Philadelphia Stories Winter 2012

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FICTION/POETRY/ESSAYS/ART

O F T H E D E L AWA R E VA L L E Y

jim zervanos

COMMUNION gregory zane

SOUVENIRS maria ceferatti

INHERITANCE

W I N T E R

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I S S U E

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c o n t e n t s ART 3

FICTION/POETRY/ESSAYS/ART

O F T H E D E L AWA R E VA L L E Y

CONTENTS

14 Break in the Armor by Brian Griffiths.

FEATURES 3 12 14 20

House of Fog by Lee Muslin. Lee has been a fine art photographer for over 40 years and in 1995 began exploring digital imaging. Lee has participated in over 100 exhibitions and has to received 20 awards. Her work has been published in 24 publications.

Communion (fiction). . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Jim Zervanos Marguerite McGlinn Awards Ceremony photos . . Peter Kind Souvenirs (fiction) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Gregory Zane Inheritance (essay) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Maria Ceferatti

Brian is a photographer and graphic artist living in Philadelphia's western suburbs. See more work at www.redbubble.com/people/bgriffiths

20 Fighting Seductive Addiction by

Sean Martorana. Sean is a fine artist and

POETRY 4 6 8 17 21

Advice from an Opossum . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Noel Sloboda Time and All Its Nothing . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Phylinda Moore In Winter . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Laura Gido Taddei Gardener . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Katy Diana Tambourine . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .John David Muth

designer working and playing in Philadelphia. His work has been shown in galleries, featured in national publications, and commissioned by passionate individuals.

Showcasing his work under the brand, THE_ STUDIO, Sean continues to create and collaborate across many genres of art & design. Learn more at www.seanmartorana.com

Cover Art: Cascade by Suzanne Comer.

PHILADELPHIASTORIES.ORG Publisher/ Fiction Editor Carla Spataro Publisher/ Managing Editor Christine Weiser Essay Editor Julia MacDonnell Chang Poetry Editor Courtney Bambrick Assistant Editor Diana Restifo Director of Development Sharon Sood Production Manager Derek Carnegie 2 Web Design Loic Duros

Board of Directors Kerri Schuster, secretary Mitchell Sommers Christine Furtek Michael Ritter Interns Samuel L. Lasko Mirabella Mitchell Contest Coordinator Nicole Marie Pasquarello Peter Joyce, assistant Editorial Board Andrea Applebee, poetry Peter Baroth, poetry Deb Burnham, poetry Jacqueline Cassidy, fiction Christine Cavalier, poetry Melinda Clemmer, fiction Sam Dodge, non-fiction Liz Dolan, poetry Brian Ellis, fiction Sandy Farnan, non-fiction Teresa FitzPatrick, fiction Melissa Foster, fiction

Erin Gautsche, poetry Miranda Gipe, fiction Elizabeth Green, fiction Joanne Green, fiction Pat Green, poetry Hannah K. Jones, non-fiction Matt Jordan, non-fiction Tiffany Kelly, non-fiction Elizabeth T. Kerr, fiction Aimee LaBrie, fiction Sam Lasko, poetry Nathan Long, fiction Walt Maguire, fiction George McDermott, poetry Cheryl Grady Mercier, non-fiction Julie Odell, fiction Deborah Off, non-fiction Aimee Penna, poetry Daniel Pontius, fiction John Shea, non-fiction, poetry Barbara Solem, non-fiction Mitchell Sommers, fiction Kristen Stenerson, fiction Diane Stopyra, non-fiction Luke Stromberg, poetry Valeria Tsygankova, poetry Hilary Umbreit, fiction

The beautiful areas around her home near Philadelphia inspired Suzanne to explore digital photography and its use as an art form. Her work is influenced by her background in fine arts and graphics. Suzanne's digital photoart pieces have been featured in many area juried exhibitions. http://comersuz.home.comcast.net/

Elizabeth Wann, fiction John Henry Scott, fiction Janice Wilson Stridick, fiction Michelle Wittle, fiction Caitlin Zappas, fiction

PS Junior Stephanie Scordia, director Aileen Bachant, 9-12 Colwin Bocasan, K-4 Teresa FitzPatrick, 5-8 Abby Gordon, 5-8 Ginny Jervis, 5-8 Jane Klein, K-4 Sharada Krishnamurthy, 5-8 Lauren Kurz, 9-12 Jess Marine, 5-8 Colleen McGlinchey , 9-12 Marsha Pincus, 9-12 Inga Schmidt, 9-12 Becky Sheridan, 9-12 Andrea Vinci, K-4

Philadelphia Stories is a non-profit literary magazine that publishes the finest literary fiction, poetry and art from Pennsylvania, New Jersey, and Delaware and distributes free of charge to a wide demographic throughout the region. Our mission is to develop a community of writers, artists and readers through the magazine, and through education programs such as writer’s workshops, reading series and other affordable professional development programs for emerging writers and artists. Philadelphia Stories is a 501c3 and is managed completely by a staff of volunteers. To support Philadelphia Stories and the local arts, please visit www.philadelphiastories.org to become a member today!

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COMMUNION ersephone Samaras can’t wait to escape the oppressive heat of the pizza ovens. She’s off to see her cousin Vasili in the hospital, that sterile, air-conditioned sanctuary. Before she’s out the door, her husband, Phillip, his thick dark arms already, at ten a.m., dusted with flour, can’t resist reminding her that she’s leaving him again, that he won’t be able to manage lunch today without her.

This is his latest version of flirting—laced with resentment and provocation, which she pacifies with a smirk and a quick puckering of lips. “You’ll survive,” she teases, knowing that in Phillip’s self-absorption there is no thought of Vasili—not that there is any hope.

When she enters Vasili’s hospital room, the doctor, ungloved, is tracing the unblemished skin on Vasili’s foot. Five nickel-sized lesions zigzag along the shin.

Persephone imagines Vasili’s secret, boiling beneath the purple skin that refuses to scab. Lately she’s been thinking that maybe the trick to healing is coming out with the truth, even though it wouldn’t be news to anyone, especially not to the men of the family, who laugh at the lie Vasili has invented for his mother, something about a woman in New York. He has never had to confess the truth to Persephone, not in explicit terms, anyway. Theirs has always been a special, unconditional bond that, for her, seems stronger for the miles and years that have separated them. Holding so much in for so long must have had some kind of damaging effect. But Vasili doesn’t need to prove anything to anyone—not even to Persephone; that’s what she’s always envied most about him.

This past Sunday at her cousin Spencer’s name-day dinner, the men of the family shared their wisdom. Before ringing the doorbell, Phillip, suddenly religious, said, “You don’t test God,

p

House of Fog by Lee Muslin © 2011 Persephone,” as if Vasili’s fate should somehow serve as a warning to her.

“Remember the Korean fellow he was bringing home years ago?” he added.

“Did he think we didn’t know? It’s hubris, is what it is.” Persephone wondered whatever happened to Vasili’s Korean friend, Ted. She also wondered where Phillip had picked up the word hubris, not to mention when he had turned into such a philistine—a word she’d recently

picked up from Vasili. Later, reaching for beer in the garage refrigerator, Spencer called Vasili’s illness “God’s revenge on the gays.” Persephone had her hand on his back as she searched the freezer for ice cream. “I stopped taking Communion,” Spencer boasted, and called the church “behind the times” for serving with the same spoon from the same chalice.

Persephone wants to tell the fools

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they can all go to hell—actually, she wants Vasili to tell them—but if he can keep his mouth shut, so can she.

