perfectly parallel to the ground and neck extended in an effort to achieve the maximum possible apparent height. This posture prohibited him from noticing a small pile of horse dung, however, which his shoe brushed against. Tyler stopped to examine the damage, the world sounding silent in the absence of his shoes’ measured rhythm. He checked his surroundings. Fortunately, no one was staring; either no one had witnessed the incident, or no one cared enough to watch further. He suspected the former, though the latter was the actual truth. Tyler then realized he had shown publicly that he cared if anyone was watching him; this was a mistake worse than a simple run-in with horse poop. If they saw, they saw, he reminded himself. Knowing couldn’t change the fact. As smoothly as possible, Tyler resumed his original bearing, deviating from 42

his course only to tap his shoe against a nearby crate in order to knock off the clingy bits. He arrived at the jolly boat in short order.

Looking it over, he said in a voice half an octave too high to command anyone’s attention, “Who commands this ship?” The two banks of rowers ignored him. Tyler, taken aback, tried a more personal approach, leaning down to focus on a single hand.

“You there, crewman, who commands this ship?”

Tyler received what he interpreted as an insolent response, though the unfortunate hand was legitimately puzzled. “Baint no ships hereabouts, sir.

This here be Ariadne, jolly boat o’ Enterprise, Cap’n Leslie in command.”

As his lips drew back in preparation for a reprimand, Tyler grasped the crewman’s meaning.

Kicking himself only mentally due to the fact that he was in public, Tyler recalled that “ship” and “boat” were not synonymous in the Navy.

The slight commotion drew the attention of a slightly more respectable-looking man in the stern: a boatswain, he later learned, and a bosun, even later.

“I take it yorr Midshipman Struan, eh? We’re ta take yuh on board.”

With a barely audible sigh of relief and a curt nod of assent, Tyler sought footing in the boat. He settled on the gunwale for his first step, but was halted by the voice of the formerly “insolent” crewman.

“I can port them books over, sir.” It was not so much the hand’s pity itself as the implication that he was pitiable that Tyler resented. He responded with his most cutting of sarcastic looks as he continued, uninterrupted, to mount the gunwale. Sadly, this response required that Tyler’s eyes not be focused on his task, and he therefore failed it spectacularly. His sparkling left shoe lost its already tenuous grip on the gunwale the moment his right left the dock, and both, finding themselves unsupported, heeded the call of gravity. His assorted limbs flapping wildly, Tyler briefly teetered, then fell headlong into the water between the boat and the dock. Three smaller splashes accompanied him: two books and his bicorne. Of these, only one floated.

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As he gagged and convulsed helplessly in the water, universal sign language for, “Help me, for I cannot swim!” two of the hands dove, as gracefully as dolphins, and ushered him, successfully this time, onto the boat.

As he sat under a blanket, cold and miserable, Tyler saw through the hands’ perfunctory pretenses of respect, noticing a shoulder nudge here, a whispered jibe there. In the space of thirty seconds he had gone from being a new midshipman, resplendent in his freshly tailored and starched uniform, the next Horatio Nelson for all the world knew, to a soaking, helpless child, at the mercy of his crew and the sea. He hated them all for having seen him so weak. Someone thought to scoop his hat out of the water, pour its contents over the side, and pass it to him, but the life manuals were total losses. Tyler sat still in the stern, staring ahead at the Enterprise. He absentmindedly counted thirty-five gunports on the port (or was it starboard?) side, in addition to four bow chasers. Seventy-four guns in total.

Noticing for the first time the empty space under his arms, he looked about frantically for his books, but he found nothing. His skin prickled and a wave of heat took him. A purple haze consumed his vision. The only thing he was aware of amidst his silent panic was the sound of the droplets from his saturated uniform hitting the bottom of the boat. Their wet plops sounded like laughter, punctuated only by the lapping of the oars on the water.

Tyler had hoped the incident would be behind him, but to no avail.

There are surprisingly few places to hide on a third-rate ship of the line, even one running below standard crew complement. Chain gangs were having a harder and harder time finding hoodlums to press into service now that the country’s nigh-unquenchable thirst for coal had given anyone who could swing a pickaxe a job. Mining was neither a safe nor a well-paying job, but it did lack the rather dangerous element of sea combat, which was enough for some. When he ascended the ladder of HMS Enterprise for the first time, Tyler found himself wishing that the face staring back at him was somewhere deep underground.

