The Sandy River Review by Sandy River Review

The Sandy River Review Volume 41 | 2021

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Editors: Amber Soha & Sophie Murray

The Sandy River Review publishes an annual print issue in conjunction with Alice James Books and the Humanities Department of the University of Maine at Farmington. Special thanks to the Creative Writing faculty and students, the University of Maine at Farmington Writers’ Guild, and the Alice James Books staff for their continued support. Each contributor retains the copyright to any submitted material, and it cannot be reproduced without the author’s consent. The editors of The Sandy River Review are solely responsible for its content. Opinions herein do not necessarily reflect those of the editors, the University of Maine at Farmington, or Alice James Books. The Sandy River Review’s reading period begins every fall. Please visit our website at SandyRiverReview.com for more information on publication. University of Maine at Farmington students interested in the position of editor may submit letters of interest to Alice James Books at AliceJamesEA@AliceJamesBooks.org or contact the UMF Writers’ Guild.

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We dedicate this edition of The Sandy River Review to COVID-19, without which this entire experience would’ve been completely normal. Despite the crazy conditions you put us through, we worked extraordinarily well together, and put out an edition we’re extremely proud of. ***

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Cover Art:

Change at Hand By Amber Soha

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Contents 3

The Unbelievers Tyler Michaud

Still Here Aliza Dube

M ale Pattern Baldness Gus Peterson

Poetry

Winter into Spring Elisabeth Harrahy

Poetry

Blue Collar Kathryn Lord

Cycles Shawn Cassidy

Poetry

Wasps Victoria Stewart

Poetry

K eeping Things to Yourself Nathan Richardson

Fiction

Calendars Richard Dinges, Jr.

Poetry

New Year Paul Bluestein

Poetry

Tearpath Bob Chikos

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Prose Nonfiction

Fiction

Nonfiction

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Spirals of Staircase Time Cynthia Gallaher

Poetry

Ghost Writer Lauro Palomba

Poetry

What Happens If Thomas Elson

Fiction

Cycles Julia Morris Paul

Poetry

R emodeling Gus Peterson

Poetry

The Cost of Forgiveness Lainy Carslaw

When the World Ends Corbett Buchly

Do As You Are Told Hibah Shabkez

Prose

A Giant Among Us Michael Woodruff

Prose

Contributor Bios

Prose Poetry

71 Editor Notes

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“Like a lotus, it opens or closes, dies and is born again. Such is also the story of the sun and moon, of me and you. Nothing truly dies. All energy simply transforms.”

-Suzy Kassem

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Tyler Michaud

The Unbelievers It’s Thanksgiving 2019. Smoky ribbons of juniper fill the air of our apartment. Yesterday, I baked two pies: apple and pumpkin. Today, you suggest that I make a peanut butter pie too, and I quip that two pies are more than enough for two people. You pretend to pout and then laugh softly and respond, “You can never have too many pies.” Thanksgiving is your favorite holiday. But you know I only enjoy the desserts and biscuits, for before you this day featured too many relatives talking too freely about their conservative beliefs over dry meat and watery gravy. Even the Thanksgiving we had with your family our first year together, when your aunt referred to us repeatedly as “unbelievers,” and you wouldn’t let me instigate her by saying that the prefix “un” presupposes a loss of belief, one that you know too well I never had. Really, we knew unbelievers was a euphemism for faggots. It’s a tradition for you to cook for us on Thanksgiving and ban me to the couch. We chase a shot of Tito’s vodka with cheap boxed wine, and I play PS4. Today, I play a post-apocalyptic zombie game where the gruff main character obsessively roams what’s left of rural Oregon on his motorcycle in search of his wife; although, it’s more likely that she’s already dead. I’m intrigued by the game in a sociological way. It’s a romance written by straight, cis men for other straight, cis men, an untapped source of pure American masculinity. In the game, the wife is an unassumingly beautiful botanist, staunchly against violence, who teaches her veteran husband to appreciate life’s delicate, pastel minutia. Her personality ends where it diverges from her husband. There’s a flashback to their wedding. The soon-to-be-wife returns something to her soon-to-be-husband; as part of her vows, she says, 3 2021 SRR.indd 9

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“Here, you can have this back, but only if you promise to ride me as much as you ride your bike.” If for only a moment, the main character is overcome by a lecherous grin as he glances at the minister, who awkwardly studders his pronouncement. The newly married couple kiss and fold into each other. I wonder: Is this what love looks like? We chuckle together and lazily toast to the happy couple. You drift over to the window to look out at the street ablaze with foliage but for once silent, no sirens or screaming pedestrians to break up this moment. I study the light that passes through your ginger beard which now glows a vibrant orange. Your blue eyes shine brighter — bluer. I write this down for later.

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Aliza Dube

Still Here Your husband is deployed on a February morning. He kisses the head of your four month old, sits with him in the front seat of the car. You wince, try not to think about what this baby will look like by the time you see them together again. The baby is grinning, dumbly. He does not know what’s happening. He knows that Daddy is talking to him. That’s all that matters. It is a voice he will have forgotten by the time he hears it again. The parking lot is cold, goosebumps spread in a rash up your thighs. You cling to your husband as though you are drowning. You are drowning. How will you stay afloat without him here? You are sobbing. You do not care what this looks like. You look at your friend’s wife, calmly eating a Big Mac in the front seat of their minivan. You momentarily envy her ability to say goodbye with dignity. But you take the thought back. At least you are not numb to this life yet, at least you still care enough about each other to ugly cry in a parking lot. “I’ll be back,” he tells you, smoothing the hair at the back of your head. You watch his back grow ever smaller as he makes his way across the pavement, out of your grasp. “Come back,” you want to scream. “Just come back, and we’ll forget this whole thing. We’ll pretend it was a joke. Just don’t leave.” Nine months, you tell yourself. You can do anything for nine months.

Life stutters on without him. You go to the library on Tuesdays, you go to the grocery store on Thursday mornings. You try your best to befriend the other army wives, you drink wine coolers politely in the corners of their living rooms. You’ve developed a routine. If you stay busy, if you keep up a schedule, maybe you can survive this. It’s a Thursday in March when the world begins to shut down, businesses, schools, libraries blinking out one by one like Christmas 5 2021 SRR.indd 11

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Aliza Dube

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your home in five months. You have given up hope that you ever will again. You begin to feel like a ghost. You do the same things every day, walk the same paths, carry out the same routine. You speak to no one but your baby. You begin to question the fact of your own existence. But the baby is safe. He is pulling himself up on all the furniture. He is taking uncertain steps. You record these moments for your husband. The only thing worse than showing him what he is missing is to not. You try not to think about your husband too hard. Memories begin to slip. You wake up one morning and cannot remember what his hair smells like, you don’t remember what it looks like to kiss him. Missing him is a dull ache beneath the panic. It has become the less important pain. You are heartbroken that he has had to take a backseat to anything. I just can’t feel it all, all the time, you want to tell him. I’m just trying to keep us all alive. They are reopening the schools. No one knows what the virus is capable of for certain. They thought it was respiratory, but now it may have more to do with the nervous system. People who contract it are failing to recover within the deadline that the CDC has prescribed to them. There is nothing scarier than the unknown. They are sending children, women back into crowded buildings. Our most vulnerable are being used as guinea pigs as the world watches. You run your fingers through your sleeping child’s hair. What will the world look like, you ask him, when you are old enough to be a part of it? Will there be anything left of what we were? You try to remind yourself that you are lucky. That Anne Frank hid from the Nazis in a closet for two years. You tell yourself, at least you don’t have to worry about rent, about a job. At least your baby was never in day care. At least you hold no real obligation to anyone. You can afford to disappear into yourself, for months, for years if need be. But there is a dull, monotonous grind to it all. Days stop having meaning. It all becomes, one day, one hour. I am doing the most important thing, you remind yourself. I am keeping our baby safe. You think about that moment in the parking lot alot, that moment when you watched your husband’s back grow smaller until it 8 2021 SRR.indd 14

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disappeared into the distance. You remember his promise, you repeat it to yourself, like a prayer: I’ll be back. And we’ll both still be here, you respond in your mind, against all odds, I’m making certain of that.

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Gus Peterson

Male Pattern Baldness Like an old belt with no holes to give I am unfastening. It is a pale bridge connecting one continent to another and we are too stubborn to cross. I’m unzipped teeth, a suitcase stuffed with too many goods of intention, unglued like wallpaper in the closet we shove our baggage. Ribbon curl and plaster’s wan marrow beneath. On the dark side a moon waxes full. In the mirror a receding tide. Dune grass bristles its sparse brush where the salt wind combs and combs.