Of course, she will never give Spencer the satisfaction of knowing that Vasili stopped taking Communion in church years ago when he was first diagnosed. Nor will she confess she’s been secretly careful herself, checking only the unmarked section of Vasili’s forehead for fever.

She is relieved, watching the doctor’s bare hands.

“You’re looking good,” she says, approaching Vasili’s bedside.

“I’m getting eaten alive inside.” Vasili sips from a glass of water. His eyes grow wide as he takes her in. “You’re looking good. My God. That skirt. Foxy!”

“You like it? It’s a hundred degrees out there.”

“Like it? Am I not a man?” He grins.

Advice from an Opossum

By Noel Sloboda Ignore your brothers and sisters until you secure your place in the pouch. Then grow up quickly.

Once you step out on your own, devour everything in your path, from acorns to carrion. Revel in delicacies to be discovered in garbage cans. Sleep all day.

Develop the wiry muscles in your pink, prehensile tail: seeing the world upside down is sometimes inspiring. Scavenge country roads, but beware white lights cascading across the blacktop. If they approach, bare all fifty of your teeth.

If that fails to stop them, perform an Elvis: bask in the glow

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as you bloat and stiffen; secrete a horrible smell; hold perfectly still; and dream of swallowing the moon.

Noel Sloboda is the author of the poetry collection Shell Games (sunnyoutside, 2008) as well as the forthcoming Our Rarer Monsters. He has also authored a book about Edith Wharton and Gertrude Stein. Sloboda teaches at Penn State York and frequently works as a dramaturg for the Harrisburg Shakespeare Company.

The doctor pulls the sheet over the leg and offers a weak smile before exiting.

Persephone sets Vasili’s glass on the tray at the foot of the bed. Scrambled cafeteria eggs and honeydew melon remain wrapped in cellophane.

With the doctor gone, Vasili’s tone shifts. “I want to talk to you before Father Kosporis arrives.”

“Father Kosporis? Why is he coming?” Persephone says. “I don’t want to see him today.”

“I should think not—in that skirt.”

“Funny,” she says. “Is he bringing you Communion?”

“My last rites.” He winks.

She shakes her head.

Years ago, the last time Persephone and Vasili were in church together, Father Kosporis made his Communion policy clear. “Let me ask you to consider again that this is truly the body and blood of Christ and that you should refrain from Holy Communion if you are not at peace with God. We are asked to stand here worthily. So, if you are in an adulterous relationship, a pre-marital sexual relationship, an unnatural relationship…”

Persephone was shocked by this improvisation. Vasili grinned and said, “Well, that about covers all of us, doesn’t it?” She hesitated, and then rose to join him.

She wonders, now, what has kept his faith intact all these years, while something has been chipping away at hers.

“I need a walk,” she says.

“You’re not leaving me already.”

She hears the echo of her husband and wonders why the men in her life must convey their affection with such unbecoming desperation.

“No. Just—some fresh air,” she says.

“Out there?”

He is on to her, but she doesn’t bother to come clean.

“The cafeteria,” she says. “Coffee.”

He mirrors her strained smile.

Coffee is as obvious a lie as fresh air, given the heat.

When she reaches the door, he says,

j i m “Promise me you’ll be strong.”

“What?” Persephone laughs. “I’m strong.”

“I want you to be free, Phoni”—the name only Vasili still uses. “Let them know who you are,” he cheers.

“Vasili!” She feels insulted. Why don’t you? she thinks.

“You’ve never really gone anywhere, or done anything. Don’t let Phillip—” “Stop it. I’m free. You have no idea.”

“I know, I know.” He pauses. “New topic. My funeral dinner.”

She grimaces. She can’t pretend— not about this. “Not now.”

“When you get back. After you have your coffee,” he adds, grinning, seeing that she has one foot out the door. “Foxy.”

She rushes toward the cafeteria, eager for the relief that the company of strangers will provide. This has all come on so fast. But even that is a lie. She has had more than enough time to come to peace with this. It has been five years since the night he told her he was sick, in the kitchen, after Aunt Anastasia and Uncle Mike had gone to bed. It hadn’t occurred to her immediately what “HIV” was. He might have announced that he was off to Europe for a while. “A few months ago,” he said, as if answering a question, “but I wanted to make sure. It’s dormant. Mom and Dad know. I’ve lost some weight.” These were prepared pieces of information. “It hasn’t affected my playing.” He contemplated his hands, his precious fingers. She remained dumbfounded, even as reality settled in. “The priest in New York gives me Communion in private.” Then he answered the unspeakable question: “A friend from the orchestra, he had a house in the Hamptons. There were parties, after concerts, on the weekends. I’ve been careful since the AIDS scare.”

The AIDS scare. She hadn’t shared in this fear that, to him, bonded everyone.

She has never been this close to anyone else—other than her husband. When

they were kids, Vasili was the one who could make her feel buoyant and lovely.

Late last night, after returning from the hospital, she decided to assemble photographs of Vasili. She was heading to the family room, toward the cabinets filled with albums, when she stopped at the mirror in the vestibule. She took a deep, satisfied breath. Six pounds in six weeks. It was odd to feel so light, having just spent hours in the face of her cousin’s wasting disease—virus?—the two of them, together again, as thin as they’d been at eighteen. Standing there, hot— despite the air conditioning—she recognized Vasili’s imminent death as true, not just as a fact to which she had finally resigned herself, since he’d arrived home over a month ago, but as Truth, with a capital T, part of the flow of life and death that in recent years—since turning fifty—she had been trying to understand is neither good nor bad.

Phillip was asleep beyond the slightly open door at the top of the steps. The sound of his breathing heightened her sense of ownership—this body was hers to fatten or starve. She headed to the basement in search of old clothes, to test small sizes. She had always been what they call petite, but she’d puffed up after giving birth to three boys. With her two youngest moving out this summer, she’d decided it was time to return to form.

Too skinny, Phillip would say. Still, in bra and panties she dragged boxes across the concrete floor, out from the cedar closet, and, fitting snugly into old shirts and skirts, felt not just a little bit, well, foxy.

After circling the wing, Persephone returns to Vasili’s room empty-handed.

“We must have strawberries,” he announces.

It takes her a moment to remember where they left off. The funeral dinner.

“And asparagus,” he adds. “Promise me.”

He has said he is lucky to get closure like this—not everyone gets it, you know.

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“What else?” she asks.

“At my viewing play Mozart’s Requiem. The Vienna philharmonic—you can find a recording of it.”

She nods.

“I don’t mind open casket for the family, but then I want it closed.”

Suddenly she wants to say: you ran off to be free, and now it’s killing you.

“Oh, and I want nice, fresh fish at the dinner. Snapper, I don’t know, whatever’s good now. And don’t worry about money. This will be the wedding banquet I never had.”

She takes his hands into hers.

“Promise,” he says, as he sinks into sleep.

He turns toward the metal box whispering to his right. She has barely paid attention to the thin tubes that curve out from his nostrils and disappear beneath the bed sheets; she recognizes them now for the job they are doing, thankful for their transparency and their discreet path to their source.

Strong. She will be strong.

“I promise,” she says.

This morning Phillip asked where she’d found that old skirt.

“You don’t like it?” Persephone set her cup in the sink, her back turned.

“Yes, I like it. Are you kidding me?”

He clasped her thigh, his thick thumb shocking her, sending her spinning like a schoolgirl. “How old is this thing, Skinny?” He slurped the last of his coffee.