Leftenant Bruce Hackett had a hawklike face: a beak of a nose, a jutt 44

jutting chin, and a strong jaw line. It bore signs of age like that of any other man in his late thirties, but it was tempered by the less obvious scars of failure, as would that of any man who had risen no further than Leftenant in a twenty-year career. On Hackett’s face, as in his mind, this failure translated to a seething hatred of those more able and more privileged. Tyler was both. When Hackett’s black, buglike eyes shot daggers at him from the top of the ladder, Tyler knew that he had already made an enemy, or perhaps been sighted by a predator. The lack of footsteps preceding Hackett’s seemingly sudden appearance indicated that he had been standing on the deck anticipating this encounter for some time; he had obviously observed the assorted debacles on the dock.

Tyler sought to prove himself wrong about Hackett’s malevolence – a rare, though in this case, fortuitous event – by offering a hand to Hackett while on the penultimate rung of the ladder. Hackett regarded the extended hand coolly, taking the moment to scratch his nose, clearly not inclined to deign to pull the beleaguered midshipman up the last rung.

Without taking his eyes off Tyler, Hackett pulled a belaying pin out of its nearby socket, twirled it about his thumb, and placed its handle in Tyler’s hand in lieu of Hackett’s own. The pin’s rough texture caught on the ridges of Tyler’s palm. Tyler refused to acknowledge the insult, neglecting to grasp the belaying pin Hackett had placed in his hand even as Hackett relaxed his grip, even imperceptibly tilting his own hand so the belaying pin would not rest there. The unfortunate pin, abandoned by all parties, sought refuge in the harbour. A dull thud resonated in the air as it glanced off the top of a gunport before almost silently disappearing into the water, handle first. The two silent combatants, unsure of who exactly had won this skirmish, regarded one another as dispassionately as they could.

“That’ll be a’comin out of your pay. Welcome aboard… tyke,” Hackett said, manipulating his permanent sneer to produce words. Flecks of his spittle spattered Tyler’s brows and nose; he forgot the handkerchief in his pocket as he wiped them away with his sleeve. His parting shot fired, Hackett pivoted neatly on one hobnailed boot and strode away, beating out 45

a military rhythm on the deck.

Tyler, still on the top rung of the ladder and appreciating the gravity of recent events, had never felt more unwelcome in his life. At last he mounted the quarterdeck, though not without bumping into a carronade by his left hip. Seventy-four guns, he thought, casting his eyes about in search of someone to report to. It was a start.

46

Melissa Cusanello

The Contest

That summer, I stole. I stole like a goddamn thief. It wasn’t even valuable stuff, the things I took. It was lousy pieces of candy, gadgets from the Corner Store, maybe a book from Bingo’s Books, and other stupid stuff like that. Why hell, I didn’t even use the stuff I stole, and at first, it was a great feeling to walk out of there sly as hell, knowing that I’d just bested the whole staff. I would bring all my goods back to the bomb shelter, always curious to see what Franky and Bud had put in, and by the end of the summer, it was full. And I mean full. You would have thought old Santa Claus had come or something, there was so much stuff in there. Boy, you should really go see it sometime, all the stuff is still there. It’s almost depressing though, seeing all of it just sitting in there. Mary’s still there too.

It all started with the bike at the Fairfield Fair. I needed a bike. At fourteen, a kid needs a bike, you know? The law says we can’t drive, and at this point, I’m not going to ask old Mom and Dad to drive me everywhere.

That’s just embarrassing as hell. So like all the other goddamn fourteen year olds in this town, I bought a bike.

This bike was a beauty. I mean, I’m talking the whole shazzam – jet black, with flames screaming down the back. It was like old Jesus up there was watching down on me and thought, “That kid John is a really good fella. He needs a bike,” and boom, he sends a bike. I bought it for thirty bucks from this old guy running a special bike stand, or kiosk as they call it. The guy had to be pushing sixty, in that sweat-stained beater with no front teeth. I don’t know why those old guys insist on wearing those beaters. It’s like they think they look good. Maybe it’s to help them feel younger. Beats me.

So as Bud, Franky, and I were walking away with my new toy, I heard the old fellow ask, “Ya guys lookin for somethin t’ do?” We looked at each other, and nodded politely and all. “Ya know where ol’ Mr. Miller’s orchards are?” We nodded. Mr. Miller owns about a hundred acres of apple47

trees on the far side of town, and we always swim in his pond. “Well, back behind the orchard is this old bomb shelter that we used to go to when we was kids. Y’all should go check it out.”

We nodded, said “thanks,” and started walking away from the stand.

But as we started walking, I realized that I was hot as hell. I just wasn’t in the mood to bake in the sun at the Fairfield Fair. “Guys, why don’t we go down to Mr. Miller’s pond for a swim? Then we can check out that old bomb shelter!” I proposed.

