CCLaP Weekender: May 9, 2014

CCLaP Weekender From the Chicago Center for Literature and Photography

May 9, 2014

New fiction by Richard Thomas Photography by Riccardo Bandiera Chicago literary events calendar May 9, 2014 | 1

THIS WEEK’S CHICAG

For all events, visit [cclapce FRIDAY, MAY 9

2:30pm Cupcake Cousins book release party

57th Street Books / 130 E. 57th / Free semcoop.com Release party for Kate Hannigan's new novel, Cupcake Cousins.

Purchase a copy of the book during the event and get a free cupcake courtesy of Cupcake Gangsters (who will be parked in front of the store during the event).

7pm Ann Brashares

Barnes & Noble / 55 Old Orchard Center, Skokie / Free barnesandnoble.com The author of The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants signs her new novel, The Here and Now. 7:30pm cin salach and Jennifer Magnus

Women & Children First / 5233 N. Clark / Free womenandchildrenfirst.com Performances from these slam-poetry and Chicago theater veterans.

7:30pm Pablo Delano

Chicago History Museum / 1601 N. Clark / $6-15 chicagohistory.org The son of "Railroaders" photographer Jack Delano discusses his newest project, in which he photographed the descendants of the subjects in his father's photos. $15 for the general public, $12 for CHM members, $6 for students.

SATURDAY, MAY 10 11am Indie's First Storytime

The Book Cellar / 4736 N. Lincoln / Free bookcellarinc.com Teacher and children's author Esme Raji Codell performs from various kids' books.

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GO LITERARY EVENTS

enter.com/chicagocalendar]

1:45pm Eden Unger Bowditch

Sulzer Public Library / 4455 N. Lincoln / Free chipublib.org The YA author performs from the two current novels of her "Young Inventors Guild" series.

7pm Carla Buckley and Jenny Milchman

The Book Cellar / 4736 N. Lincoln / Free bookcellarinc.com The two authors read from their newest novels, The Deepest Secret and Ruin Falls.

7pm Myopic Poetry Series

Myopic Books / 1564 N. Milwaukee / Free myopicbookstore.com This month's features include Joel Craig, Nathan Hoks, and Genevieve Kaplan.

SUNDAY, MAY 11 7pm Uptown Poetry Slam

The Green Mill / 4802 N. Broadway / $7, 21+ slampapi.com International birthplace of the poetry slam. Hosted by Marc Smith.

7:30pm That's All She Wrote

The Savoy / 1408 N. Milwaukee / Free thatsallshewrotechicago.com The Mother's Day edition of this literary showcase features Carey Friedman, Suzy Krueckeberg, GPA, and Luke Babb. Held at a restaurant, and reservations are encouraged.

May 9, 2014 | 3

MONDAY, MAY 12 5:30pm Husain Haqqani

Union League Club / 65 W. Jackson / Free ulcc.org The author reads from his new book, Magnificent Delusions: Pakistan, the United States, and an Epic History of Misunderstanding.

6pm Virginia Morris

Harold Washington Public Library / 400 S. State / Free chipublib.org The award-winning journalist discusses her newest book, How to Care for Aging Parents. Being held in the library's Cindy Pritzker Auditorium.

6:30pm Gordon Korman

Skokie Public Library / 5215 W. Oakton, Skokie / Free skokielibrary.info The author discusses his new book, Ungifted.

7pm Sebastian Barry

Highland Park Public Library / 494 Laurel, Highland Park / Free hplibrary.org The author reads from his new novel, The Temporary Gentleman.

8:30pm Open Mic

Kafein Espresso Bar / 1621 Chicago Ave., Evanston kafeincoffee.com Open mic with hosts chris and Kirill.

TUESDAY, MAY 13 6pm Gordon H. Orians

Seminary Co-op Bookstore / 5751 S. Woodlawn / Free semcoop.com The evolutionary biologist reads from and discusses his newest book, Snakes, Sunrises & Shakespeare.

7pm Thomas Dyja

Oak Park Public Library / 834 Lake, Oak Park / Free oppl.org The author reads from his new book, The Third Coast: When Chicago Built the American Dream.

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7pm Gerard McBurney

Poetry Foundation / 61 W. Superior / Free poetryfoundation.org The artistic programming advisor of the Chicago Symphony Orchestra discusses the 20th-century composers Britten, Prokofiev, and Shostakovich, as part of a larger three-week festival by the group.