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when we joked about the need to take our pants off just to cool down rather than heat things up? All those reproductive years— whoosh! I lift my hand to the pane note how my fingertip turns blue as I try to trace an impossible line between earth and sky where the wind both lifts and drops snow in foggy whirls. How I wish we could cycle like winter into spring. Bring back the limber joints keen eyes and taut skin, rouse the leftover eggs in the ovaries, those stragglers hanging on like the last of the oak leaves browning on the branch. Bring back the soft blood-lined bed and its flow. But we do not get to come back around do not get to pass Go. We travel forth in a straight line until we reach the period at the end that demarcates life and death punctuating the point, “You are here.” The snow continues to pile and after watching for awhile I catch the reflection of my daughter’s face from a picture on the wall in the icy window and I am warmed by the thought of the eggs that lie dormant inside her. Eggs that will someday 12 2021 SRR.indd 18

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blossom. Outside, winter roars. It is busy pouring the last of itself into spring. Out from under this snow will grow a purple crocus after burning the nutrients provided by its roots, it will generate enough heat to melt an opening— just large enough to allow the emergence of a tendril at once both delicate and tenacious that will unfurl itself and reach for the sun.

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Elisabeth Harrahy

Winter Into Spring I place the phone back in its cradle after talking with my mom and turn my attention to the only light left in the room—a pale glow spilling through the window onto the floorboards that creak beneath my feet as I make my way to the rattling panes. The wind blows hard out of the east blanketing the land in lake-effect snow. The sun has gone to bed, but light rises from the white like an eerie halo pocked by falling crystal flakes. When snow comes like this, in March, I know it will be short lived. Winter is on its way out taking another year with it. Seems like yesterday I was ten and telling my mom, “I hope I die before you do.” “Someday you will change your mind,” she said. Now here we are sharing stories of hot flashes, bad eyes and arthritis. How did we go from the day she declared me a woman to this day 11 2021 SRR.indd 17

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Otto Habin and his cousin Silas were late for work. It was quarter past five—oh dark hundred. The sun wouldn’t be up ‘til ten past six, but they were already way late. Not that the lobsters would care, but Everett Bart, the bastard, would. Otto knew Ev wanted them on the dock by 4 a.m. at the latest. They’d missed it enough times and caught his fury. The asshole. He’d shit a goddamn brick. Otto barreled into the unlocked trailer, tore the covers off the naked Silas, still out cold and snoring like a chain saw, then dumped a bucket of melted ice and last night’s empties on Silas’s head. He came to swinging. Otto knew what Silas was like when he was hungover or strung out or both. Otto stepped out of the bedroom. He rooted through the pile of dirty clothes on the grubby bathroom floor and found a shirt and pants that were dry, even if they weren’t clean. “Cover up that ugly ass, and let’s get moving.” Otto threw the clothes at Silas and was starting his truck before Silas caught up. Otto peeled out of the driveway, the oversized tires spitting gravel. “Fuck, man, wait while I close the door,” yelled Silas, struggling to hold himself in the moving cab and haul up his pants at the same time. “How many times I got to tell you? You snooze, you lose. Dockhand’s a shit job, but I’d like to keep it, if ’n you don’t mind.” Silas leaned into the back and returned with Otto’s favorite, a ragged Patriots jersey. “I’m cold,” he said when Otto shot him a glare. “Whatever,” sighed Otto. His fleshy, sun-darkened face jiggled, eerie in the greenish glow from the truck’s dash lights. He leaned forward, belly crammed behind the steering wheel, and squinted as he neared the bridge to Bart’s Island. Wouldn’t do to hit a deer. The critters can pop out like a ghost on speed. Do a job on a vehicle, even a rugged number like Otto’s Dodge Ram 3500. He’d rather spend his money on fancy gizmos than to fix dents. Maybe a chrome grill guard. Suckers would bounce right off. When they finally staggered down the steep gangway, it was nearly sun-up. Most of the moorings in the harbor were empty, and the last two boats were about ready to leave. Ev didn’t turn to greet the men. He showed them his back. 15 2021 SRR.indd 21

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Even Silas’s hungover brain could tell that Ev was beyond pissed. Only Zippy, who never discriminated, hopped and circled, yapping crazily, dog tags jingling. “Come on, Zip. Let’s leave these worthless bumfucks so’s maybe they can find their dicks.” Ev tramped up the gangway, Zippy trotting behind. “Maybe they’ll fall into the harbor and drown, save us from paying them,” he said, just loud enough so Otto and Silas would hear. When he got to his bait shed up on the dock, he slammed the door as hard as the rickety hinges would allow. Ev crashed around the chaos of the shack, finally punching the buttons on his dusty cd player and turning up the volume as high as it would go. The lush French horns and strings filled the shack with the opulent overture to Straus’s “Der Rosenkavalier.” Ev couldn’t help but hum along, matching his pace to the music. The lateness of the two numb skulls put Ev way behind on his morning bookkeeping and calls to suppliers, and the rest of the day was shot to hell. Pitiful though the two were, they were better than nothing. But dock workers were near impossible to find. Otherwise, he’d have canned them both long ago. Ev was taking Myrna to the opera tonight in Orono. It’d be a first for her. He fairly tingled with excitement and wondered how she’d take to the outlandish spectacle of opera he’d fallen for hard years ago. Myrna was a strapping, truck-driving lesbian, but she’d shown an openness Ev never suspected. Plus, Rosenkavalier has a pants role: a mezzo-soprano sings the part of a young man. The curtain rises on two ladies in bed. That should get Myrna’s attention. But his plans were screwed. He’d hoped to get away early so they could get a nice dinner beforehand. Since the peckerheads were way late, he was now behind, and he couldn’t decide if he could leave the sorry duo to close up. Zippy scratched and whined at the door. Ev might be an opera nut, but Zippy was not: the high notes hurt his ears. So Ev opened the door, and the pup dashed for the gangway. He’d be back soon enough. The bait shack on the dock above was just out of sight from the lobster car where Otto and Silas worked, but they could still hear the music almost as well as Ev. Zippy skittered on the greasy surface, wet and stinky with a slick of salt, herring bait, and fuel oil. 16 2021 SRR.indd 22

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Otto glanced up to be sure that Ev was not looking and that Silas was, then stuck one toe under Zippy and flipped him in a complete somersault. Zippy landed splat on the planks, all fours akimbo. Silas clapped his hands over his mouth, he was snickering so hard. He forgot he’d just been shoveling smelly fish into barrels. “Shee-it,” said Otto. “Wonder if I could do that again.” “Let me try,” said Silas, doubled over with laughter. He stumbled over and picked Zippy up, then draped the little dog over his outstretched foot and kicked, but Zippy slid off to one side. He ran under the gangway, wedging himself under the lower end, then peered out at the two men, eyes darting, black and shiny as used motor oil. “You haven’t got the technique.” Otto knelt, grabbed Zippy by a hind leg, and pulled. Zippy yelped, his front claws scraping parallel lines on the slimy surface. “Here’s what you got to do.” He dropkicked Zippy like a football to Silas who lunged to catch the dog, but then slipped and in an elaborate, slow-motion cartwheel, fell. Right on top of Zippy. This time, Otto laughed, grabbed his shaking belly, and pointed at Silas. “You bozo!” Silas rolled off the dog, poked at the still body, and picked him up. “Fuck, man. He’s not dead, but he’s pretty bad. Look at his back end.” Zippy’s front legs jerked feebly, but his back legs were limp. His back twisted at an unnatural angle. Otto stared at the dog. “Now you’ve gone and done it. What are we going to do?” “What’re we going to do? You did it, you asshole. What are you going to do?” “He’s as good as dead. Back broke for sure.” Otto stepped back as far as he could from Silas and the pup. Silas picked up the dog and shook him. The back legs flopped. Zippy yelped, then howled. “We got to do something. What we going to do?” Silas followed Otto to the edge of the float, pushed the dog towards Otto with both hands. “He’s hurting, man. What we going to do?” Otto’s arms hung at his sides. He stared at the little dog who was now trembling and wheezing. “Ain’t but one thing to do,” he said. He reached for the pup, grabbed the head in one hand and the body in another, and gave a quick twist in opposite directions. 17 2021 SRR.indd 23