He flipped up the skirt, and she welcomed the surprise, figuring—rightly— that for a few minutes she might forget herself and what was in store for the day.

In this old skirt she was eighteen again— for better and for worse: she could see herself, newly married, in the Orange Street pizza shop, the first of the three they would own, kneeling on a booth cushion and setting a poinsettia on a windowsill, her hair falling from a small rounded cone, as Phillip surprised her from behind.

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c o m m u n i o n She knows she hasn’t changed much since then, or accomplished anything all her own. The restaurants don’t count.

They are Phillip’s, though she plays partner dutifully and together they have thrived. Raising the boys—that’s her accomplishment—or at least Bobby, secretly her favorite, in his third year of medical school in Virginia. Phillip would claim the younger sons for his restaurants.

She has decided it is not too late to set her own path, and to revisit certain long abandoned ones.

Several days ago, Persephone raced from the hospital to her parents’ house—to get closure—to ask her father why he’d never protected his daughter from his wife.

“What can we do about it now?” he said.

She had planned to tell him the story of the night she nearly ran away—the night she’d lain on the couch, a box of frozen spinach pressed to her cheek.

When Stephen Kouros had called after dinner, Persephone had stretched the phone cord into the dining room and whispered, “You may not call me here, Stephen,” then quickly hung up and returned to the dishes in the sink.

Persephone didn’t defend herself when her mother called her vroma—stupid whore.

Persephone planned her conversations with her teachers—all recycled lies: she’d been sick with bronchitis; it was impossible to stay after school because she had to work at her father’s sandwich shop. The excusal notes had become routine. She’d write them, faking immigrant English—Persephone no talk because she has sick throat. To the American secretaries, the notes seemed authentic if they were poorly written. Her father would sign them without reading.

Persephone picked up the pen from the coffee table. She doodled, making loops. She got carried away with the thought of being an artist, mused about what it would be like to paint pictures all day and get paid for it. She addressed the principal, Dear Mr. Gingrich. She wrote one sentence, then crumpled the first draft, not because she’d spelled bronchitis with a “k”—she knew how to spell it correctly; it was the immigrant spelling—but because she didn’t want to use the same excuse too often. She started again, stating first that the mark on my daughter’s eye is from my wife hitting her while I was at work.

Time and All Its Nothing

By Phylinda Moore spread like a string along a pathway empty silence is nothing of time time is the space between fingers body pressing bed, distant smack of wood careful wandering in and out of rooms rest desire

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one breath follows another careful resonance careful flowers on branches bobbing just past the window Phylinda lives in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. She has also lived in Oklahoma, Washington D.C., Malaysia, and New Orleans. Print and online publications include: Fuselit, The Rambler, Poor Mojo’s Almanac(k), Miller’s Pond Poetry Magazine, Anemone Sidecar, and Midwest Literary Magazine. She earned her MFA from Rosemont College.

For more poetry, visit her website phylindamoore.com.

Persephone reread the sentence; it had felt good to write it, so she continued. Last night my wife told my daughter for the millionth time that she was a stupid whore.

Frank Sinatra albums leaned against the stereo-and-television cabinet, his sparkling blue eyes and shameless smile tempting her to think about love. She walked over and picked up Songs for Young Lovers and imagined filling the house right now with My Funny Valentine or, better yet, The Girl Next Door. Amused, she pictured her bewildered mother descending the steps.

Caught up in the world of the Young Lovers album cover—gas-lit streets, couples strolling—she decided to call Stephen Kouros. She picked up the phone on the corner table, happy, shivery, believing for a moment that she truly would call.

Instead, she called Vasili. He’d just finished practicing, he said. He was in the kitchen, eating chocolate-covered strawberries that his mother had bought at the market. The TV was on in the background. Vasili asked if she was all right, and she said, “Yes.” “Is anyone else home?” he said.

“Are you in the family room?” she whispered. The TV got louder—The Honeymooners.

“Friday I told Gingrich your throat was swollen and you couldn’t talk.”

“Thanks.” She pictured Vasili sitting on the step that joined the kitchen and the family room. She could see Uncle Mike’s belly rising with every breath. Aunt Anastasia wore a white robe with pink roses and paged through Redbook, considering lipstick shades and listening for the rumble of the dryer in the basement to stop. Jackie Gleason barked. Vasili’s teeth cracked through moist chocolate.

Persephone lay on her side, eyes closed. She fantasized what her life would be like if Aunt Anastasia and Uncle Mike were her parents—planning for college next year, winning scholarships, as Vasili was. She would be a dancer, performing in the kitchen, while Vasili, the prodigy, played the piano in

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­ the living room.

“You should call Steve Kouros,” Vasili said.

“I should do a lot of things.”

“What are you worried about? You’re the prettiest girl in school.”

She loved Vasili more than anyone.

“He must think I’m crazy,” she said.

“You’re mysterious.”

“Oh please.”

“Trust me.”

“What do you know about mysterious?”

He said, “I know about mysterious.”

Her father’s Cadillac pulled into the driveway, then into the garage. The car’s hum filled the house. Her brother’s Mustang rumbled in the street. The engines stopped; the car doors slammed.

“What am I going to do next year?” she said.

“Vasili!” Father Kosporis beams, pink-faced and perspiring above his collar.

“Maybe we can do this before Mom gets here,” Vasili says.

“As you wish.” Father Kosporis sits down and unsnaps the locks of his briefcase.

Persephone waits for official papers to appear. Instead, on the tray at the foot of the bed, Father Kosporis sets a book, a miniature chalice, a gold spoon, a small bottle of red wine with a screw-on cap, and a hunk of thick-crusted bread in a sandwich baggie.

“You can take Communion with Vasili,” Father Kosporis says to her.

“But…” He looks at Vasili. “You understand she can’t be here for the Confession.”

“I’ll wait outside for your mother,” Persephone says.

In the hallway Aunt Anastasia is already approaching, a dark silhouette but for her pale face still featureless in the distance.

Last night Persephone called her

cousin Spencer to ask him to bring their aunt to the hospital in the morning. She explained that it was difficult for her to be transporting their aunt as well as running back and forth between the restaurant and hospital several times a day.

Spencer said he couldn’t take the smell of impending death; then he sighed and said, okay, he would drop her off.

“Father Kosporis is here.”

Persephone hugs her aunt. “For Confession and his last Communion.”

She leads her aunt to the lounge, where they sit on a couch facing the hallway. Persephone recounts the morning’s events—breakfast, the nurse, the doctor, the priest—and describes Father Kosporis’s portable sacrament kit. Her aunt stares at the door across the hall.

They sit quietly, holding hands.

“He always loved you,” her aunt says. Her cheeks tremble.

“It’s all right, Ma.” Ma—she doesn’t correct herself.

c o m m u n i o n Vasili’s door opens. Father Kosporis steps into the hallway and looks both ways. A nurse hurries toward the speechless priest.

Inside, Vasili thrusts his head back into the pillow, lifting his chin as if to straighten his throat for air.

“What is it?” Persephone rushes to the bed.

Aunt Anastasia holds Vasili’s hand.

Father Kosporis stoops for his briefcase.

Vasili groans, his eyes opening wide.

Aunt Anastasia makes room for the nurse, who inspects the tubes and feels Vasili’s forehead. The nurse glances at the machines and whispers that Vasili should relax. The miniature chalice, spoon, and sealed baggie sit on the tray, apparently untouched. Persephone tries

In Winter

By Laura Gido Taddei Winter is here and I ache.