7pm Roland Lazenby

The Book Cellar / 4736 N. Lincoln / Free bookcellarinc.com The journalist discusses and reads from his newest book, Michael Jordan: The Life.

WEDNESDAY, MAY 14 6pm Alan Weisman

Seminary Co-op Bookstore / 5751 S. Woodlawn / Free semcoop.com The environmental journalist reads from his newest book, Countdown.

7pm Roxane Gay

The Book Cellar / 4736 N. Lincoln / Free bookcellarinc.com The popular author reads from her newest novel, An Untamed State.

7:30pm Cynthia Bond

Women & Children First / 5233 N. Clark / Free womenandchildrenfirst.com The PEN/Rosenthal Fellow reads from her debut novel, Ruby.

9pm In One Ear

Heartland Cafe / 7000 N. Glenwood / $3, 18+ facebook.com/pages/In-One-Ear Chicago's 3rd longest-running open-mic show, hosted by Pete Wolf and Billy Tuggle.

May 9, 2014 | 5

THURSDAY, MAY 15 6pm Scott Jacobs

Harold Washington Public Library / 400 S. State / Free chipublib.org The author reads from his new essay collection, Famous Ski Hills in Wisconsin (And Other Delusions of Grandeur. Being held in the library's Chicago Authors Room on the 7th floor.

6:30pm REVEAL 25

Victory Gardens Biograph Theater / 2433 N. Lincoln / $20-200 guildcomplex.org The Guild Complex celebrates its 25th anniversary with this special fundraiser at Victory Gardens. Includes the revealing of the organization's "25 Writers to Watch" list, plus free food and liquor.

Tickets are $20 to 200, depending on the level, and all are taxdeductible.

7pm Joshua Corey

The Book Cellar / 4736 N. Lincoln / Free bookcellarinc.com The local author reads from his new novel, Beautiful Soul: An American Elegy.

7:30pm Angela Koenig

Women & Children First / 5233 N. Clark / Free womenandchildrenfirst.com The author reads from her new novel, Rendezvous in the Himalaya, book 2 of the "Refraction" series.

To submit your own literary event, or to correct the information on anything you see here, please drop us a line at cclapcenter@gmail.com.

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Like millions of other only-child Chinese twenty-somethings, Turtle Chen is graduating college and vicariously desperate (via parental pressure) to find a job, though he would probably settle for a girlfriend. He speaks English. He studied abroad in America. Employers, ladies, what’s not to love? With a bit of bravado and some hometown luck, this engineering grad lands himself an entry level position working for the state news agency; not that he particularly cares about politics or journalism, not that they particularly want him to. Through a class assignment, Turtle learns that his grandmother’s village will soon be inundated to make way for a dam construction project. His parents tell him not to worry about it.

His bosses tell him not to worry about it. He would be only too happy to oblige, and yet despite his best efforts not to care he finds himself on the front lines fighting bulldozers, next to what some villagers claim to be the ghost of Chairman Mao. There’s bribery, corruption, computer games, and text messages imbued with uncertainty. Air pollution, censorship, and a job fair where students attack employers with paper basketballs.

And it’s all told through the eyes of a young man with impeccable English (‘impeccable English,’ that’s correct, yes?), who’s right there in the middle of it all. Welcome to the delightful world of “Turtle and Dam,” the literary debut of Washington DC analyst Scott Abrahams.

CCLaP Publishing

Download for free at cclapcenter.com/turtleanddam

May 9, 2014 | 7

ORIGINAL FICTION

Photo: Martina K. | flickr.com/martinaphotography Used under the terms of her Creative Commons license

SUGAR AN 8 | CCLaP Weekender

Girls are easy; it’s the boys who break the law, wreck the car, or get some lost soul pregnant. At least, that’s what I used to think. But I’ve come to find out, daughters are a different kind of undoing. When Carrie told me that the cigarettes were not hers, that she was holding them for a friend, I believed my daughter because she wouldn’t lie to me. We’d raised her right. She was in high school now and had her own car, cruising the dark streets, her intentions innocent and pure. I was proud to buy her that old, beige Camry, a reliable car for a reliable girl.

We had discussions about drinking and driving, boys, responsibility. She nodded and smiled, and I felt that I had her attention and her respect, so there was little worrying on my part.