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Silas dropped the dog onto the float. “Goddamn, now you’ve gone and done it,” he nearly screamed. “Shut up, you jerk, shut up!” Otto hissed, then glanced up to the dock above. “What are we going to do? What? We’re in deep shit for sure. Goddamn, goddamn.” Silas paced in circles around the little dog’s body. “I’m thinking.” Otto pulled out an empty lobster crate and flipped open the lid. “Put him in.” “What? No way.” Silas stared at Otto. “I’m not touching that fleabag.” Otto grabbed Silas by the arm, twisted it hard, and dragged Silas towards the dog. “Pick up the damned dog.” “Uh uh. No fucking way.” Silas wrenched away, looked at the dog and retched, then vomited and covered his own feet with puke. Otto scanned the float, then Silas up and down. “Give me my shirt.” Silas stared at Otto, wiped his mouth on the sleeve, and then pulled it off. Otto threw the Patriots jersey over the dog, then rolled the pile into a tight bundle and stowed it in the crate. He snatched the end of a coil of rope and tied it to the box’s handle, then shoved it into the water where it joined a raft of identical floating crates, all full of lobsters waiting for the truck to the Boston fish market. Otto tugged the box to the far edge of the float under the gangway and tied it off to a cleat. “Ev’s going off-island later. Once he’s left, we’ll take the crate out in the harbor and sink it.” Silas stared up the ramp. “Jesus God.” “Hey!” Ev yelled over the railing. He’d changed from his work clothes into clean jeans, a white polo shirt, and a gray corduroy blazer. He’d shaved. He’d combed his hair. “You assholes seen Zippy?” “Nope,” said Otto as he shoved heavy crates. The fishermen were coming in from the day’s haul, and the loaded boxes were piling up. “Was here a couple of hours ago but ain’t seen him lately.” Silas skulked to the far side of the float, under the gangway. The crate with Zippy inside was still there, bobbing in the wake of the boats. “Now, where’s Zip off to? Not like him.” Up on the dock, Ev checked behind the stacked traps and empty bait barrels. Maybe 18 2021 SRR.indd 24

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Victoria Stewart

Wasps Summer is drawing to a close. Without the warmer weather, there is no pollen. Wasps are dying. Growling and angry. Headbanging at the kitchen window for days. They have stopped. I see three dead on the back steps. Perhaps they are all dead. Death comes to everyone and everything. They said you died of pneumonia. When you died, did you surrender? Or did you fight to the last breath? I don’t know, because I wasn’t there.

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nobscot River, almost to Orono and the Collins Center. The lights dimmed in the theater, with Ev and Myrna in the fifth row, center. When the curtain rose on the Marschallin and Octavian rolling around on a sumptuous bed the size of a four-masted schooner, Ev couldn’t take his eyes off Myrna, who couldn’t take her eyes off the two figures reclined on a towering stack of pillows. “Is that two women?” Myrna asked Ev in too a loud a whisper. The man seated in front of them turned and glared, a finger to his lips. Otto and Silas didn’t know that the District Attorney for Hancock County owned shorefront property on the Bay and that his wife walked the rocky beach nearly every day. But she knew a lobster crate when she saw one and called her husband to help haul it to shore. They thought they might have hit the seafood jackpot, enough lobsters for one hell of a party.

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out from the back row, “Dr. Williams, what’s your first name?” They asked because Dr. Lennon didn’t hide hers. Dr. Williams would stand up, lean a little on his cane, and adjust his narrow glasses before resting the cane atop his desk. He’d clear his throat and maintain eye contact with some bright, eager, and unfortunate student in the front row. He always gave the same answer. “Class. That is DR. Williams to you. Thank you.” He’d pause, emotionless, “Anything beyond that is irrelevant to your success in this course. Anything else is insubordination and will count against your grade. Understood?” Nobody said a word. “Good. Then, let us begin. Dr. Lennon, if you please,” Dr. Williams would calmly say as he reversed the exact movements he took to address the interruption. This fall, Dr. Williams taught a full course of Rhetoric and Argumentation—R&A as the kids know it. In that class were two of the closest friends anybody could remember seeing on campus, Alex and Pat. Alex’s agreeable, easy-going, and easily influenced nature balanced well against Pat’s self-certain, almost extroverted ways. These two non-traditional students in their mid-twenties formed a rock-solid friendship when they met contesting parking tickets because the university was striping the commuter lot. Their tickets were waived by the way. Dr. Williams’ R&A was the only course Pat and Alex shared, so they regularly stopped for coffee before the 4 p.m. class. On the first day, coffees in hand, they could be seen talking as they walked through the quads to class. “Say, Alex, what do you know about our R&A class?” “I heard it’s supposed to be dryer than Vegas, but it’s required. Why?” Responded Alex ambivalently. “Should I know something?” “I heard dry. I heard Williams is tough too. Like, the guy doesn’t cut any breaks—ever.” Replied Pat with wide brown eyes and a look of concern. “Relax, he’s super old. They all used to be like that. I bet he’s mellowed out.” Reassured Alex with a thin smile as they approached the building. “Yo, I don’t think you understand. I know this girl who dropped it because of him. He might be bad news. I heard students leave his courses drained. Like, sucked dry. It’s almost like he takes the fun out of it.” “Pat, whoever said R&A was fun? Are you nerding out and not 24 30 2021 SRR.indd 30

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telling me?” “No, no. it’s just some junk I heard in the bookstore, probably nothing right?” “Right.” Said Alex holding the door open. “Now, let’s go bore ourselves, shall we?” “Thank you, thank you.” Said Pat entering the building and motioning Alex to follow. Unfortunately, most of it was true. The class bored students terribly. One student fell asleep the first week only to have Dr. Williams drop a 10-pound dictionary on their desk. It only happened once. The boredom continued, regardless of how Pat or Alex approached it. But it wasn’t all terrible. Just do the work without complaining, like Dr. Williams said, and they’d be fine. An approach Alex accepted and Pat disapproved of. Students across Isaacson lost their glow as the weeks passed. They settled into studying and started to order more pizza, which was good news for the nearby pizzeria. Dr. Williams’ R&A students became increasingly agreeable and started following his instructions with fewer questions. Dr. Williams even paid a rare compliment, calling Alex’s work, “interesting, and encouraging.” Then came midterms. Dr. Williams didn’t consider effort as evidence of learning, He required a 20-page research paper due in a week. Pat turned to Alex at the end of that class, “At least it’s not what he gave last semester. I heard his midterm asked one question: ‘Why?’ You know what those kids did?” “What’d they do?” Asked Alex with cat-like curiosity. “They wrote so many pages. One guy wrote over 30! For a midterm? With one question? And you know what the right answer was?” “What was the answer?” “The answer was, ‘Why not?’ Like what the even hell? How’s he going to do them like that? Damn. So, this, this craziness, I’m cool with this.” Replied Pat. “Me too. I don’t like it but let’s just go with it,” said Alex as they left the classroom. Over the next week, the students turned in various versions of Dr. Williams’ assignment. Grades were promised within two days. Pat, glad to be done with the assignment, headed to the café for a coffee before that Thursday’s class. 31

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Nathan Richardson

Keeping Things To Yourself Every year since 1690 when Isaacson University first opened, the start of the fall semester signaled the end of summer. Summer wasn’t technically over but, the freewheeling, fun-loving part of summer was over. The change in season meant Isaacson students returned to finish degrees and start careers or prepare for medical school. Either way, the students were welcomed by the granite and brick campus that lay quietly waiting in the late August sun like a child’s favorite forgotten toy. The students’ return, and the return of the faculty, created a flurry of activity on campus. Once empty parking lots were once again filled with a sea of cars: of odd, rusty shapes belonging to graduate students and adjunct professors. The beginning of the fall semester meant that Ike—the school’s widely-adored, seven-foot tall, bright orange and furry, yet birdlike, mascot—was also seen on campus. Ike gave high fives, posed for photos, and occasionally carried books for students. All of this, and more, amid the tightly manicured lawns and small dogwood trees that would blossom joyously in the spring. Like any university, Isaacson’s first week included students and professors alike re-adjusting to college schedules. A former naval officer turned history professor lamented the change in one of the lounges, “It’s all about getting your sea legs back.” She’d laugh. Other professors agreed, over coffee or chai, or while snacking on cut fruit. Among the group, quietly standing against the wall with a glass of water was the reserved, yet influential, Dr. Williams.

Dr. Williams taught what he pleased. He’d been with the university longer than anyone could remember. Officially, he taught English, rhetoric, and logic, the latter was taught with Dr. Rose Lennon, an Isaacson post-doctoral fellow for Statistical Deep Machine Learning. That course always prompted a student to yell 23 2021 SRR.indd 29

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Pat. “Good questions. Good work. Good evening to you.” As the door opened, Pat noticed an old-timey, sepia-toned picture in a steely frame on the desk of two young professors: one was a young man resembling Dr. Williams. “Is that your son, Doctor?” asked Pat “Who? Oh, that picture. No, no. It’s not.” Dr. Williams smiled, possibly for the first time, with just the corners of his mouth. “That’s me when I first started teaching here a long time ago.” “Cool. Who’s the other person?” inquired Pat. “None of your concern. Thank you.” He snapped, turning the picture face down. Pat then noticed the date on the back of the image: October 3, 1845. Pat’s confusion turned to shock. Horror overthrew Pat’s face as fear twisted it into a knot. Pat’s mouth hung barely open, terrified, unable to make words. Dr. Williams looked puzzled, almost concerned. Then he looked to see the photograph face down on his desk and made the connection. He turned back to Pat as the puzzled look of a feeble old man morphed into the fury of 20 rage-blinded warriors. Pat dropped everything and ran. Running as fast as possible, Pat cut through the empty quads. Nobody was around to help. Through the trees and over bushes, nobody saw Pat running. Once, Pat looked back, expecting Dracula or another horror movie monster lunging, chasing, howling, on all fours, but saw nothing—just the blackness of night and a blue campus security light. Pat passed a few light posts. They showed nothing, but Pat thought stopping meant dying. Across the quads was the library. Its large, heavy mahogany doors were never locked, and Pat knew it was a safe refuge. Pat’s feet skipped over the granite steps up to the door as pat lunged for the iron door handle. Once inside, Pat’s eyes adjusted to the immersive warm-yellow glow of the library. It was like a mausoleum: with high ceilings, stone arches, and dark wood bookshelves—a crypt for knowledge. Pat cried out. “Help! I need help. Is anyone in here?!” Out of sight, a voice replied, “Help with what exactly, child? And at this hour? Forget to study for an exam?” “Who are you? I’m being chased! You need to call the police!” Cried Pat, frozen in place. “I’m the Librarian, my child. Come to the desk, my voice carries in here. I saw you come in on the security camera,” replied the 33