“Jesus, I thought you’d never ask. It’s so goddamn hot!” Franky said.

So, we left the Fairfield Fair with Bud, Franky, and me riding our bikes down Main Street like the goddamn princes of Rome. Boy, were we a sight, especially me on that bike of flames. Girls practically fainted as we rode by.

When we got to Mr. Miller’s, Bud and I jumped off our bikes and threw off our shirts and shoes as we cannon-balled into the pond. Old Franky flopped off his bike, and barreled straight into the pond – shirt, shoes, and all. Franky always swims with his shirt on. He claims that it’s because he forgets to take it off, and since he’s already in the water, there’s no point in taking it off. Everyone knows it’s because he weighs as much as Jumbo the elephant.

After screwing around in the pond for a few hours, we got out of the water and lay in the grass to dry off. I had no idea the time, but it must have been later in the day because the sky had that deep orange, almost sunset tint.

“Hey how about that old bomb shelter the bike guy was telling us about?” Bud said.

“Oh yeah! Want to go check it out?” I replied, and we didn’t wait for Franky to object. It didn’t matter what Franky thought anyways. He always follows us. Plus, I have to say, I was pretty curious about that old bomb shelter.

We hopped on our bikes again, and headed for the back of the orchard. By the time we got all the way to the edge of the apple trees, the sun was setting. It was kind of pretty actually, looking at the pink-orange sky 48

behind the trees. You should go there sometime, you’d like it.

We reached the first big pines in the woods and looked around. Sure enough, sticking out of the ground was this rusty metal thing. Bud walked over to it, and brushed the leaves away, exposing a big square piece of wood that looked like the top of a hatch. The metal thing turned out to be a handle, and Bud jerked it up. The hatch swung open. We crowded around the dark hole and peered down cement stairs heading in towards the ground.

“Found it.”

“I dare you to go down there!” Franky said to me, and pushed me towards the stairs.

“I’m not going in there unless I know that there aren’t any dead guys,” I said back.

“You lousy chickens, I’ll do it” Bud said like the goddamn wizard he thought he was. Bud started down the stairs with his hands raised like one of those Chinese ninjas you see on television sometimes. What a goddamn goon. We saw a cigarette lighter flare in the darkness, and then Franky and I tentatively stepped down the stairs, wondering what could possibly be down there.

Turns out, there was nothing. Nothing. The place was empty. No treasure, no two hundred year old note, not even some old kicking beer cans. It was just a dark, cement box.

“Yeah, kind of a let down,” Bud said.

“Well, now what?” I asked.

“I’m so hungry guys. I haven’t eaten since we left your house, John,” Franky said.

“Yeah me too, where can we get food? It’s too far to go all the way back home. I don’t think I can last that long,” Bud said.

“Wait a minute, you think Miller’s farm stand is open? It’s up thedriveway to the orchards. My mom always gets those apple pies there. We can get one and share it?” I asked the guys.

“I mean, it will probably be closed, it’s getting late, but lets go check it out anyways. It’s on the way home,” Bud said.

49

“Yeah let’s get outta here,” Franky said and he was the first one to go back up the stairs.

It was already dark when we got to the farm stand. We rode up to the door and looked at it. There was a little white sign that said, “Happy Independence Day! Gone at the Fairfield Fair. Back open tomorrow!” Goddamn Fairfield Fair.

Bud walked over to the front window and started jiggling it around.

“Bud, what are you doing?” I asked.

“I’m getting us food,” he said, and finally pushed the window open.

Bud hoisted himself up and started to climb in.

“I don’t know Bud, that’s probably not too good an idea. I don’t want anyone to see us,” I said.

“Are you hungry or not?” Bud looked at us. “Franky?” Franky just glanced at me and shrugged his shoulders.

Although it was not as easy for Franky, he squeezed himself through the window after Bud, and I had no choice but to follow. I had this feeling that it was probably a bad idea to sneak into the farm stand, but I didn’t want to wait outside look like a softy. What’s a kid to do? I quickly hid the bikes behind some trees and I climbed in too.

I looked around. There was a Big Chill refrigerator next to the back door, tables along the side of the walls with fruit, vegetables and bread, and a big table with a cash register stand in the middle of the room. Franky walked right over to the table with bread, picked up a loaf, and started eating it. I nervously glanced about the room, and reluctantly picked up an apple and took a bite. It was soft and mealy. I put it back down and looked around to see what the guys were doing. Bud walked over to the refrigerator and opened it. The whole room filled up with light from the fridge. Inside it, there were three shelves of homemade pies.