ND SPICE RICHARD THOMAS May 9, 2014 | 9

The cigarettes were sitting out in plain sight on the passenger seat, mocking me like some pierced teen in an alley behind the high school. In part, I believed her, because I couldn’t imagine that she was stupid enough to just leave them there, knowing I passed by her car every morning on my way to work. This certainly couldn’t be a cry for help. If she needed help she would come to me.

We stood in the kitchen, faded white cabinets tinged with stains, the metal handles rubbed to a dull finish, the shine gone for years now.

“Not yours?” I asked.

“No, Dad, no way. I should have just thrown them out,” she said.

“Whose, then?”

“I don’t want to get her in trouble, Dad, just a friend. I took them away from her so she’d stop smoking. They’re just cigarettes, it’s no big deal.”

The clock over the stove ticked loud and sure, the black eyes of Felix the Cat looking left, then right, all clear and safe to cross.

“So you’re telling me these aren’t yours?”

“No, they’re not.” She pushed a strand of hair behind her ear.

“And you’ve never smoked, you’re not smoking now?”

“Well...”

“Carrie?”

“I tried them once and they made me cough. It was gross.”

“And...”

“And I’ll never do it again. Honest!”

I held her gaze, searching for hesitation, a layer of lies blanketing her emotions, but there was nothing there. I wanted to believe her, so I did.

Later that night when my wife and I sat in bed, me reading, Veronica brushing her hair, I decided that I wouldn’t bring it up. For some reason, even this minor indiscretion, this association with trouble and rebellion, I didn’t want placed on my daughter. So I left it alone. I summoned her face and pored over it, searching for anything alien. There was nothing I could glean.

“Anything I need to know about Carrie, hon? You know, womanly stuff, things she wouldn’t tell me?” I asked.

“What are you talking about?”

“You know, things. Private girl things that you two talk about, anything I should know?”

“Like what, Robert?” she grinned, the brush resting in her lap. “You want her brand of Tampons? What kind of underwear she’s wearing? Her cup size?”

“I don’t know, anything different. A sign.”

“Why are you so worried about our daughter’s sex life?”

“Did I say that? I’m just trying to look out for her. Why, is she on the pill?”

My wife sighed, and placed the brush on the nightstand. “Do you really want to know if she’s doing it?”

“No, I guess I don’t.”

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The next morning when I took the trash out to the curb, the pack of cigarettes was gone.

Two days later I snuck out of the office to grab a burger. I needed some time away from the computers, the smell of toner, and the four walls that pressed in a little more each day. I thought of running home and sneaking up on Veronica for a little afternoon delight. The burger sounded like a sure thing and less trouble in the end.

A diner about halfway between home and the office served beer battered onion rings and thick milkshakes called Concretes. Pulling up outside, I saw a beige Camry parked by the front door. Carrie was in school today; they weren’t allowed to leave campus, but the license plate said different. CARE4U was the vanity script, and a pair of ironic fuzzy pink dice hung from the rear view mirror. It was something from the Mundelein Munch, a Fourth of July trinket that I’d won her years ago. It used to make me laugh when I saw it.

Until now.

I could see them standing inside the glass doors, grabbing a takeout sack, some boy’s arm around her, her hand stuffed deep into the back pocket of his jeans. Not a care in the world. I should confront them, bust her, make a scene she wouldn’t forget. I should tell this kid, Matt, the one pawing my daughter, the one who was quick to break the rules, that it wasn’t how we rolled, my daughter and I. Tell him to get back to school. Instead, I backed out of the lot and went back to work. Jake in accounting had a pint in his desk. Instead, I chewed a roll of Tums, and the walls—they kept moving in.

A week later a phone call broke the night, waking us from a deep sleep, the clock on the bedside table glowing 1:23 in red, blurry numbers.

“Hello?” I said.

“May I speak to Mr. Johnson? Robert Johnson?”

“Speaking. Who is this?” I asked.

My wife clicked on the bedside lamp.

“Libertyville police, this is Officer Davidson. You have a daughter, Carrie Johnson?”

Veronica stared at me, her eyes wide, mouthing the word what?

“Yes, I have a daughter, Carrie. Is she okay?”

Veronica leapt out of bed and ran down the hall to Carrie’s room.

Anything could have happened. Maybe she’d been arrested for drunk driving.

Had she run somebody over, killed an innocent family? Was she hurt, arms broken, fingers bent—crippled, lying in a hospital bed, unable to move? My worst fear involved the morgue and a shroud of thick, black plastic. A coiled snake unwound in my belly. Veronica entered the bedroom, slowly shaking her head.