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Librarian calmly and affectionately. “Now, come over here and tell me what happened.” Pat walked over and saw a small librarian seated at the large, round, walnut desk. They were perhaps five feet tall, perched on a stool like an exotic bird, with long, bare, slender arms crossed against their narrow chest. Pat relaxed a bit and felt safe. “Listen…” Pat started, not knowing if the story was believable, “it’s about Dr. Williams. He’s old. Like 200 years old. And I think he’s chasing me.” “Child, please. I assure you, Dr. Williams is not chasing you. He’s getting too damn old to chase anything,” responded the Librarian leaning forward, resting those slender arms on the desk. “Grab that stool behind you and have a seat,” the librarian directed Pat. “Sit down child. I’ve known Dr. Henry Williams a long, long time. And let me tell you, Henry is not chasing you. But, you should know some things before we involve the police. Okay?” “Alright, I guess,” said Pat reluctantly sitting down. Over the next 30 minutes, the librarian gave Pat a brief history of The Organization. Pat learned that Dr. Williams, the Librarian, and Dr. Lennon were all members. “So, The Organization has been around since 1600?” Asked a confused Pat. “Yes, before the Witch Trials, though we barely survived that episode,” said the Librarian. “So, you’re witches?” Pat asked, as though uncovering the core of the truth. “Not quite…” Said the Librarian impatiently, “we’re Keepers. We’re all tasked with keeping something. For me, it’s knowledge. Dr. Williams is supposed to keep logic. And so on.” The Librarian continued to explain that Keepers held powers and didn’t age like normal people. They stopped, opened a drawer, and took out a small oil painting of the first class at Isaacson. In the painting was the Librarian and Dr. Williams. “Wow, you look so young,” said Pat while studying the painting. “Easy child, I appreciate the compliment, but you’re getting close to implying that I look old. And immortality doesn’t mean I’m oblivious about my looks,” scoffed the Librarian. “Sorry,” said Pat, “did you say immortality?” “Apology accepted,” replied the librarian with a coy grin. “Yes, 28 34 2021 SRR.indd 34

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child, I said immortality. Keepers are immortal if left alone. We can be killed just like you, but—and this is important—we can’t kill one another.” Pat was dumbstruck. “What does all this mean for Dr. Williams?” Pat asked. “You see child, Henry had a lover, another Keeper. They were darling together, almost quaint. But the locals didn’t approve. They tried to split those two up. And it looked like they’d be exposed, and probably hanged. So, they fled. But Henry ran here to Isaacson, without his lover.” The Librarian explained. “Holy damn. Then what?” Pat was awestruck; Dr. Williams in love seemed impossible. “Henry’s lover was furious. Henry, out of fear, chose work. So, his lover cursed him. Tied his life to this university. Without this place Henry would’ve died already. It’s sort of sad really.” “So that explains why Williams loves himself and his job, but what about Alex?” Asked Pat with less confusion, “Why’s Alex dead inside?” The librarian explained that Keepers keep souls to maintain their own lives and power. “You see child, it’s like physics; energy isn’t made or destroyed, just transferred. It’s thermodynamics baby, but with souls,” said the Librarian with a look of excitement. Pat learned that Dr. Williams used assignments to lure a student before taking their soul. It created a connection between them because Keepers needed to make a connection before they could take a soul. And, fortunately for Dr. Williams, Dr. Lennon’s work with artificial intelligence made it easier to cover up afterwards. “Lately,” said the librarian, “I’ve preferred to used vegetables. They’re plentiful, they don’t scream as much, and there’s no blood. Good lord child! Do you know how hard it is to get blood out of silk?” asked the librarian not waiting for an answer. “Instead, I’ve switched to brussels sprouts. Turns out you can still serve them to guests afterwards.” The librarian paused and smiled softly. “Never mind all that. You want to help your friend, right?” “Right. And not lose my own soul.” Pat said confidently. “Good. Now listen close. Like I said, we can’t kill one another, but that doesn’t mean we don’t occasionally want somebody dead. The Organization feels Henry’s suffered enough.” 35

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“What’s that got to do with saving Alex?” asked Pat. “Patience child. Keepers need a place to keep things, so we all have a crystal. It’s tied to our energies. Find Henry’s and destroy it and you’ll free him and your friend.” “It’s that simple? Why are you helping me?” asked Pat, rising from the stool. “Child, yes it’s that simple. And, you asked for help; it’s part of being a librarian,” reaffirmed the Librarian. “Now go. Go get on with it.” Pat rushed back to Dr. Williams office. The door was open and the light was on, but there was no sign of Dr. Williams. Pat began wildly tearing through everything in the office. Then, in a blizzard of papers, Pat stopped. In the bottom of a drawer lay Dr. Williams crystal. It glowed softly and inviting, pulsing through the colors of the rainbow. Pat lifted it up to admire it and saw that Dr. Williams had returned. Standing in the doorway, as calm and stoic as ever, Dr. Williams addressed Pat. “So, I gather, like a fool, you’ve spoken with the Librarian?” Asked a hostile Dr. Williams, “Which also means you must know of The Organization now too?” “Yes, yes I have. Turns out you can learn a lot outside of the classroom,” replied Pat feeling a touch empowered. “Nonsense. You fool! You clown! Stop this tomfoolery at once. You are meddling with things far beyond your comprehension,” Commanded an angry Dr. Williams. “You’d be wise to set down the crystal and leave! Immediately. Forget everything you heard and continue your studies before you meet a worse end than your compatriot. If you leave now, Alex, void of any former individuality, will go on to graduate Isaacson with honors and find great financial success working tirelessly for a soulless company. A superficial, hollow, and long marriage fraught with children, doting relatives, and aesthetically pleasing companions awaits Alex. The stuff you children only dream of. It’s all at Alex’s feet. Don’t be foolish.” Dr. Williams’ address continued. “Pat, this is what Keepers must do. We must keep the outliers, the renegades, away. We protect you people from one another by supplanting dreams with pragmatism. Do the right thing, Pat. Do the right thing.” “With all due respect sir, that’s nothing like what the librarian said,” replied Pat, looking at the crystal. “Sorry, but I can’t give you 30 2021 SRR.indd 36

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this.” With that, Dr. Williams lunged at Pat. With surprising speed and strength, he grabbed Pat by the wrist with one hand and by the throat with the other. Pat gasped for air. Dr. Williams tightened his grip. Their collision sent Pat smashing into the bookcase against the back wall. Pat kicked and flailed, desperate to get free. It was useless. He was astonishingly strong. Pat struggled with consciousness. Dr. Williams continued bashing Pat against the wall and knocked several Bronze awards loose. Their falling distracted Dr. Williams long enough for Pat to land one punch to his left ear. Dr. Williams dropped Pat. Pat threw down the crystal. It pulsed bright blue and broke in half as it hit the floor. The room fell silent. Pat and Dr. Williams stared at each other. Then the deafening swell of thousands of lost voices screamed through the room as a wind blew papers off the desk and shattered Dr. Williams’ picture frames. Dr. Williams’ face went blank and the color left it. He fell to his knees, looked up at Pat and whispered, “all I wanted was love.” He looked away, his face increasingly drawn and deeply wrinkled. The skin beneath his bloodshot eyes sagged, exposing the bottoms of the sockets. “We were lovers, but the laws of man forced us apart. We should have lived together, but men and their fearful notions interfered.” A sickly Dr. Williams turned back to Pat for the last time. “Pat, it’s only about love. It always has been.” Dr. Williams’ fell face down for the last time. His body dissolved into the floor. The wind stopped. The last lightbulb in the office burst. Pat stood astonished in the darkness. Pat spent Wednesday in bed out of sheer exhaustion. Nobody questioned it. On Thursday, Pat went to the café and found Alex waiting with the Librarian, chatting enthusiastically. “Hey Alex, how are you?” “Hey Pat, I’m great. I got an amazing night’s sleep last night. It’s like I’m 110% me,” said Alex with a freshness. “And, the librarian just gave me a killer recipe for stir fry. Did you know you can stir fry brussels sprouts?” “I didn’t. Glad you’re well,” said Pat. “You’ll never believe what happened after R&A on Tuesday, we should talk.” “No worries, Pat. Great news—I just heard Dr. Williams is gone. Cool, right?” asked Alex joyfully. “The librarian is teaching the 31 2021 SRR.indd 37

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rest of the semester.” “Really?” asked Pat, turning to the librarian. “Yes, child, tis true. The administration asked me to take over after Dr. Williams’ unexpected…absence,” replied the Librarian calmly. “Yeah, it’s great,” cut in Alex, “the Librarian belongs to this professional group and they’re recruiting new members—we’re candidates, who knew?” “Yes child, we’ve plenty to keep up with, don’t we? I’m off. I’ll see you both in class. Be well.” The Librarian smiled gently and turned away. Pat and Alex looked at each other confused; a flowing floral robe obscured the Librarian’s feet as they glided through the café. The two friends could’ve sworn the Librarian floated out effortlessly. Nobody else noticed. They were probably busy trying to keep some things to themselves.