The embers shift, grow faint.

The trees are covered waiting in layers of white.

The shovel leans against the house calls you to step outside to lift and lift the grayness that grew so great the sky so wide and so knowing could no longer resist, let go spilled itself over the walkways and roads calling you to work digging up paths and clearing windshields so the people can know where to go.

But I am here and I ache.

Why not leave the people to their own, let them freeze if they must.

Come inside and be with me where we can sink and rise and become 8

leaves that tumble on a river the ones that made it through the mean Winter thaw.

Laura Gido Taddei studied French and Italian at the University of Massachusetts, Amherst, the Université de Paris VII, and the Scuola Per Stranieri in Siena, Italy. Her poetry has appeared in the Schuylkill Valley Journal. She has four kids, a husband, and two cats. She lives and works in the suburbs of Philadelphia.

to read Vasili’s mind. His gray eyes shoot toward his feet, and she covers his toes.

Vasili’s groan deepens.

“What is it, my son?” Aunt Anastasia strokes his arm.

“What happened, Father?” Persephone says.

Father Kosporis gathers up the chalice, spoon, and bread. “I’m sorry.”

Air hisses from Vasili’s throat. He tosses his fingers, like wet flowers, toward the doorway.

When Father Kosporis leaves, Vasili begins to breathe more easily.

He confessed, Persephone realizes.

Vasili knows the rules, and he knew Father Kosporis had no choice in the matter. Vasili never wanted Communion today—only the last word.

With his remote control, Vasili lowers himself a few inches, shifting his eyes back and forth between Persephone and his mother, who sit opposite each other on the bed.

“What was it, Vasili?” Aunt Anastasia seems convinced that Father Kosporis provoked in her son some grave revelation.

“It’s okay, now,” Persephone says.

When the nurse turns to leave, Vasili’s arm shoots out to make a barrier.

Aunt Anastasia combs fallen strands from his forehead. “What now, Vasili?”

His eyes are nearly shut. He seems to be sustaining one last efficient breath— neither inhaling nor exhaling. He waves his arms, his fingers tangling in oxygen tubes.

“Okay,” the nurse says, and folds his hands on his chest.

Vasili signals with closed eyes, grateful for her understanding.

Once the nurse leaves the room, Vasili turns his glassy gaze at Persephone, his breath a distant whistle of wind in a tunnel. She tries to smile for him. Aunt Anastasia’s hand remains on his cheek.

Persephone leans her ear toward Vasili’s mouth, as he strains to speak: “Forgive

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­ me, Ted. I didn’t have your courage. You should have been here.”

Persephone lifts her face to see his, and, in a moment, she forgets herself: “I’m here, Vasili. It’s me.”

“Sweet Phoni,” he says, when his eyes meet hers, “I wish you could have really known me.”

She decides he must be delirious, or even nearly unconscious.

Aunt Anastasia’s tears vanish in the bed sheet pulled up to his chin. “Father and I will wait patiently,” he whispers.

“Mitera sighoreseh me”—Mother, forgive me. He strains to keep his eyes open.

“Opos o Theos me ehei sighoresei”—Forgive me as God has forgiven me.

“Oh.” Aunt Anastasia presses her glazed lips over Vasili’s mouth.

His eyes close.

“You were always a good boy,” she whispers.

His lips are oblivious and dry. His eyes open briefly, shifting toward Persephone, then toward the ceiling.

Persephone is still replaying his last words to her: I wish you could have really known me. She raises herself on the bed and pleads, “Vasili?” His eyes absorb all they can of these last moments. “Shhhh,” her aunt soothes, as Persephone lowers her face to Vasili’s cool, damp cheek, praying selfishly for words to form from his thick breath.

“You’ll visit me in New York,” he said.

“Then you can move there if you want.”

She imagined the city at night, endless glitter surrounded by dark water.

Outside, her father called to Peter, who dragged metal trashcans to the street.

“California,” she said. “Right now.”

“I’m serious,” he said. “We’ll meet at the Jersey shore in the middle of winter.

We’ll have the boardwalks to ourselves.”

“I have to go,” she said.

“Okay, fine—no Jersey shore.

Somewhere nice. Cape Cod, the Hamptons…” Places she’d never heard of.

“My dad’s home.” Keys jingled at the door.

“We’ll rendezvous, ride bikes—” “Bye,” she whispered.

The doorknob turned, hinges squeaked.

“You’re lucky,” she added.

“Call him, Phoni,” he said. “You’ll break his heart if you don’t.”

Persephone hung up the phone and peered into the foyer. Peter made his way down the hallway toward the kitchen.

She stood up and froze, remembering her bruised face. Her father peeked into the living room and lifted his hat like a gentleman. “Oh, hello,” he said.

“Hi.” After hanging up his coat, he sat on the couch.

She lifted her face into the light.

His eyes drifted toward the stereo.

“You like Frank Sinatra now?”

Vasili’s silver-framed photograph, the

same one Persephone sent to the newspapers two days ago, sits on the corner table, awaiting its place on the casket, which, for now, remains open, as he instructed. Mozart’s Requiem trickles through lush bouquets into the dim room lined with chairs. Aunt Anastasia places her black-gloved fingers to her son’s lips and closes her eyes. Faintly frosted by the photographer’s lens, the picture—of a younger Vasili at a piano, squaring his tuxedoed shoulders and his broad, cleft chin for the camera—strikes Persephone, as it did this morning, when she saw it in grainy, newspaper blackand-white, as a dreamed-up version of her cousin. Similarly, the reported cause of death—a heart attack—both annoyed and relieved her for its fuzzy truthfulness.

“He looks good,” Peter whispers.

“They really did a great job,” cousin Spencer confirms.

Phillip adds, “He looks terrific.”

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Aunt Anastasia turns from the casket, smiles, and nods.

Persephone can’t deny that Vasili’s layered clothes—the bow tie and ruffled tuxedo shirt, the black velvet jacket with satin lapels—and the mortician’s tricks have had an animating effect. Still, to say he looks good is absurd, but she has the sense not to argue with them.

“Is this him playing?” Phillip asks.

“No,” Persephone says.

“Does anyone have a tape of his?”

Peter asks.

“That’s what I was thinking,” Phillip says.

“It’s Mozart,” Persephone says. “Vasili wanted this.”

“I’ll go out to the car.” Spencer steps away. “We might have something.”

Phillip nods to Spencer. “It only makes sense.”

“It’d be nice,” Peter says. “For people to hear his music.”

Spencer rushes out, just as the undertaker enters the room. Persephone feels ignored, erased, but she won’t make a scene. She tells herself that Vasili’s music won’t be such a betrayal of his wishes— only his modesty would be offended.

Before the double doors are sealed shut, she glimpses visitors gathering in the foyer. The undertaker, a blond man in a gray suit, walks slowly down the center aisle, inspecting the room. He nods considerately to Persephone’s parents, who are sitting in chairs against the wall. Beyond the ceiling, there is a rumbling Persephone realizes is thunder, not the dragging of chairs, or caskets, as she first imagines. She anticipates the arrival of her two youngest sons, who promised to be here, even if they had to close up the shops.

It occurs to her that some of Vasili’s New York friends must be out there among the attendants, including his old friend Ted—assuming he’s still alive. She wouldn’t recognize Vasili’s dearest friends from strangers.

Vasili was right. She didn’t really know him.

Her father rises slowly from his chair.