“She’s fine, Mr. Johnson. Nobody has been seriously hurt.”

May 9, 2014 | 11

“Is she drunk?”

“No, she’s not, she passed the breathalyzer, but she’s badly shaken up.

And the car is totaled.”

There was a boy in the car with her, Matt Stewart, the kid from the diner, his dark hair and broad shoulders filling my head with bees. He had a broken nose and some lacerations, a black eye, nothing much. He got the worst of it, that’s for sure. He wasn’t wearing his seat belt, but Carrie had hers on. They’d taken him to Condell Hospital where his parents sat with him now. Down at the station Carrie hunkered down, waiting for me to come pick her up.

My wife sat on the edge of the bed, her face in her hands, sobbing.

“It’s okay,” I whispered to her.

I could see them standing

They’d hit a stop sign and inside the glass doors, careened into a tree. Wet leaves, driving too fast—nobody was grabbing a takeout sack, sure. Something went down, but some boy’s arm around her, the kids weren’t talking. her hand stuffed deep into

“Can I come get her?”

“Certainly, sir. Come on the back pocket of his jeans. down. There’s some paperwork, Not a care in the world. I but she can go. You’ll have to should confront them, bust pay for the stop sign, but it looks like an accident. There were skid her, make a scene she marks at the scene as if she was wouldn’t forget. I should tell trying to stop.” this kid, Matt, the one pawing

“Thank you officer, I’ll be my daughter, the one who right down.” I turned to my wife, my gut full of tremors. “You was quick to break the rules, know this Matt kid?” I asked her. that it wasn’t how we rolled, “Not really.

Seems my daughter and I. Tell him to harmless. He follows Carrie around like a puppy dog. She get back to school. Instead, seems to be the one in charge.”

I backed out of the lot and

I couldn’t picture Carrie went back to work. calling the shots, bossing around the kid. For a moment I saw her driving the car, her skirt riding up on her thigh, the boy’s eyes drifting to her legs, and back up to her Cheshire grin. I shook my head—no, not my girl.

The three of us sat in the kitchen later that night and drank a cup of tea.

Spearmint and lemongrass with a dollop of honey, but my mouth tasted like metal and my hands kept shaking. This could have been so much worse. There would be no new car for Carrie and she was definitely grounded. Her blouse was torn and there were scratch marks on her neck. She wouldn’t tell us about 12 | CCLaP Weekender

Matt. He was simply a boy from school. The beer had been his, two cans in his backpack, and she’d only had a couple of sips. She didn’t enjoy it, and it wouldn’t happen again. Again, I believed her.

“What the hell were you thinking, Carrie?” my wife asked.

“I don’t know.”

“This Matt guy, you’re done. You hear me?” she said.

Carrie nodded. I opened my mouth and shut it. Watching the two of them—my daughter shredding napkins, my wife bearing down on her—I could only nod my head in support. Carrie risked a glance at me, so young and pale, on the verge of tears, her fingers trembling.

“You’re lucky,” Veronica said. “What if you’d hit somebody, what if this Matt boy had gotten killed? There were other people on the road, other people in this world besides you.”

Carrie stared at the table and the torn bits of tissue, unable to look at her mother.

“She knows, honey, she knows,” I said.

Veronica turned her head towards me, her lips pursed. “Does she? I don’t think she even paused. Like everything in her life, she just took it as it came, just shrugged her shoulders, drank the beer and smiled like she always does.”

“Veronica,” I said.

“No. I’m sick of it. Do you know how much lawyers cost, Carrie? Or, God forbid, what if you’d really been hurt? I don’t know if our insurance would have covered it. Negligence is what they would have called it. Do you know what that word means? You could have bankrupted the whole family.”

“Veronica, ease up. Be glad that she’s safe.”

She closed her eyes and rubbed her temples in slow circles, sighing into the thick air. “Robert, I’m her mother. Of course I’m glad she’s not hurt.” She paused for a moment and took a deep breath. “I have a headache, I’m going to bed. You two do what you want, I’m exhausted.” She pushed back the chair and left the kitchen, shaking her head the whole time.

Carrie stared at her hands, a chipped red nail cracked in the middle and in need of repair. There would be no more information tonight.

“Come here,” I said.

She stood up slowly and walked to me, and I held her for a moment. We stood very still, hardly breathing, calm in that safe, little moment.

“It’s okay, honey,” I whispered.