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Richard Dinges Jr.

Calendars Is it Wednesday? Calendars mean less these days, black and white numbered grid below a picture of a cat. I watch sun rise later and set earlier. Daylight shortens work hours that ignore clocks. My trees and pond and broad spans of grass follow seasons, and even they seem confused by hot and wet and cold. They ask only if it is autumn yet and will spring return in time.

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Bob Chikos

Tearpath Ever try to avoid someone? If you’re an introvert like me, you call businesses after hours to leave a message so you don’t have to talk to a person. Or if someone asks if you know The Lord, you might reach into the recesses of your memory and say, “Ich spreche kein Englisch.” For me, it was an 11-year-old boy on my college campus. I had planned to become a history teacher. History was the first subject that I both loved and excelled at. I figured there were only so many jobs as a museum curator or a documentarian, so teaching would be a good gig for me. An Illinoisan, I attended college in Tennessee. In the semester prior to student teaching, I took a class that had a requirement to serve as a mentor at University School, a K-12 school on our campus, in which, to enroll, students had to be the child of a faculty member or win a spot through a lottery. My assignment was Zack. At midafternoon on a Tuesday in late January, with the sun quickly sinking in the west, and with a slip of paper in my hand indicating room 213, I walked to the octogenarian brick building. Before I could open the door, students burst out, running to their parents’ minivans or off to play with their friends. I walked in and climbed up a stairwell, which smelled of dust, industrial strength cleaner, and sack lunches, to the dim second-floor hallway and to room 213. I leaned my body halfway in the open doorway and saw a woman, presumably 41

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the teacher. I guessed her to be in her 70s, although I knew of no teachers who worked that long. She had gray hair in a bob cut, a gratuitous layer of rouge, and a gray blazer with a yellow crocheted Christian cross brooch. She spoke to a 30-somethingish woman, perhapsan aide. In desks sat a handful of sixth-grade kids, likely staying after to finish work or just to hang out until an after-school activity began. The older woman noticed me. “Can I help you?” “Hi, I’m here for the mentorship program.” Her face lit up as she let out a small gasp and turned to the other woman. “Excuse me for a moment.” She approached me with her hand extended, “We’re SO happy to have you here!” I reached out to shake but instead, she grabbed my four fingers over the top of my hand. Not being from The South, I thought it may have been a Southern etiquette thing. Her hand was cold and knotty. “I’m Betty Jean.” “Nice to meet you. I’m Bob.” She led me to the back of the room. Trailing her, I could smell baby powder and a touch of Bengay. “Bob, this is Zack,” she said, motioning to a boy sitting at a desk. Chubby, wearing a shirt at least one size too small, and hugging his backpack on his desk, Zack reminded me of myself at that age. Zack’s raised his eyes to the general area of my belt buckle. “Hi.” He even acted like I did at that age. “I thought today you two could just spend some time to get to know each other a bit,” Betty Jean said. “There’ll be plenty of time to work on missing assignments next time.” As I sat at a desk next to Zack, Betty Jean left us, then went back to her desk at the front and continued her conversation with the other woman. “So, what do you like to do?” I asked Zack. He shrugged. “I like hockey” “To watch or play?” “Watch.” “Really? There aren’t any teams around here,” I said, being Mr. Know-it-All.

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Paul Bluestein

New Year Fifteen minutes to midnight. December thirty-first. The wooden box on the table beside my chair holds the year’s hurts, saved for just this moment. The stupid angry email I sent to my best friend. The pink slip from Mr. Jameson. A last birthday card from my father. As the ball in Times Square slides toward a new year, I lay my sad paper corpses, one by one, in a chipped bowl, strike a match and watch them burn, then gather the ashes in my palms, wringing my hands until the skin is gritty and stained by memories that cut like broken glass. With Auld Lang Syne ringing in my ears, I stand at the kitchen sink, scrubbing my hands, trying to wash off the past and begin the new year as fresh and clean as the snow falling outside my window.

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at a thread on his backpack. “My mom wanted me to go here. It’s a good school, but everyone else here is smarter than I am.” I lowered my voice. “Grades and intelligence are two different things.” I could see he wasn’t buying it, but he ventured a peek at me, willing to hear more. “Bob,” Betty Jean hollered, drawing out the vowel in my name, as she shifted the cough drop in her mouth. Zack closed his eyes, bracing for another insult. “When you come next time, I have a list of assignments he’s missing. I’ve spoken to his mother about helping him with them but she never does. I don’t know if she doesn’t know how to help or if she’s just not willing, but it never gets done.” He stared past Betty Jean, pursed his lips and breathed in short, sharp bursts. Underneath the baby fat, his chin tightened and a single tear ran down his cheek, paused on his jawline, then dropped to the wooden floor below. He whispered, “My mom’s not really as-” His voice cracked and he regrouped. “-as bad as she makes her sound.” He balled his fist and held it to his mouth. I turned his shoulder to face me and said, “Hey, your mom is doing everything she can to give you a better life. This teacher? The only reason she hasn’t retired is because she feels powerful bossing around 11-year-olds. You’ll never need to know how to diagram a sentence. You’ll rarely use algebra, if ever. Assignments do not prepare you for the ‘real world,’ and bullying does not ‘build character’. Play their game for six-and-a-half more years until you graduate. Then you’ll see the ‘real world’ is nothing like what they said it’d be.” Actually, I said nothing of the sort. Instead, I gave him a bland platitude about working hard. For the rest of the session we discussed sports. I liked the Bears; he liked the Panthers. We both hated the Cowboys. By 4:10, the hour was up. “I’ll see you next week,” I said. His eyes were tinged red, but dry. “Yeah. See you then,” he grinned. ~

In the meantime, I had another concern. I was concurrently

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enrolled in another education class that required me to intern in a school. Although the majority of students in my class had a car, I did not. I spoke with my professor, “Could I be placed either at University School or another school within walking distance?” “You’ll go where you’re placed. A lot of our students wish to be placed at University School.” “But most students have a car. I just need something within walking distance.” “Part of college is overcoming obstacles. If you want it bad enough, you’ll find a way to make it happen.” When I received my placement, it was for a middle school nearly ten miles away in the country. I had two options: I could go into debt to buy a car or I could finish my degree in history without a certification. I dropped education. But what to do about Zack? Since I was no longer enrolled in the class, I didn’t have to mentor any longer and I found the situation to be depressing. I missed the next week’s appointment. Betty Jean didn’t call to follow up. Another week went by. I guessed I was off the hook. In mid-February, we’d had a mild weather streak. Highs in the 60s, it was downright balmy for a Midwestern boy like me. I walked across campus to soak up some rays. As I approached University School, I saw him chase a classmate. He wore a tuxedo T-shirt that exposed his lower belly, held his jacket in one hand and dragged his backpack with the other. He appeared happy. To the uninformed mind, he didn’t have a care in the world. He didn’t have a mom who was shunned. He didn’t have a disdainful teacher. He didn’t have a problem fitting in. But he did. I froze, hoping he hadn’t seen me. At the very least, I should have told him I had dropped my class. Instead, I pivoted around and walked back to my dorm, ducking my head in both hiding and in cowardice. From that day forward, I kept to my side of the cam45

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pus, but every Tuesday at 3pm when I heard University School’s bell ring in the distance, I imagined Zack sitting at his desk, under Betty Jean’s watchful eye, waiting for me to show. I don’t know why I was so intimidated by an 11-year-old boy. I suppose I was ashamed that I couldn’t stand up to my own Betty Jean, let alone his.