He holds his hand out to his wife, who lifts herself. They trudge past Persephone and stand at the foot of Vasili’s casket. “He looks good,” her father says. Her mother bows toward Vasili’s shoes.

The undertaker approaches Persephone. “We can start whenever you’d like.”

Spencer, heaving, swipes a hand through his drenched hair, unbuttons his suit coat, beaded with rainwater, and, in triumph, holds up a cassette tape—“Got it!” —this man with arm outstretched over his head, so self-satisfied with success. He twirls his ring of keys on a finger as he hands the tape to the undertaker, who slips it into his suit coat pocket.

“We should leave it open,” Peter says to no one in particular.

“No,” Persephone says. “He wanted a closed casket.”

“Leave it open,” Spencer says.

Peter says, “What do you think, Dad?” “It’s a nice idea,” her father says.

“Very nice,” her mother says.

The undertaker puts his hand on Aunt Anastasia’s shoulder. “It’s completely up to you, Mrs. Manos.”

“We should be proud,” Spencer says.

Aunt Anastasia turns from the casket, nodding. “He looks so handsome.”

As the undertaker bows and turns away, Persephone goes to the corner table and gets Vasili’s picture, which is to be placed on top of the closed casket.

The undertaker approaches the sealed double doors.

The music has stopped, and for the moment, Mozart has been replaced by the murmur of people entering behind her, the faint thumping and fluttering of umbrellas shrinking. Her three sons enter first.

Aunt Anastasia waves for Persephone to join the family lining up next to Vasili.

As music—Vasili’s music—begins to play, Bobby rushes to her. “Mom, look at me.” He grabs Vasili’s picture from her

hands. “Mom, his goddamn boyfriend is out there.”

“Bobby!” In a flash, she smacks her grown son’s mouth.

He raises his hand to his cheek.

“What’s wrong with you?”

It’s the right question to ask.

Beyond her son’s reddening face, beyond the glistening mob, Persephone spots the sad familiar eyes of an aging Korean man. For a moment, she thinks of going to him. She could ask him to forgive her—as if he might know who she is and why she needs to be forgiven.

“I don’t know what to say,” she tells her son. “I’m sorry.”

His bewildered eyes press into her, the mark on his cheek refusing to fade. In the distance, Vasili appears ghastly, aglow, exposed. The family stands beside him, their faces full of sympathy.

The box of melting spinach and her horrible note sat there. In the mirror above the couch she saw her rosy cheek.

Her father pulled his T-shirt out from his pants, about to snooze. He cleared his throat and leaned toward the coffee table.

He picked up the pen and signed his name to the note, then sat back and closed his eyes. “It’s cold,” he huffed. She lifted the afghan from her shoulders and draped it over his chest and legs. “Good girl,” he said.

She turned off the lamp. The room remained lit from the vestibule and the front porch light through the bay window.

Her father was asleep. She stared at the note: his signed confession. A puddle had formed around the spinach. She would leave it all there until morning. God knew it would be there, waiting for her.

Jim Zervanos is the author of the novel LOVE Park.

His short stories have appeared in numerous publications, including the anthologies Philly Fiction and Philadelphia Noir. He is a graduate of Bucknell University and the MFA Program for Writers at Warren Wilson College. He is a teacher of English and creative writing and lives in Philadelphia with his wife and son. "Communion" was a finalist in the 2011 Marguerite McGlinn Short Story contest.

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s o u v e n i r s

SOUVENIRS

Break in the Armor by Brian Griffiths © 2011 race Churchill’s daughter died for the twenty-seventh time. It was the same room as always, bare white drywall under humming fluorescent lamps, a long wood table and stiff, squeaky chairs. The interview room, designed for discomfort. Grace listened along to the recording she now knew by heart, watching the lawyers 14 across the table as they drummed their fingers and pretended to take notes and avoided her eyes. They never looked at her while it played—fear, she assumed, of seeing a mother in anguish.

There would be no tears. The

g

lawyers heard Katie speaking from the grave in the recording. Grace just heard Katie.

Wilson Ross, the district attorney, had sat with Grace countless times to revisit the recording in the interview room. Today a younger attorney, a blonde woman named Emily, joined him. She wore glasses and a neat gray skirt and a serious expression as she listened. Grace knew it was the first time she’d done so when, twenty minutes in, Emily gripped the arm of her chair so tightly that her fingers grew whiter than the tips of her French manicure.

Twenty minutes in is when the shrieking begins.

They had offered at one point to give Grace a copy of the recording—a 911 call, captured from Katie’s cell phone nearly three months before, during That Night. Ross said it would be highly unorthodox (his words) to do so, but given her interest in hearing it repeatedly, he would make an exception. Grace came to the office three times a week, often more, asking to listen, drawn by the promise of her daughter’s voice. She wanted to understand why it happened.

She needed to suffer with her child.

g r e g o r y Grace did not want to bring the recording home. She thought it should never leave the interview room. There it was safe, stowed away in a small laptop computer, stored in a steel cabinet, and locked behind a sturdy wooden door.

Outside of the room, she knew, it would follow her everywhere. Katie’s muted breaths, her shaking voice, begging to be heard, her mother obliging.

The tape faded to silence. Ross stood from his chair and hunched over the computer, closing the file and folding the screen down. He was unusually somber, moving with a tentativeness that was far from his normal head-high swagger. Ross was what her father used to derisively call Country Club, a man who lined his closets with monogrammed shirts, who whitened his teeth and darkened his hair and always had lighter skin around his eyelids from the tanning bed. He had gone to Stanford and mentioned it often.

Whenever he’d approach Grace, he would briefly look down before meeting her eyes with a reassuring frown, as if recalling steps from the manual of dealing with Surviving Relatives. He thought of her as a nuisance, she knew, but he enjoyed seeing his name in the newspaper far too much to not be directly involved.

Ross sat down at Grace’s left. He gently placed his hand on her shoulder.

“We’ve got to give it to them,” he said.

Grace said nothing. She looked from Ross back to the folded laptop on the table in front of her. Katie’s voice tucked away in its shiny black shell, marbles in a jar. Once released, it would spread uncontrollably.

“The judge issued her final decision this morning,” he continued. “The tapes are public record. We’ve got no legal rights to keep them under wraps any longer.”

“Who wants it?” Grace asked.

Ross paused. “All of them,” he replied.

There are bumps, perpetual motion, as if the moment were recorded in a dryer at its lowest setting. The operator asks about the emergency, whether anybody is there, Hello? The dry rumble continues, then a muffled whisper, inaudible.

Then, she speaks. Ray, please, she says. Ray, turn around. We can sit down and talk about it.

You don’t have to do this. You’re not alone.

Ray says nothing.

There was a woman in a support group Grace attended whose daughter was abducted from a parking lot. She was a college student, and had been shopping at a department store for a television stand for her apartment. On security video, the girl could be seen walking out of the store and across empty asphalt, her outstretched arms wrapped around a large box containing her new assembly-required furniture. A man in a dark shirt and a baseball cap followed twenty feet behind her.

Grace remembered it well. The girl’s name was Libby Miller. Her body was found near a creek about a week after she disappeared from the department store.

The last time she was seen alive was in that video when, in the far left corner of the screen, the man appeared to offer his help loading the box into the car. The grainy video of him grabbing her—the entire sequence, beginning with her leaving the store—played in an endless loop on television newscasts for weeks, always preceded by a stone-faced reporter warning viewers that what they were about to see was upsetting. An introduction designed to draw more eyes to the screen, to the tragedy unfolding on the blurred black-and-white security footage. Even after police caught the man responsible, the networks still found reasons to air the images, running stories about parking lot security or self defense or “stranger danger”, but always— always—referring back to the video of Libby and her abduction.