Stroking her hair, I prayed this was the end of it. We needed to get back to the old Carrie—enough of this nonsense. We’d talk more another time and I’d implore her to do better. We would have a conversation about school and her future and the world that was out there just waiting for her. There would be no lecture about abusive boyfriends or drugs or pregnancy. We would instead look forward to graduation and her dreams of becoming a teacher, college and life beyond these four walls. Carrie would not be a statistic. Not my girl, not if I could help it.

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The first time a boy showed up on our doorstep, gel in his hair and a smile on his face, my stomach rolled, and I promised myself that I’d never hurt one of these punks. When it came to my seventeen-year-old daughter, my only child, there wasn’t much I wouldn’t do to defend her. I wondered if contemplating violence against a variety of young men made me a better father or simply more unstable—I couldn’t just ignore them.

When Carrie was a toddler, I woke up one night drenched in sweat, the house too quiet around me. At the fringe of my hearing, panic seized me, and I strained to hear something amiss—movement downstairs, glass breaking, voices that didn’t belong. I stood up slowly and walked down the hall to my daughter’s room, a shadow standing in front of the window, the dull curtains backlit with moonlight. My breath caught, and when I blinked the silhouette was gone. A passing car’s headlight had run across a floor lamp, my jacket tossed over it, the shape a shadow of a man.

In two steps I was at her crib, my hands on her tiny frame, touching her bare back, feeling for a pulse or breath. There was nothing, no movement.

She coughed a sharp bark, shifted her shoulders and mumbled into the pink sheets. For a moment I thought that I’d lost her.

I forgot about this rookie father moment and fell quickly back into my routines. But it planted in me a dirty little seed, the random violence of the world around us growing into clinging vines that would wrap around my heart and squeeze.

There was no Matt and Carrie was grounded, her presence around the house a blessing. She was studious, hunched over her textbooks at the kitchen table, no whining about boys, no questioning her punishment. She did the dishes, sat by me on the couch, asked about my day. I’d look up from my recliner, a book in my lap, to see Veronica and Carrie come waltzing in the door with their arms filled with groceries, laughter on their lips, a new shade of lipstick, a knowing glance, some secret between them, the bent metal and broken glass an echo I ignored.

Eventually, the phone rang again, and Carrie was allowed some freedom.

In time, the sentence was lifted, and she was let out of the house, movies with girlfriends, minus the car. It wasn’t long before the boys were back around.

Jeremy, Nick, Theo, and Amir—every name was a punch in the gut. So I avoided the kitchen and tried not to think about them, choosing to see only my child. I didn’t want to know if Jeremy was rebuilding his old Mustang. The thought of Nick playing soccer, Theo shooting hoops, or Amir running the student body sent a wave of nausea through me at every opportunity. There was no noble pursuit in the midst of these activities and hobbies, only horny young boys plying their trades. Sweaty jerseys and grease under fingernails— these masculine badges appealed to my girl. I had a hard time looking her in the face. We were nice to each other, we smiled, but her gaze wasn’t solid any more. It no longer held my scrutiny all the way down to her innocence; it 14 | CCLaP Weekender

instead looked away, so that I might not see what she was up to.

What could I do? I could do a lot of things.

Carrie had warned me, and Veronica was somehow on her side, but I still wasn’t ready for his face.

“Hey, Mr. Johnson.”

This one, Matt, the hockey player, stood at the front door, his features fractured by the screen door, waiting for me to let him in. “I owe you an apology,” he said.

I stood at the door, and stared. I had him by two inches and twenty pounds but it wasn’t that much of an advantage. He was a handsome boy and he had my daughter’s attention.

“Go on.”

“Can I come in?” he asked.

“I’m still deciding.”

“I know the beer was stupid.”

“Sure was.”

“It got me suspended from the hockey team.” His eyes lowered. “And more importantly, it fucked up things, excuse me, screwed things up with Carrie.”

“We won’t tolerate this again, Matt.”

“I know, sir. It doesn’t even matter that it was her idea, or her beer. I should know better.”

“What did you say?”

“Nothing.”

There was a fridge in the basement, where I sometimes worked on my models. Airplanes, classic cars, just a bit of glue and some paint, a peaceful respite down in the concrete, the cool walls and expansive basement like floating underwater. A couple of cans had disappeared. I assumed I’d lost track and polished them off. Or maybe Veronica had come down. Not Carrie.

“So you’re driving?”

“Yep.”