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Lauro Palomba

Ghost Writer authoring speeches he won’t deliver grooming words he’ll soon disown selling arguments he doesn’t buy vouching sentiments he hasn’t felt trials he hasn’t suffered deriding opponents he’s never fought trumpeting causes he’s oft bypassed rousing supporters he’s never met proposing fixes that make him snort pledging oaths while swearing nays inciting applause where he can’t bow wooing poohbahs from his humble nook garnering bouquets impossible to water amassing fame he cannot hoard he deposits the checks gathers the commissions sharpens Sincere for another draft

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Cynthia Gallaher

Spirals of Staircase Time does time and space move, neither on linear planes, nor with beginnings, middles, ends, but in spirals, neither calendar circles, astronaut orbits, nor crisscross diagonals? a reeling array of spiral staircases, beyond case and landing norms of getting from one floor to another, spirals that may lead up to Statue of Liberty crowns, or twirl like metal rotini through years I forget and days I remember. I ascend spiral steps of lighthouses and windmills, unwind the upward in a whirlpool of my own footfalls, losing count which never fails to take me by surprise when I find myself at some right-angle destination. like entering a movie theater in daylight only to exit after the film ends, discover it’s night, among grid-pattern streets again begging the question of what the spiral starry evening next holds. 47

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Julia Morris Paul

Cycles Blue Moon Twice this month to detox. Twice he walks away. Twice a second chance. Supermoon Obsession. Compulsion. Obsession. Compulsion. Obsession. Compulsion. Harvest Moon Fastrack bus to Hartford. The cravings consume him. The feast at the altar waits. Blood Moon The needle can no longer find a proper vein. A bloody mess when he shoots up. Wolf Moon He paces like an animal. Tears at scabs on his hands. Turns off the light he can no longer bear.

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Gus Peterson

Remodeling For ten years we cooked ourselves into this place, its linoleum warm with steps, the air spiced by possibility, and now as wallpaper rips and the cabinets collapse in a billow of white I think of our friends, up so late into the morning, explaining why a family sometimes remodels itself smaller but never less, how after they will pack up his bowl, the water dish so lovingly, the way I lowered our life into boxes— your grandmother’s china, my coffee mug, a forgotten pepper mill— the wiring exposed and raw, how we go on working and sleeping and eating until the day you sense the floor is level again, and you will sit in something new you’ve built for yourself, and remember.

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Lainy Carslaw

The Cost Of Forgiveness We pulled up next to the curb and came to a stop. “Stay in the car,” I said to my kids and my husband. This was going to be quick. We had a fair to get to. The giant homes in my parents’ suburban neighborhood looked peaceful on this beautiful summer afternoon. My father was standing on the edge of his porch in between two white pillars, as if he were waiting for me. My sister must have told him I was coming. I walked through the yard, toward the house, smelling the freshly mowed grass and knew I was in trouble (my dad mowed when he was stressed). Most days my father would have greeted me with a smile or a hug, emitting love and warmth, but not today. Today he had a scowl on his face, his large stature almost threatening. His eyes were either squinting from the sun or in an intense effort to prevent his head from exploding. In the rare times my father was angry, he wasn’t a storm; he was a hurricane. I took a deep breath and walked right into it. It had been seven years since my brother Ben worked alongside us in at our family’s gymnastics school. Seven years since we had to fire him due to his alcohol abuse. Seven years since we sent him from Pittsburgh to Texas to stay with our oldest sibling, the only red ball to have successfully broken free of that relentless wooden paddle otherwise known as a family business. Needless to say, our oldest brother’s efforts to get Ben into rehab only failed— just like every attempt made by my parents over the last eight years. Over that time, Ben had gotten himself arrested, fired, hospitalized, and fired again. Each time the phone rang, we 53

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all held our breath, wondering if this would be the call to tell us he had finally made his last mistake. This time, he was not dead, he had broken his leg jumping over a fence while running from the police. My parents had flown out to Oregon several times over the years to bail him out of whatever hole he had found himself in, but this time, my mother decided it was time to finally bring him home. She would bring him home and she would fix him herself. In his beat-up Subaru Outback, with his three-legged dog and no air conditioning, my sixty-eight year old mother drove her thirty-six year old son across the country from Oregon to Pittsburgh. During those four sweltering summer days, he managed to get himself sober which apparently was qualification enough for my mother to re-hire him. Rumor had it, Ben was coming back to work. My dad came down the porch steps to meet me. “He can’t come back to work,” I blurted out. “Who says?” “I do. These are children we are talking about here. He’s just not ready.” And then my father did something he had never done before. Not in my entire thirty-four years of life. He stuck his finger in my face and then poked it into my sternum where I could feel his judgement and his rage digging into my bone. “And who,” he seethed, “made you queen of all decisions?” Pain settled into me. I was shaking but determined not to cry. In a way, I had become the queen of decisions, but that had not been a choice. After Ben had been fired from our gymnastics school, I had to take over several roles I had never asked for and never wanted. At only twenty-two years old, it was me who had to tell a large mob of angry parents why we had to fire my brother because my mother couldn’t, and my brother wouldn’t. Those parents loved Ben. Their kids loved Ben, and although they ultimately came to trust that we did the right thing, on that day, no one wanted to hear what I had to say. “How could you?” one mother asked. “He’s your own brother.” My mother ran the gymnastics school from the quiet of her home office, but I was the one on the ground, in the gym, communicating with the customers and coaching the kids. Me, my 48

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sister, and my brother Alex were her staff and none of us wanted Ben coming back to work. It may have been the first thing we ever agreed on. I ripped his finger from my chest. “You did, Dad!” I snapped back. “And you should be thanking me for that.” Then I walked right through that obnoxiously short grass toward my car that my husband was leaning against and my kids were still sitting in—their faces pressed to the closed windows in the back trying to make out what was happening. I was so close to getting in that car, so close to pulling away and ending what was already the most volatile fight I had ever engaged in with my father. But I didn’t. I was furious. I had felt bad for my parents at first. Sorry for them, even. I knew this was hard for them and could only imagine what it would be like to live with the constant weight around your shoulders that was your own son. But wasn’t I their daughter, too? I turned around, glared at him with all the fire I could muster, and called across the lawn, “I don’t know who I’m madder at: the idiot who thinks it’s a good idea for Ben to come back to work, or the supposedly sober ones who gave him the idea in the first place.” That may not have been a good move. “How dare you!” My dad yelled coming toward me. I flinched, just a little, almost daring him to hit me. His face turned a violent red, the same color I knew mine already was. I was his daughter, and a fire was raging through me. My husband jumped in and stepped between us. “Now wait a minute,” he shouted, lifting his arms up to form a wall between us, “This affects all of us.” My husband worked in the business, too. And my kids trained there. No one was spared. “Yeah,” my dad defended sarcastically. “And most of all it affects Ben, so why don’t you just think about him for a minute?” Was he serious? For a minute? 60 seconds? A fraction of a day? How about the last ten years? How about in every conversation I had with my parents over the last decade? How about all the times I had to worry if he would show up to work drunk or not show up at all? I remembered how hard it was to fire Ben the first time. How we wanted it to be simple and easy—like pulling one end of a shoelace to make the whole knot unravel. We argued about it, we cried 55

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Gus Peterson

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cry may just be another way of having a finger jabbed into your chest. “Okay,” Ben said. “It’s okay.” But it wasn’t. None of this was. That is all I kept thinking about as we turned onto the highway, my forehead pressed up against the window watching the gray pavement speed past in a blur: that nothing was ever going to be okay again. My husband turned the radio up so my kids wouldn’t have to listen to me sob. Fifteen minutes later, we were at a fair and I felt I had been transported from another world. We pulled into a grass parking space at the peak of the afternoon. The summer heat was ablaze and by the time we made it to the entrance gate all of us were already sweating. Welcome to the Big Butler Fair the banner above us read. I hadn’t been there since I was a kid. When we were young, Ben and I would come every year with my grandfather, my father’s dad. Our two older brothers were in high school by then and had grown beyond rides and games and my little sister hadn’t even been born. I remembered petting baby bunnies and thinking for sure my grandfather would someday surprise me by letting me take one home. I remembered the smell of the tobacco in his cheek; his electric white hair that slicked back against this head; that hair and his huge belly always reminded me of Santa Clause. It was hard to find a man jollier than Grandpa Jewart, or my father. I loved this fair and this special time with my grandfather and my brother. But after what happened the last time I was there, I remember never wanting to go back. I had finally become tall and brave enough to attempt the black ride with giant spider legs. Ben and I climbed into our seat and pulled the bar down in front of us inside the spider’s feet. But as soon as those feet were inclined and spinning, we quickly realized that the bar wasn’t enough to keep me secure. I was so skinny. My hands were so sweaty. I screamed and I slipped but they wouldn’t stop the ride. As my neck slid closer and closer to the metal bar that was supposed to be around my waist, my brother locked his hands around my wrists. He was crying, too and I think in that moment, spinning around up in the air, lost to everything around us, we both felt sure I was going to die. Perhaps if Ben hadn’t been so strong, I would have. 57

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We had been best friends our entire childhood. That all Rowanafter Bagley changed college and we started working together at the gym, when Ben had stopped drinking to have fun and did it to survive. Maybe his drinking wouldn’tand have botheredilk me so much if I didn’t eer eeth lass have to work with him? If I didn’t have to see his hands shaking as he set the bars. The mistakes he began to make. The practices he began to miss. Then again, he was my brother, and more than anything I just wanted him to live. I wanted to see my parents get a good night sleep and the lines of worry vanish from the corners of their eyes. While me and my siblings thought that the best way to help Ben was to give him space where he could find his own way to recovery, my parents thought that meant bringing him closer, trying to control an uncontrollable situation that not even love could fix.