The mother—her name was Sarah— said she no longer turned on the televi-

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sion for fear of seeing the footage again.

Someone once told her the clip was on YouTube, under the title, “Abducted Girl’s Final Moments—Disturbing.” It had received more than two million views.

“I couldn’t tell,” Sarah said, “whether that last word was a warning or a suggestion.”

Sarah couldn’t comprehend why Grace kept going back to hear her own daughter’s tape again and again. Neither could her family, her friends, the other parents in her group, or Ross, who only allowed her to do so because the psychiatrist said it would help her cope. When they listened to the recording, they heard only death. Grace heard it as well.

Those final minutes, the screaming and fighting and choking, stained her memory the first time she heard it. Every quiet moment—at night in bed, or at home between the steady visits of condolence—it rang in her ears, inescapable as breath. She tried to drown it out with old VHS tapes from Katie’s school plays and cheerleading performances. But the voice from the 911 call shouted everything else down. When Grace thought of her daughter, the echoes of her murder smothered every other memory.

A week after first hearing the tapes, she asked to listen again. They sat her down in the interview room, set up the computer, and double-clicked the file. She closed her eyes and imagined herself in the backseat with Katie, where Raymond Jonas had forced her to lie after tying her hands and feet with strips of bed sheets from his room at the Gabriel Institute for Boys. Katie’s phone was in her front pocket, the investigators told her, and she had been able to call 911 by reaching around and using the speed dial. Grace whispered into Katie’s ear to stay calm, to relax, that her mother would protect her. She ran her hands along her daughter’s smooth face.

She told her she loved her and that everything would be OK. Grace returned the following morning and again a day later. Each time she

s o u v e n i r s listened, tense and nauseous, unable to turn away. She felt terror, anger, pain— what she imagined Katie felt while bound in the car. Joining in this suffering brought comfort somehow, as if her daughter hadn’t died alone after all.

“You’ll feel differently,” Sarah once said after Grace attempted to explain her connection to the tape.

“When?” Grace asked.

“When the vultures get a hold of it.”

No one responds to the operator’s questions, just a mild rumble, and the in-and-out fade of Katie’s voice. It’s difficult to hear what she says through the bumps in the road. The operator says to stay on the line, to be calm if you can’t talk, we’ll get you help, where are you? We’ll find you …

Grace and Katie had a tradition. On Sunday nights, the two put on pajamas and curled into the couch together, a week’s worth of reality television shows ready for viewing in the DVR. They made sundaes and hot chocolate, girls at a slumber party, gossiping and talking about their lives: Katie’s too busy with grad school and work for a boyfriend, Grace’s new supervisor is a bitch, did you hear about Linda’s daughter down the

16

street? Grace secretly hated the television they watched so religiously—narcissistic garbage, she thought—but looked forward to Sundays regardless, to spending time alone with her daughter like they had when Katie was a little girl.

It had always been just the two of them. Grace nursed Katie, caught her after her first steps, taught her to ride a bike and throw a softball and braid her hair. The mom and the dad, rolled into one. Katie’s father was a man Grace had dated briefly and barely knew. She’d been past thirty, recently divorced and enjoying independence for the first time in her life when she realized one queasy morning that she was several weeks late.

He did not have to know, she’d decided.

Grace would love her baby enough for two parents.

She did once try to reach out to the father. This was after Katie began asking questions that couldn’t be answered with a simple sometimes god decides a mommy is enough.

Grace made some phone calls and went to Google, uncovering an address about an hour away from their own. She wrote a letter, learned he had a family of his own, that he did not want to risk the turmoil Katie’s sudden existence might cause. Any

further attempts at contact, he wrote, should be directed toward his attorney.

Grace told Katie she could not find him.

There was resentment—Katie rarely failed to mention her missing father during an argument—but Grace recognized it was never enough to damage the bond they shared. They were partners, working together on school science and home remodeling projects, splitting chores, seeking the other’s ear to vent frustration and air good news. They even looked alike: brown hair (Katie’s long and straight, Grace’s short and graying), chestnut eyes, tall and athletic. When high school began to pull Katie away—boys, cliques, activities, that first taste of teenage emancipation—Grace felt as if a part of her was being stolen away. Yet through graduation and college, through Katie’s taking the counseling job at Gabriel while weighing her grad school options, Grace could always look forward to Sunday evenings with her daughter.

That night in August, Katie called to say she’d be working her normal day off at the institute and would not be able to make it. Grace did not watch the shows they’d saved. She never would.

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Ray? Ray, look at me.

Where are you taking me?

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The reporters first asked for the 911 tapes the day Katie’s body was found. She’d been left in a brown, weed-choked field behind an abandoned gas station on an empty road about 20 miles from Gabriel, where she’d last been seen the previous evening. Katie worked there for about eight months, her first job after graduating from college.

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g r e g o r y The rationale the newspapers and television stations used centered on the dispatcher who received the call. They said it was in the interest of the public whether the people answering emergency phone calls were doing their jobs, whether procedures had been followed.

They wanted to know if Katie could have been saved, and if so, what could be done to prevent it from happening again.

This is what they said. Grace knew better.

The greater good was not their concern. Neither, she believed, was Katie’s well-being or memory. What they wanted was pornography, a sound byte with which to tease the 11 p.m. newscast, horror and violence and death their viewers could enjoy from comfortable couches, driving up ratings. Titillation. Like Libby Miller, unwitting star of cable and broadcast and World Wide Web, a life summed up in a cautionary tale, years of smiles and laughs and hugs and tears obscured by a blurred black-and-white video.

Grace understood the fascination.

Her father had been a soldier in Korea, and kept photographs from the

war in a cigar box at the rear of his top dresser drawer. Inside the box, among snapshots of grinning young men holding guns and cigarettes and cans of beer, were photographs of dead bodies.

Korean soldiers with gunshot wounds to the head. A pile of charred bodies near a ransacked village. A leg, attached to nothing, its foot wearing a sandal, lying undisturbed on a dirt road. She had discovered the photos as a child and returned to them often, unable to look away despite the horrors they depicted.

Once, when Grace was eleven, she slipped the old photos into one of her schoolbooks and secreted them to class.

She showed them to her friend Mary on the bus, then Mary’s brother Robert when he saw the girls huddled around something in Grace’s lap. Robert, a seventh grader, brought two of his friends to see the photos once they’d descended the bus stairs into the schoolyard. A buzz soon electrified Walt Whitman Middle School, classmates and students she’d never before spoken with whispering during class and approaching her in the hallway, asking for a glimpse of the snapshots, the forbidden images burning between the pages of her history book. Some wrinkled their eyes and Gardener noses in disgust, looking away, then

By Katy Diana turning back for another peek, as if their first instinct required a second opinion. Others pulled the photos A stony man close, eyes widening, mouths slack, fiddled green intensely studying the images. More than one grinned. Grace basked in in the swallow’s fire. the newfound attention her father’s photos brought, eating with the older kids at lunch, standing by the As air slipsighed, basketball hoops at recess, where bent his knee nowhere fifth graders never went. She laughed along with jokes about the and flew. people in the pictures. That’s the worst case of sunburn I’ve ever seen! You think he’ll Katy Diana is a poet and freelancer living in Philadelphia. be able to buy just a left shoe? She promHer work has been published in The Pennsylvania Gazette, ised to look for more to bring the Phlare, Mastodon Dentist, All Things Girl, Ursinus Magazine, and The Lantern. She was the 2006 recipient of the Dolman Prize next day, even though she knew for Creative Writing and the Fall 2004 winner of The Lantern there were none left to uncover.