The screen was still between us. But in his eyes I saw that he was a beaten man. Carrie really was the one running the show.

“Do I need to come out and look in the car? Do I need to worry about the curfew?”

“No sir.”

Carrie came skipping down the stairs, her eyes darting to Matt and back to me, trying to gauge the mood. She pushed a strand of hair behind her ear, and the boy stood up straight. I tried not to notice her tight jeans, the black leather boots. It was what every teenage girl wore these days, except it was my daughter under those clothes.

When Matt stopped coming around, I wondered what had happened, but I didn’t ask any questions. It was simply one less hound at the door. But, May 9, 2014 | 15

Carrie was on the prowl.

I didn’t have to warn Carrie about Nick, casual Nick with his many friends.

He had a habit of showing up late, forgetting times and places, his cell phone constantly ringing. I didn’t have to point out the hushed conversations he had in the bathroom, the way he would pull up out front and honk the horn, telling the whole neighborhood that he’d arrived. She figured him out.

There was no need to question her interest in Amir, the restrictions his own parents put on him, his foreign skin color and exotic diet. To him, she was a second-class citizen in her own country and not his equal at any time or in any place. She moved on of her own accord.

And Jeremy only had to forget his wallet twice, because once could be forgiven. He only had to show up reeking of pot, his eyes red and glassy, stubble dotting his face, dirty jeans his best outfit for a date. Thank God he wasn’t an artist, or she might have overlooked it. But she still had an aversion to grime, to carburetors and exhaust manifolds and boys running their hands over their Cherry Red hot rods while forgetting about flesh and blood girls.

There was a period of peace after this litany of mistakes, but I sensed Matt was waiting, patiently standing at the periphery, watching the fools come and go. He was a smart boy, this one, so it didn’t surprise me when he reappeared in our house. He slowly became an everyday presence, and something about him had changed.

Veronica had taken to resting her elbows on the chopping block island with diced carrots, celery and onion all around her, a glass of Merlot just out of reach, her eyes glued to the boy. I didn’t mind. He was easy on the eyes. If she wanted to relive her first love, if she wanted to channel that energy into our own date night upstairs later, who was I to question it? I pretended it was something else, my new workout regime, some thoughtful shopping and stylish new shirts, paying off the credit cards, or the promotion at work.

I was surprised that Carrie didn’t notice it first, the young hockey player showing up earlier and earlier for his dates. She found him in the kitchen more and more instead of the living room, his jacket always off, sleeves rolled up. The laughter bounced off of the walls, the long, thin fingers of my wife resting on his bare forearm.

“Mom, why didn’t you tell me Matt was here?”

Their eyes went to each other and then back to her.

“I yelled up honey, didn’t you hear me?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“I’ve only been here a few minutes, babe, no worries.” He smiled.

Veronica reached for her wine, took a deep pull at it, and set it down. She picked up the chef ’s knife and went back to her cutting, making things that were whole separate again. Her arms were tan; she was running again, and those last ten pounds that had haunted her for years had magically slipped away. She was as she had been in college—full of energy and spontaneity, a 16 | CCLaP Weekender

laugh always waiting on her lips. There were a lot of things that she used to do back in college that she didn’t do anymore. In keeping my eye on the boys, I had lost sight off my wife, and my daughter.

I stood in Carrie’s bedroom holding her diary, running my hands over the worn, white leather. The clasp was made out of two clenched silver hands that guarded her secrets.

I looked everywhere for that tiny, silver key. I rifled through her jewelry box, trinkets and baubles I’d never seen before. I poured over her desk, moving papers and textbooks, and then sliding them back into place. After a brief pause, I ran my hands through her underwear drawer, repulsed yet fascinated at the same time.

“Is this what you’re looking for?” I spun around, my wife in I was surprised that Carrie the doorway, a key in her hand. didn’t notice it first, the “What? I was looking for a pen. I can’t ever find a damn pen young hockey player showing around here.” up earlier and earlier for “Well, you’re not going to his dates. She found him in find one in her panties, Robert.” the kitchen more and more I froze. The diary sat on the bed where I had found it. “I instead of the living room, don’t know what you’re talking his jacket always off, sleeves about. Isn’t this my house too? rolled up. The laughter Can’t I walk into a room without an inquisition?” bounced off of the walls, the “Sure, Robert. This is our long, thin fingers of my wife house. Both yours and mine, and resting on his bare forearm. everything in it.”