My kids now kicked through that same dust on the fairgrounds as we walked between rides they were too afraid to get on; past overpriced food I refused to buy; and finally to a seal show with real live seals which, to me, was the strangest thing I could have imagined at that moment. We climbed into the back row of the bleachers and watched these seals that could clap, stand on their hands, dive into their shallow pool, and balance balls on their noses. My kids laughed and cheered while I cried and they pretended not to notice. When it was over, they got three tries to climb up a wiggly ladder; three tries to shoot a basketball through a hoop; three tries to hit the dart on the balloon; three tries to get that bouncy ping-pong ball into the fish bowl, which my older son eventually did—twice. And just as the goldfish were handed to us in their plastic bags, the storm rolled in. Maybe the storm had given hints. Maybe the sky had darkened and the wind picked up. Maybe the air grew colder, but I hadn’t noticed any of it. The wind whipped the dirt onto our legs and into our eyes. The giant white tarps covering the tents waved angrily, threatening to rip off at any moment. The first drop fell, thick and heavy, and then came the downpour. My boys were screaming, “Run! Run!” We took off, visibility almost zero. Rain pelting our faces, drenching our clothes. My son’s shoe flew off, landing in a puddle a few yards ahead. I scooped him up and kept running. The electric lines swayed menac52 2021 SRR.indd 58

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ingly low above our heads. We practically dove into the car, slamming the doors behind us. No one said a word. Our heaving breath fogged up all the windows as the rain slammed down all around us like gunfire. When we got home, we transferred the fish from their plastic bags to their own matching glass bowls. We put our faces close, watch-ing them swim back and forth. Their little tails flit through the water. The sun coming through the window made their orange skin look almost gold. A fish in a bowl is not a bad metaphor for dealing with an alcoholic. Each direction you choose is like running into an invisible barrier, something you can’t see but know is there. Only Ben could find his way out of this, and until he did, the rest of us were trapped. We changed out of our wet clothes, and after my dinner was looked at but not touched, I grabbed a beer and joined my husband on our deck. We sat at our patio table in silence while our boys played on their jungle gym at the edge of the yard. Every few seconds, I would hear my husband inhale—one that might typically be followed by words, but none came. The sun had come back out just long enough to be seen going down. The boys were laughing, their blonde bangs and their wet butts jumping at the height of each swing. I sat frozen, feeling numb and depleted with the day running through my mind on instant replay over and over, until the visions suddenly got interrupted by the sound of the screen door sliding open behind me. I wasn’t sure who I was expecting, but it definitely wasn’t my dad. He walked towards us, pulling an empty patio seat across the wood, into our line of chairs, and lowered himself into it. He looked ten years older than he did before my mother had brought Ben home from Oregon only three days ago. He joined us in watching the boys across the lawn and I held my breath as he removed his glasses, set them on his lap, and began to speak. “Can you ever forgive me?” he asked, crying as the words came out. “You and your boys mean the world to me and I couldn’t live with myself if I lost you.” I barely paused before I answered. “Of course.” Sometimes this family felt like a vase that had been dropped one too many times. Between the alcoholism, and Ben, and the busi53 2021 SRR.indd 59

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about it, we couldn’t figure out the best way to do it and so that knot just kept getting tighter and tighter until we had to pry, dig with our nails and pull with our teeth to finally become free of it. But even after Alex told him he was fired we were always tied up in his mess. He would call for money. He would call crying or slurring at 3:00a.m. He would call to tell us how much he missed us or how much he absolutely hated us. “It’s not just me who feels this way, Dad,” I finalized. “We all do.” We all knew it was too early for Ben to come back to the gym. We didn’t feel like we were being selfish. We felt like we were being rational. Ben was a ticking time bomb, and my mother had brought him back here to explode. “You cowards!” My dad shook his head in disappointment. “His siblings don’t even have the guts to tell him the truth.” My anger morphed into sadness and tears flooded my eyes. Their love for Ben had rendered my parents blind, unable to see the rest of us for who we really were. Did my father seriously think I was a coward? That I was doing this because I was weak or unkind? I darted past him and into the house where Ben was standing in the kitchen. His hands were gripping a green Nalgene bottle. They were shaking. His face looked swollen and had a light-yellow tint. His brown eyes shaped just like mine, dark and round, were watery, like he had been crying or looking into a bright light. His hair had always been long, but now it was cut short, as if it were just one more thing he had been willing to give up. I noticed the cast covering his broken foot but was more startled by how skinny his legs were. They looked weak, almost ready to collapse under his thick frame. It was impossible not to feel sorry for him and for a moment, I too, wanted to give him a job, to give him anything he might need. It felt like the easier thing to do, but also the wrong thing to do. I looked straight into his eyes with tears rolling out of them and said, “Ben, we love you and we support you, but you can’t come back to work. Not yet.” I gasped for air before finishing. “Maybe someday but not now— you’re just not ready.” My mother was sitting silently at the kitchen table while I spoke. Her head was hung. Then she started to cry, and I cried even harder. Seeing your parents 50

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she will mount the tower of poles held together by lashes of stripped bark she will let her feet dangle like the promise of golden age as if it weren’t shattered and scattered like meteor across the apathetic landscape she will watch the stars earn their brilliance each one burning so fiercely trying to keep the end at bay her husband nears death but there is no medicine here no salve engineered for our inconvenience the age of ego is forgotten and fatigue weakens her grip on the tower this new invention that thrusts itself vainly into a field of laughing stars just as the beasts of the new world begin to howl

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Hibah Shabkhez

Do As You Are Told The Beginning: ‘Why can’t we play with the kids next door?’ ‘They’re not like us. Their kind will destroy our country!’ ‘But they seem really nice.’ ‘Do as you are told! Or else.’ Twenty Years Later - Ending 1 ‘Burn it down. Shoot the vermin if they try to resist.’ ‘No!’ ‘Do as you are told! Or else.’ ‘No.’ ‘You are charged with dereliction of duty and disobedience in the field -’ ‘We refused to kill innocent people!’ ‘That is no excuse. The order was inviolable and you knew it. Hang them!’ Twenty Years Later - Ending 2 ‘Burn it down. Shoot the vermin if they try to resist.’ ‘But -’ ‘Do as you are told! Or else.’ ‘Fine ...’ ‘You are charged with the slaughter of innocents and the destruction of property -’ ‘We did as we were told!’ ‘That is no excuse. The order was immoral and you knew it. Hang them!’ The End. 58 2021 SRR.indd 64

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Michael Woodruff

A Giant Among Us It ends daily, in the town of Angel Fire, where I live: a small ranching community in the northern region of New Mexico. The valley is littered with small box-like houses, playing cards that are connected by graveled roads that melt into the grasses, yellowed by winter. There are tall ponderosa pines whose barks smell of vanilla with thick scratchy trunks that climb up the side of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains--strong granite shoulders spotted with blankets of snow. Small wisps of smoke ascend into the crisp cerulean sky from the houses in the valley, and everything is peaceful. A shallow lake, frozen and textured blue and green, moss suspended in the ice, glistens in the sun. The lake sets to the side of the village. I like to sit just up the base of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains on a felled tree looking down at the village in the daytime when I’m not needed to do ranch work. I clean dirty, shit-filled hay out of barns, and I do other general labor: fix fences and chop wood and feed horses—whatever is needed. It doesn’t pay much, but it’s enough. It occupies my thoughts in the daytime. This is important because my thoughts do not always shuffle correctly in my head. Occasionally, cars fly by on the state highway. They make short stops at the Vietnam Veteran Memorial cradled on top a small hill. I watch the cars go in and out of the parking lot throughout the day; and my body tightens, heavy with exhaustion—the furies. I stand guilty as people exit their cars and lay their penance, sometimes silk flowers, before the small marble monument which lines the cement path. They are goodwill gestures for the blood crimes of the past: Greed plowed cities desolate Lusts ran snorting through the streets Pride reared up to desecrate Shrines and there were no retreats 59 2021 SRR.indd 65