Poetry Prize.

k a n e

Grace glowed with celebrity as she walked home from the bus stop. She spotted a neighbor girl, Annie, who was a few years younger and went to a different school. Looking to maintain her high, Grace called the girl over, promising she had something amazing for her to see. They sat on a curb, Grace pulling out the book, opening its pages and slowly presenting the pictures, a ringmaster introducing the main attraction. She’d developed a routine, telling the jokes she’d heard throughout the day while unveiling each image. The burned bodies. The gunshot man. The leg. It wasn’t until Grace had finished that she saw Annie’s face: red, streaked with tears, mouth shut, choking back sobs.

“What’s the matter?” Grace asked.

“What happened to them?”

“They were in a war. My dad did it,” she lied.

“Why?” She couldn’t find an answer. Annie wiped the tears from her face and walked away, leaving her alone on the curb with the photos. When she got home, Grace placed them back in the cigar box, never to look for them again.

Grace hadn’t thought about those photographs for years before Katie died.

Now, she couldn’t help wondering about the mothers of the men in the snapshots.

Whether they’d been told how their babies died. If they’d had any contact with their sons in the weeks, months, or years spent off in battle. How they would feel if they knew that, in a cigar box halfway across the globe, photographs of their dead children were kept as souvenirs.

I don’t think she can hear me. Can you hear me, honey? I don’t understand ...

Grace learned quickly what the reporters were truly after in the days following Katie’s murder. She spent nearly a full day about a week after it happened with Emma Stuart, a journalist from Channel 9 News in the city. They paged

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s o u v e n i r s

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through yearbooks and photographs in Katie’s bedroom, reading her poetry, telling stories like the one where she skipped her junior prom because a friend was having a difficult time and needed support. Stuart held her hand, tears welling in her eyes. Grace cried at some point, and called Raymond Jonas a monster, a monster who should burn for what he did. It was a momentary lapse, words she wasn’t even sure she fully meant. But it stuck. After all that, the stories and keepsakes and memories, it was those tears and those words that made the two-minute clip on the evening news.

She stopped taking calls from the press, but the stories continued. They investigated how 16-year-old Raymond Jonas came to be held in a minimumsecurity facility like Gabriel when he’d been arrested for viciously attacking his female cousin. They questioned why it had been so easy for Jonas to slip past guards, across a lighted lawn and into the facility’s parking lot, completely undetected, and how he had gotten the knife he used to surprise Katie after she’d completed a rare weekend late shift. But it always came back to the tapes: Those 31 minutes that began when Katie reached her hand around to press a button on her cell phone and ended with her rape, stabbing, and strangulation. The police first offered a detailed explanation of the circumstances surrounding the call— how the operator was limited in her ability to send help because she couldn’t speak directly to Katie, that they tried to trace the call but couldn’t pinpoint its location. A transcript of the recording followed to give reporters a play-by-play account. When the press went to the courts, a judge offered a compromise: a pool of reporters could listen to the recording and describe what happened.

The response was always the same. The public deserved the right to hear for themselves, they said.

Two months after That Night, in the interview room where Katie’s voice was

safely locked away, Grace learned that the courts agreed.

Ray, are we stopping?

“I understand it’s difficult. But it’s the public’s right to know.” Emma Stuart sounded surprised to pick up her phone and hear Grace’s voice. Grace had surprised herself by calling, in all honesty.

She had left the District Attorney’s office only a few hours before, after learning the 911 tapes would be released to the media that afternoon. In her car on the way home, talk radio hosts discussed the court decision, with one promising listeners that portions would be aired later in the day. A friend called to tell her that an article had appeared on the local newspaper’s web site praising the tapes’ release as a victory for open government.

They’d all be competing to get Katie’s terrified voice onto the airwaves first.

Dialing Emma’s number was an act of desperation, Grace knew, but it was one of the few acts she had left.

“I’ve heard the call,” Grace replied.

“The woman did nothing wrong.”

“Not everybody believes that.”

“I do.” Grace had met Shirley Jackson, the dispatcher who received Katie’s 911 call, at one of the court hearings. She’d been on a leave of absence since That Night, haunted, lying awake at night going over the scenario again and again, trying to determine what she could have done differently. Grace hugged her and told her she shouldn’t listen to what they were saying in the news, but the words slid right off the woman.

“I wish there was more I could do.”

Emma sounded like Ross, blowing Grace off under the pretense that she was trying to help. “The call will go to air. It’s not my decision.”

“And if it were?” Grace asked.

She had no reply. Grace continued, “No good can come from airing that tape.”

Emma remained silent for a moment, then briefly inhaled and held her breath,

as if steeling to utter the next words. “I’ve been told you listen to them quite often.”

The statement took Grace by surprise. There was an accusation in her voice, as if Grace’s desire to hear the recording somehow existed on the same plane as strangers in search of thrills. The judgment angered her—here was a girl not much older than Katie, who probably believed good was being done by putting that 911 tape on the evening news. Too young to know that ratings trumped public service every time.

“You’re not her mother,” Grace said.

“You couldn’t understand.”

“Look, we’re not running the whole thing,” Emma said. “They’ll cut it off before the … violent part.”

Which is the violent part? Grace wanted to ask the question but stopped short, quickly ending the conversation and hanging up the phone. Even if Emma Stuart were on her side, she had been correct about one thing: She could do nothing to stop its airing. On Grace’s television, during the commercial break for an afternoon talk show, an advertisement for the evening news had already hyped the airing of the “dramatic” 911 call in the Katie Churchill murder case. The other stations were also likely doing so, as were the newspapers and everyone else trying to draw attention to their product. The anchors would warn viewers to prepare themselves for the disturbing footage, grim, studied looks on their faces that would disappear moments later during witty banter with the wacky weather guy. The recording would then hit the Internet, drawing millions of hits on YouTube and countless other sites, sometimes in snippets, others in full, unedited form. On the newspaper’s website, anonymous posters would use the comments section in the latest story about Katie’s murder to spout vitriol over illegal immigration and homosexuality and politics. Ross would hold a press conference decrying the judge’s decision, his suit neatly pressed, hair tailored, a

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­ practice run for his upcoming Senate campaign. Raymond Jonas would still be in jail. Katie would still be dead.

Grace turned off the television.

They’ll cut it off before the violent part. Her thoughts turned to another photograph, one that ran in newspapers across the country and won numerous awards when she was a girl. It showed a South Vietnamese soldier holding a silver handgun to the head of a Viet Cong prisoner. The prisoner was ragged, bleeding from the lip, hands bound behind him, wearing a checkered shirt that hung off his skinny frame like drapery. His face pursed in terrified anticipation, like that of a boy waiting for the doctor to prick him with a dreaded needle. A second after the picture snapped, the prisoner was shot. There were likely other photos taken after, showing the man’s lifeless body on the ground, a pool of blood and brain and skull. Images considered more violent than the look on a man’s face—

the sound of a girl’s voice—when they know they’re going to die.

She wondered whether the boys by the basketball hoops at Walt Whitman Middle School had gotten a hold of that Vietnam photo. They’d probably invented more jokes as they passed it along in a circle, young hyenas smelling blood. It’s not good target practice from that close up!