“Hey! Bud!” I whispered, “close that damn thing, someone will see us!” Bud took out a big apple pie, shrugged his shoulders, and started eating it with his hands. Some manners.

“I want one!” Franky said, ditching the loaf of bread. He opened the 50

fridge again, lighting up the room, and took out a big peach pie. “Here, eat one John,” Bud said taking out an oozing blueberry pie. I looked around.

I realized that there was no way anybody could see us, so what was there to loose? I took the pie, and we all sat there stuffing our faces. They were good, but nothing beats my mother’s apple pie.

Just as we were enjoying our treats, we heard the most dreaded sound of any teenage boy. It was the sound of sirens and the crunch of car wheels on gravel. We froze. I looked out the window to the flashing of red and blue lights. Someone must have seen the light of the refrigerator and called the cops.

“Shit. Shit,” Bud whispered, “okay. Hide!” He pulled us underneath one of the tables and we pressed ourselves to the back wall as hard as we possibly could. We were goddamn flies on the wall. A car door opened and slammed shut, and we heard the crunch of boots on pebbles. The doorknob jiggled and we stopped breathing. A flashlight shined in the window directly to the back of the room. Then, the officer started doing the scan of death. He directed the flashlight back and forth between the tables, and it kept getting closer and closer to ours. Finally, the light reached our hiding spot. I stopped breathing and tried to make myself invisible. My heart was pounding so loud, I was sure the officer would be able to hear it and bust us all. I knew we shouldn’t have gone into the farm stand. It would have been so easy to just go home and have old Mom make us some pasta. She’s gonna kill me, I thought.

After what seemed like hours, the light of death disappeared, and we heard the boots walk back to the car. The door slammed, and the car drove away. Cop probably wanted to get back to his girlfriend at the fair.

“Holy shit,” I whispered, “let’s get the hell outta here!” and we ran to the back door.

“Wait, grab some to go!” Bud said. We grabbed all the food we could carry, and Bud took a can of whipped cream from the refrigerator. He stopped, ran back to the middle table, and wrote EAT IT in big letter before we got on our bikes and rode as fast as we could away from the farm stand.

51

That ride back was like nothing else. I had so much adrenaline, if the whole goddamn army decided to attack Fairfield, I could probably defeat the whole thing single-handedly. But actually. All of my senses were turned on overdrive – I just felt so alive.

We found ourselves back at the old bomb shelter and barged down the stairs with our treasure. We fell in there laughing our asses off like we had just seen Tim Conway live or something. Bud lit a cigarette and handed them around. We sat there laughing, eating, and smoking like the goddamn princes of Rome that we were.

“Now that, was a rush,” Bud said catching his breath.

“Damn right! We’re goddamn geniuses!” I said in between bites of a cookie. We sat there on the ground relaxed as hell. I never wanted that feeling to end. For the first time in my life I felt like I was in control. Nobody, not my old parents, not my friends, not even the stinking law could tell me what to do. Take that old cop. Hah! I felt good. Damn good.

“Hey, I have an idea,” Bud said. “What if we had, like a contest, you know? For whoever can steal the most stuff, and we’ll bring it to the bomb shelter. Whoever has the best things, wins.”

“I don’t know Bud, that sounds pretty risky. I think one time is enough,” Franky said looking down at the ground.

“No, no, let’s do it,” I said. Why the hell not? I’d never felt so powerful in my life, why not keep doing it?

“That’s what I’m talking about,” said Bud. “Franky, you in or not?”

Franky looked at Bud and then at me, hoping to find the answer in our eyes.

“Alright guys, whatever. I’m in,” Franky finally said.

“Well then fellas, it starts tomorrow,” said Bud, and we sat there in that bomb shelter until we ran out of cigarettes and pie.

I can still remember riding my bike down Main Street on the last night of summer; it was the big “finale,” as Bud called it, of our contest. This was our last night to steal stuff, and we were supposed get one “big” item to bring back to the bomb shelter. Man, it seems so long ago that I bought 52

that bike. I probably looked ridiculous as I rode out of the fair, smiling that big “I just got a new toy” smile, but I was so goddamn happy. Innocently happy. Back then, I was just a boy looking for something to do in July. Now, I seemed like a goddamn punk.

When I went out to go steal my big “finale,” it was pretty late, so I felt sneaky as hell going down the street all alone. Sometimes I like to horse around a little, so I pretended I was a knight looking for the Holy Grail, and my bike was my noble steed. I named him Yukon. I always thought that name was cool. Yukon. Doesn’t it sound nice? I had a great time pretending to be one of the Knights of the Round Table, and I called myself Sir Magnificent.