I turned towards the vanity, the bulk of my frame too large for the mirror. I reached down and grabbed a slim, blue pen.

“Here we go,” I said.

“Relax, honey. We’re on the same team here, right?” she said.

I stared at the diary and took a deep breath.

Every time the phone rang a different boy asked for Carrie. Sometimes it was Matt, and we were cordial, but I never knew where Carrie was, so I simply jotted down a note. Soon her bedroom door was littered with yellow PostIts, notes from me and scribbles from her mother. Matt called. Amber wants to study. Matt called. Amber can’t find her cell phone. Matt called. Amber called. Jacob called. Mike called.

I stood outside her door, music playing softly, a throbbing of bass, a note May 9, 2014 | 17

in my hand, the names I didn’t recognize outnumbering the ones that I did.

The door swung open.

“Hey, Dad, what’s up?” Her lips were a tint of red I didn’t remember seeing before. Her eye shadow was dark and smoky. Bits of gold and diamond sparkled at her ears.

“Matt called.” I waved the note in my hand.

“Oh?”

“You still dating?”

“I don’t know,” she said.

“He keeps calling.”

A scowl crept over her face. “Let me worry about Matt.”

“Who are all of these other guys?”

“Just guys from school, Dad, jeez, I’m not seeing them all. What kind of girl do you think I am?” She grinned.

Behind her on the bed, her purse was open, the contents spilling out onto the thick pink comforter. Car keys mingled with lipstick and perfume; pens and gum nestled up against a pack of cigarettes and a sleeve of shiny gold condoms. Magnum. A row of stuffed teddy bears was propped up on the pillow.

For a moment I saw her as a toddler, standing up on wobbling legs, reaching out from the ottoman to the recliner. I saw her eyes widen as she tried to bridge the gap. She took a step, her first, and then her second, her eyes rolling towards me for approval. I smiled, my hands out, waiting for her to fall. She smiled back, a bubble of spit on her lips, and on her next step she crumbled, her knees buckling as she tipped over to one side. She hit her head on the corner of the table, bouncing off it, spinning to the carpet. I wasn’t fast enough to catch her. But we were prepared. There was padding on that sharp corner, on every sharp corner in the house. There were plastic covers shoved into outlets. There were contingency plans. And sometimes they did you no good. C Richard Thomas is the author of three books— Transubstantiate, Herniated Roots and Staring Into the Abyss. His over 100 stories in print include Cemetery Dance, PANK, Gargoyle, Weird Fiction Review, Midwestern Gothic, Arcadia, Pear Noir, Chiral Mad 2, and Shivers VI. He is also the editor of three anthologies out in 2014: The New Black (Dark House Press), The Lineup: 25 Provocative Women Writers (Black Lawrence Press) and Burnt Tongues (Medallion Press) with Chuck Palahniuk. In his spare time he writes for The Nervous Breakdown, LitReactor, and is Editorin-Chief at Dark House Press. For more information visit whatdoesnotkillme. com or contact Paula Munier at Talcott Notch.

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Riccardo Bandiera

PHOTOGRAPHY FEATURE

May 9, 2014 | 19

Location: Italy I’m a freelance/artist photographer and I live in a small town on the sea.

I like to succeed in capturing the beauty in a girl, the light of a place, still better if it’s abandoned, the small things that surround us...I do it with the Canon 5D or in analogical, with various fixed optical cameras.

It’s difficult for me say precisely what pushes me to photograph, it is something that I have inside, the desire to surprise me and to create, to stop an idea, a feeling, with an image.

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riccardobandiera.com flickr.com/thewhitestdogalive codeine.bigcartel.com

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ns pe i g s be ith SON on w N s ea 0TH OH s 14 Y 3 N J 0 2 A O M AS M

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one writer thirty minutes 20 audience members free food and liquor

the cclap sessions @cclap's studio 505 Clarendon and Buena Avenues Uptown, Chicago cclapcenter.com/studio505 May 9, 2014 | 37

The CCLaP Weekender is published in electronic form only, every Friday for free download at the CCLaP website [cclapcenter.com]. Copyright 2014, Chicago Center for Literature and Photography. All rights revert back to artists upon publication. Editor-in-chief: Jason Pettus. Story Editor: Allegra Pusateri.

Calendar Editors: Anna Thiakos and Taylor Carlile. To submit your work for possible feature, or to add a calendar item, contact us at cclapcenter@gmail.com.

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