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So man learned to shed the tears With which he measures out his years* In many ways the memorial accents the positive things in war, the friendships and the charity of soldiers--their interaction with the local people in the small villages. There are images of bravery and resolve, the faces of young optimistic and muscled men, displays of uniforms, leisure clothing in moments when the weight of war is lifted, and the exotic foods and foods eaten in the jungle—green cans filled with rations--field cuisine. Each room is filled with the technology of war and communications—the paraphernalia of all things Vietnam, including collections of the Vietnamese culture. But there is always the reminder of war, the bombardment of death, pain and loss, regret and remorse, chaos and confusion, all often different, all often part of the same thing: the taking apart of sexual dignity--our common link to humanity. People become rag dolls in a vicious battle for ownership, land that is worthless without the vivacity of human life. Bodies are ripped apart like mildewed rags. The land is drenched with the remnants of battle, burnt villages and scorch crops, forever lodged in the minds of those who experience it. But at night in Angel Fire, a community normally serene, God’s garden, not all is as it appears. And though our small community enjoys a beautiful night sky, filled with the density of stars, free of the miasma of city lights, there is a giant among us, and I am the only one who sees him. It starts with the shrill of the devil’s choir, vengeful women, hideous sirens, and their voices fill the valley. They shoot across the midnight sky like blue-gray wraiths, taunting and choosing my death. The giant emerges out of the blood in the soil, and he’s twice the size of the houses in the valley, he’s wearing torn clothing, built like stone, a juggernaut, and his face is covered with a beard as thick as bramble and hair like fanged snakes. I sit at the base of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, and I wait for him to come my way, and he does. He stomps through our small community knocking off the tops of houses, smashing his fist on the ground. He’s looking for those who have stained the land. He’s looking for me, and each night, I run from house to house hiding in the hopes that he doesn’t find me. He stands in the middle of the valley, sniffing the cold night air, and then looks my way. I’m terrified, speechless, and I drip with the fear of being found out. I slip off the base of the 60 2021 SRR.indd 66

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mountain and duck at the back of one of the empty houses. He rushes over to the house next to the one I am hiding behind. I freeze at the sound of his body as it shakes the earth. His feet create earthquakes that rattle our fragile town to its very foundation. And stone walls fall. The earth and the ice on the lake crack. He knocks off the top of the house next to where I am hiding, and it flies into the tall ponderosa trees splintering into a thousand shards. And while he’s sniffing through the house, I run, and I run…toward the sound of a helicopter chopping at the air-Put. Put. Put. Put. Bullets graze my fatigues. I think that I’ve been hit. I can hear the sound of laughter and Vietnamese chatter behind me, and the exchange of gunfire starts, going both ways. There are explosions that make the ground beneath my feet rumble, but I never turn back, not until I reach the next house. The community is always empty on these nights. I am alone and scared. Each night that I try to hide the giant chases me down until there are no more houses to hide behind, and I am alone, standing in the chaos and the destruction created, the clearing out of a village--razed. He sweeps away the carnage, the fan of his hand, and the debris piles up around me and he stares into my face; his eyes are murderous, a large foul wind comes from his mouth, the scent of lethal gas. It’s the blast of inevitability. “Soldier, are you alright?” I am lying on my stomach in an open field, the sound of bullets has stopped. I smell mud and smoke. I see legs in boots all around me. There’s a bitter burn in my nose and throat. “I lost my helmet and rifle,” I whisper. “Let’s not worry about that, soldier. You’re lucky to be alive. You’ve been hit and we need to get you to triage. We’re flying you out.” I wake up, and I am sweating and shaking. I lay in bed, still, until my body relaxes. There’s a moment of disorientation—displacement. I look at the ceiling above from where I lay. The blare of the ceiling light stabs at my eyes. A doctor leans over me wearing a mask and a head lamp. “You’re going to be okay, son.” ~ 61 2021 SRR.indd 67

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My wife, Brenda, comes into the room. She’s tired and weary. This has become a morning ritual for her. She lets out a sigh and a smile. “Bad dream again?” “Yes.” She is a quiet woman, thin, her long, brown hair pasted to the sides of her head. She wears worn blue jeans and thin flannel shirts—her entire wardrobe. She’s spent most of her life in Angel Fire except for a couple of months in Albuquerque with a girlfriend. Initially, she was excited about moving to the big city with her friend. They talked constantly about the freedom and the things they planned to do—getting jobs and going to the nightclubs and museums and restaurants. But she never quite takes to the city like she thinks she will. There is just too much traffic and anger, restless people looking for their place to spoil—rules to circumvent. And in her mind, the restless city never finds its peace. It will always be an anxious kinesis. So, she returns to Angel Fire, to a simpler life. I guess I’m just not built for it—the city. I want things simple and coherent. Sometimes it takes leaving home to find oneself. She’s a prodigal and it’s the thing we both have in common when we first meet—lost souls coming to a place we can call home. The difference between us: she’s as solid as the day. I don’t respond when she asks me how I feel. She gives me my daily dose of Clozapine, and I shallow it with orange juice and a slice of buttered toast she’s prepared. When I’m through she takes my hand and walks me outside like I have asked her to do so many times in the past. My body’s weak with exhaustion and guilt. We don’t talk much. We have an understanding about our pasts. The silences are important to me. I have learned not to trust the words that come from my mouth. They are only refractions of my true thoughts and feelings. And she knows this. It’s a terrible thing to think that your mind is so disturbingly inventive, capable of so much destruction. I look around to see that the town is not disturbed, it’s peaceful, the roofs of each house secured like thick hats on the heads of old men, and I start to ease into the day. The valley and the lake are unmolested, having the early spring smell of the ice in the air. A couple of warblers grace the morning. I take a deep breath and say, thank you. It’s all I can offer. She slaps my back and ruffles my hair. “No problem, handsome.” 62 2021 SRR.indd 68

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Hibah Shabkhez

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Michael Woodruff

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She knows it’s the best I can do. There are times when I think it would be better if I’d never been born. And my wife tells me not to be silly. She says I am one of the lucky ones. My name never appeared on thewall on the hill. But of course, murder by any other name is still murder. I have lived my death daily and never found my grave, but it still haunts me, chasing after my guilt nightly, seeking it out. I walk in circles to shake off the nightmares, and then I do my chores, my shit job, and I come back to my wife as soon as I can. I give her as much of the daytime as I can. But she deserves so much more. Brenda, my wife, works at a local restaurant, a cook, and each night she brings home food sent back to the kitchen by unhappy customers or the near freezer-burnt meat ready to go bad. It’s the least I can do, the owner tells her. He looks into her face with a sadness she’s embarrassed to recognize like she was a misplaced daughter. And sometimes we go out when we have a little extra money, but not often. Don’t get me wrong, we are happy in Angel Fire, away from lights of the busy city. We spend our nights watching classic musicals on DVD’s, never the war movies, of course, but happy things, State Fair or Meet Me in St. Louis or we sit out on the porch under the night sky and count the stars. We pick out the points of the Zodiac. And I always sit with my back straight, my hands cuffed between my legs. Brenda reaches over, fixes my collar and pats my knee: we’re going to be okay, baby. I promise you. Sometimes our friends (and we have very few of them) ask us over for a barbecue. But most of the time we spend our days together laying in bed, next to each other, in whispers, talking about the imagined cabin we plan to buy with naked walls, thick with Ponderosa logs. We talk about how we will decorate the inside: a hand hued bed covered in thick crazy quilts and a country dining table, cotton-looped rugs placed throughout the rooms and a soft couch in front of a rock fireplace. It’s a small dream, but it’s the measure of each day, the thing that moves us forward. And somehow, we find ways to manage. ~ I still have the old camouflage jacket I wore that day, a hole in the lower pocket area where an enemy bullet pierced my side. Brenda tells me I need to get rid of the damned thing, that if I did maybe 63 2021 SRR.indd 69

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some of these nightmares might disappear. I just can’t do it. I’ve told her that I lost my rifle running out of the trees that day, and I feel shame, but what I didn’t tell her was that I left the rest of the platoon in the jungle. The Vietcong had surrounded us. It was hard to tell where the rest of the platoon was hiding. We were taking heavy fire from every direction. Bullets splintered the trees around me. And so I ran. I drop my rifle and ran. And the laughs I heard from the Vietcong sounded like look at the coward run! I never knew if any of the other guys made it out of the trees. I hope so. But I never asked. And I never went back to active duty. And bow, I watch Meet Me in St. Louis: Mr. Smith: We’re not moving to New York and I don’t want to hear a word about it. We’re going to stay right here. We’re going to stay here till we rot. Mrs. Smith: We haven’t rotted yet, Lonnie. The words always make me smile. Sometimes, I like to sit just up the base of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains looking down at our small village during the daytime when I’m not needed to do ranch work. I watch shadowed fingers reach across the valley. It’s a dark glove covering the landscape, and it searches. It’s slow and thorough. The land starts to shake, a steady rumble, and the earth cracks. And that’s when I know the time is near.

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