As Yukon was getting up to full speed, I found myself at the church at the end of Main Street. Grace Chapel. It was pretty as hell all lit up in the dark. I wondered if it would be weird to go inside, just for kicks. No, it’d be locked at this hour, I thought. Then I remembered, the church was always unlocked. Nobody worried about breaking into a church. Who’s going to steal stuff from a church?

There was a sign in front of the big white doors that said, Come in and leave your sins at the cross. I didn’t think twice when I walked in.

Inside, it was black except for the candles that were lit on the altar.

It took a second for my eyes to adjust, and I found myself in the center of the aisle staring at the big wooden cross at the front of the church. I had a thought. What if I could find something in here that I could bring back to the bomb shelter? But then again, I guess that would make me the lousy guy stealing from a church. I didn’t have bad intentions or anything, though. I wasn’t doing it to be mean. It was just for the game. It’s not like I was a goddamn criminal or anything. Was I?

All of a sudden, the candles blew out, and I got the feeling like I hadto get out of there. It was like a force closing in on me in the dark, whispering, “John, you better get your ass out of there,” so I grabbed what looked like a gold plate on the table next to the door and got out of that church. There’s something about churches in the dark. Creepy as hell. I was the first one 53

back to the bomb shelter. I sat on the ground among all the stuff I stole and lit a cigarette. In it’s glow, I looked down at what I thought was the gold plate that I had stolen from the church. Instead though, I met the deep black pupils of the Virgin Mary. I had stolen an icon, not a goddamn plate.

Mother Mary looked at me straight in the eyes. Shit.

Franky burst down the stairs.

“Look what I got!” he said holding up what looked like a blender.

“Franky, what the hell is that,” I asked.

“It’s a blender!” he replied. I have to tell you, I was actually annoyed.

“You’re finale is a goddamn blender?” I asked.

“Yeah! It’s awesome. I took it from Kitchen Classics, you know that store on Peabody Street?”

“Exhilarating,” I said with this real flat tone.

The hatch swung open, and down the stairs came Bud dragging a wagon with a brand new stinking television.

“Well, fellas, looks like I brought the gold,” he said between breathes like he had just climbed Mt. Kilimanjaro or something. I looked down at the icon and Mary looked back at me. Suddenly, I just wasn’t in the mood to be in that bomb shelter.

“Bud, how’d you get a brand new television?” Franky asked in awe.

“Well, if you must know,” Bud said lighting a cigarette, “I walked into Sears right, and I told that kid Bobby Green who works there that there was this little girl stuck in a tree at the park, and you know how heroic and all Bobby gets.” Bud took a drag of cigarette. “So old Bobby books it out of the store right, and runs down the street to the park. Just as he leaves, I pull in my wagon, and all sneaky, I grabbed a brand new television and wheeled it out with my wagon as fast as my goddamn legs could take me.” He looked around smug as hell. “Franky, I see you have a blender. How about you, John? What’d you get?”

I looked down at Mary, and all of a sudden I started feeling sick, actually. “I got this icon,” I said kind of quiet.

“Interesting choice. From where?” Bud said smoking his goddamn 54

cigarette, obviously still caught up on his TV.

“Uhh Grace Chapel,” I said.

“You stole from a goddamn church?” Bud said to me.

“Yeah.”

“Wow, that’s ballsy as hell.”

“Yeah.” I drove my cigarette into the dirt I was sitting on.

“So...I guess it’s pretty safe to say I win right?” Bud asked.

Franky and I looked at each other.

“Yeah,” I said, and I looked back at Mary. Her big black eyes gazed right into mine as if to be saying, “John, you are a thief. A criminal.”

“Wow, I feel on top of the goddamn world right now guys,” said Bud taking a drag of his cigarette. “We can do anything. Who can stop us?”

I set Mary down on top of my pile of stolen goods. “I think I’m gonna head out now guys,” I wasn’t in the mood. You have to be in the mood for those things.

“Already, John?” Bud leaned back against his treasures. “Let’s just enjoy this like the goddamn princes we are.”

“I don’t feel too hot, so I’m gonna get going.”

“Alright man, whatever,” said Bud closing his eyes.

I started up the stairs. For some goddamn reason, I turned back and saw Mary staring at me again.

Looking back, I should have turned around and told the guys that what we did was wrong. I should have left my sins at the cross.

But I didn’t. Instead, I turned quickly back towards the stairs, leaving Franky and Bud behind with the piles of loot and the Virgin Mary.

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