Snickering, pretending that there was nothing wrong with enjoying someone’s death. Their sons might gather in the same schoolyard tomorrow, pulling up Katie’s phone call on their iPhones, making the same cracks, ignoring the icy butterflies in their stomachs.

Grace wished she knew what happened to her father’s old cigar box with the Korean War photos. Maybe they were thrown away after her father’s death.

Or, the box could have been lumped in with other junk dropped off at the charity donation center. Maybe it was resold to a customer who had no idea about its con-

M.F.A. in Creative Writing

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tents. That person could have had family in Korea, and recognized some of the bodies as brothers or sisters or fathers or neighbors, and packaged them into little envelopes and sent them across the ocean and back into the hands of the families who’d lost them all those years ago.

Maybe they’d found their way home.

Gregory Kane teaches English and writing at a middle school in Southwest Philadelphia. A former journalist, his nonfiction work has appeared in numerous daily and weekly newspapers. He was born and raised outside of Philadelphia and currently resides in Haverford with his wife. This is his first fiction publication.

Study abroad opportunities in Italy and Scotland

M.A. in Humanities

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i n h e r i t a n c e

INHERITANCE hen I look at my nineyear-old son, I see my husband’s face. His square jaw, his chiseled cheekbones, his light brown hair, his delicate, perfectly proportioned nose. When my son turns to the side, however, I see myself. He has my ears. I have big ears. My father has big ears.

Our ears don’t stick out from the sides of our heads, they are not malformed, but they are big.

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I wonder if this physical trait is shared among us because we are all musicians: my father, a music teacher for 30 years, plays the saxophone, clarinet and flute; I teach the violin and piano; and my son has been dutifully taking piano lessons for four years now. It makes sense that for musicians, large ears would be an asset.

I think back to the first time I saw his oversized ears. Nine years ago I wasn’t concerned about piano lessons, I was just praying he’d survive. That’s because he was born prematurely, weighing only one pound, three ounces. I was just over five months pregnant when I was put on strict bed rest at Lankenau Hospital because of pre-term labor. After three weeks, the contractions couldn’t be stopped and my son came into the world 20 sixteen weeks before he was due. I’d never seen a human being so small. It amazed me that his whole tiny body was already formed, from the wisps of hair on his head to his fragile little fingers and toes. Oh, and those precious ears.

Fighting Seductive Addiction by Sean Martorana © 2011 Because he had arrived so early, my husband and I did not have a name ready for him. After four days the neonatologists were getting impatient. “We need a name for this baby,” they told us. “The nurses can’t keep calling him ‘Baby Boy Number Seven’ when they talk to him through the incubator.”

My husband and I scrambled. I’d been reading the Bible for solace and comfort during my weeks on bed rest, so we consulted the greatest story ever told to come up with a name.

“What about ‘Simon’?” my husband said, popping his head up from the Book

m a r i a of Acts. “There are a lot of ‘Simons’ in the Bible.”

“It’s a good name.” I said. “Simon was the man who helped Jesus carry the cross. Let’s go with that.”

We proudly reported our son’s name to the head neonatologist.

“Simon says!” he answered, teasing us with a smile.

I hadn’t thought of that, but then again, in the game, Simon Says, Simon is always the boss. I wasn’t concerned about the potential teasing. I was glad to have a name to call my little guy who was so delicate yet strong.

“You’re gonna be OK, Simon,” I whispered into the portholes on the sides of the incubator. “You’re doing a great job, little guy, just keep growing.”

Even then, when he was one pound, those ears must have been listening.

Soon after naming him, we researched the name ‘Simon’: “He Heard,” from Hebrew. I wondered how this meaning would pertain to my son in

his future. I found out a few months later.

The doctors and nurses had warned us about the rollercoaster ride that was the life of a micro preemie; the medical staff was encouraging (and bordering on saintly), but they did not give us any false hope. My husband and I sighed with relief when Simon seemed to dodge each potential illness that the hospital staff anticipated: no brain bleeds, no chronic infections, and no life-threatening heart issues. We celebrated each milestone that Simon achieved: breathing without the ventilator, graduating from a feeding tube to a baby bottle, and the most visible accomplishment—gaining weight. After two and a half months, Simon was no longer dependent on oxygen to breathe and he had grown to five pounds. Then, one evening as we left the house for our nighttime NICU visit, the nurse on duty called us to say that the pediatric ophthalmologist would meet us there when we arrived. The eye doctor explained that, earlier that day, Simon’s eyes had been routinely checked for a condition called Retinopathy of Prematurity. The results were not good. Simon’s retinas had completely detached. He would be blind.

Tambourine

By John David Muth An open hand Pops The shallow drum, While flocks Of metal songbirds Fly frightened Into the sky.

John David Muth was born and raised in the central NJ area and has been an academic advisor at Rutgers University for eleven years. He started writing poetry in high school, a little over twenty years ago. Being a great lover of music, especially classical, much of his poetry attempts to describe the sounds that musical instruments make when they are playing. He likes to give these playing instruments animal or human behaviors.

My husband and I felt the sharp dip of the roller coaster that we thought we had eluded. We insisted on a second opinion, and on this occasion my parents were present for the results. The doctor came to the same conclusion—that our little fighter would never see. My mother asked if she could donate her eyes to Simon.

The doctor solemnly shook his head. Again, we scrambled. We scoured the Internet for information and we eventually found an extremely gifted retina sur-

c e f e r a t t i

geon in Detroit, Michigan. We were told that people came from all over the world to see this doctor. Once Simon came out of the NICU, we flew to Detroit every two weeks for surgeries and subsequent check-ups. After three surgeries, Simon was able to see light. This may not seem like much of an accomplishment, but in the blind world, being able to see light means a lot: it means that you can distinguish daytime from nighttime; that your circadian rhythm of sleeping and waking is not disturbed; and that light can be used to orient the space around you, whether it’s the light from windows in a room or fluorescent ceiling lights to guide you down a hallway.

Simon is now a healthy, chatty nineyear-old with a sharp wit and long pianist’s fingers. He reads Braille and walks with a cane. He attends Saint Lucy Day School for Children with Visual Impairments in Juniata Park where he is mainstreamed with sighted students.

And he’s still got those big ears. Those ears that my father gave to me and that I gave to Simon. Those ears that help him to distinguish the voices of his favorite radio sportscasters on 610 AM WIP. Those ears that detect the smallest sound when I think I’m silently gesturing to my husband. Those ears that fill my heart with joy when Simon tells me that he doesn’t need to see my face because he can hear me smile. I know that those big ears will serve him well throughout his life. He sees with those ears and I’m proud to share them with him.

Maria Ceferatti was raised in South Philadelphia and now lives in Delaware County. She teaches private violin and piano lessons, instructs classroom music at Saint Lucy Day School for Children with Visual Impairments, and is the music director of Acting Without Boundaries, a theater group for young performers with physical disabilities. Her short story “Olga’s Vision” will be published in the forthcoming issue of Apiary Magazine.

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“

“Whatever “Whatever Yo

I ho hardly know w u will

or what I mean” am

the soul truth.” is truth.”

“A writer can do nothing for men more necessary, satisfying, than

Simplicity is the glory of expression.

just simply to reveal to them the infinite possibility of their own souls.”

“What is that you express in your eyes?

It seems to me more than all the print I have read in my life.”

located in suburban Philade Philadelphia lphia