Slice: Issue 8 by Slice

LIES & MAKE-BELIEVE

spring/summer 2011 Issue 8

us $8.00

a room full of voices

slice

PUBLISHERS

READERS: Saba Afshar,

Maria Gagliano

Sarah Bowlin,

Celia Blue Johnson

Jacylyn Gardner, Amelia Kreminski,

EDITOR-IN-CHIEF

Miriam Haier, Ian F. King, Karen Maine,

Tricia Callahan

ART DIRECTOR/DESIGNER

Reitzes, Iris Roberts, Ian Ruder, Paul

Amy Sly

Taunton

POETRY EDITOR Tom Haushalter

ASSOCIATE MANAGING EDITOR Amelia Kreminski

ASSISTANT EDITOR Ian Ruder

COPY EDITORS/ PROOFREADERS: Elizabeth Blachman, Amanda Bullock, Luke Hoorelbeke, Angie Hughes, Karen Maine, Liz Mathews

LITERARY EVENTS EDITOR

BLOG EDITORS

Please visit us online at www.slicemagazine .org for information about upcoming issues, contributors, submission guidelines, and subscription rates. Donations and gifts to Slice Literary, Inc. are welcome and appreciated. If you would like to help support our magazine, please visit www.slicemagazine.org/support or email us at editors@slicemagazine.org. Make a donation of $50 or more to become a Friend of Slice, or $250 to become a Lifetime Subscriber. Slice is printed in the United States by United Graphics. ISSN 1938-6923 Cover design by Amy Sly Interior design by Amy Sly Cover illustration by Sophie Blackall Photo on previous page by Karl Erik Brøndbo Photos on opposite page by Amy Sly

Ian F. King

Saba Afshar C.A.B. Fredericks

STAFF WRITERS

Liz Mathews, Jackie

Slice is published semiannually.

BOARD OF DIRECTORS Matthew Lansburgh David Liatti

Sean F. Jones

Susan Richman

Ian F. King

Kimberly Thompson

Tim Mucci

Shane Welch Adrian Zackheim

Very special thanks to the following supporters of Slice magazine: lifetime subscribers Lori Bongiorno Walter & Kathy Callahan Antonio DiCaro Mark & Laura Feld Carmine & Rosalia Gagliano

Joe & Katherine Gagliano

CJ Johnson Colin Johnson

Sal Gagliano & Linda Lagos

Heidi Lange

Carl & Patricia Johnson

Scott LeBouef

Christian Johnson

Charlotte Sheedy

A big thank-you to the folks at Sixpoint Craft Ales, who have remained enthusiastic advocates of each issue, in addition to sponsoring our events with their fine beer.

celia maria

dear

Reader: It’s our business to hand you lies, though not the malicious kind. The fiction within these pages is stitched together with some of the most inventive lies we’ve ever encountered. And this doesn’t mean that the stories border on absurd, with extraordinary creatures soaring through the air. These fabrications could easily pass for real life. Perhaps their proximity to truth is part of the allure. Each story offers a new twist on a real-life situation, whether it’s grappling with faith, disappearing in a foreign country, or meeting a stranger at a highway motel. In a series of interviews, you’ll also discover how some of today’s most brilliant literary heroes forged careers out of lies and makebelieve. Rather than pitting one author’s world of make-believe against another, we hope that this issue leads you to think about all of the possibilities that exist on the written page. In other news, we couldn’t resist mentioning a couple of our latest endeavors to move Slice’s mission beyond the magazine and into our local community. Over the past year, we’ve launched a series of writing workshops that bring publishing professionals into the classroom to work hand-in-hand with emerging authors. And in September 2011, we will be hosting our first annual writers’ conference to tie in to the Brooklyn Book Festival, bringing together more than three hundred emerging and established writers, agents, and editors. For more information on our events, visit our website, www.slicemagazine.org. We hope that you’ll be able to join us for the literary festivities! Cheers,

The

publishers

in this INTERVIEWS issue with ray bradbury

lev grossman joshua ferris

SPOTLIGHT

Let Us Offer Each Other a Sign of Peace

Ray Bradbury

Jackie Bondanza

dan Chaon

Joshua Ferris

Celia Blue Johnson & Maria Gagliano Isabel Allende

Reese Okyong Kwon

INTERVIEWS

isabel allende

Celia Blue Johnson & Maria Gagliano Lev Grossman

Sean F. Jones

Dan Chaon

Paul Taunton

44 78 110 124

FICTION

Good People

Nick Ripatrazone

Dorian in Germany 31

Koa Beck

House Made of Snow

Matthew Lansburgh The Nature of My Father’s Crimes

Jan Pendleton Gypsy Christmas

Dan Mancilla Be There Soon

Donna Laemmlen Blinding Desert

Cavenaugh Kelly Surrounded by Teacups

Matt Whelihan Night Dogs

Sharon Erby That Was Over a Long Time Ago

Summer Pierre Collected Shorts

Lou Beach

NONFICTION

How I Stopped Worrying and learned to love the (North) Koreans

POETRY

Note to Slip in Your Pocket, Never Slipped

Erica Wright River X

Erica Wright Rubric.

Adam O. Davis Holy Ghost Tuesday.

Adam O. Davis Signal Light on the Horizon

Roxanna Bennett Elegy for a Dog

95 102

Katy Gunn

RISING VOICES Journal Entries

Suamny Melenciano

119

Good for Her

Kadejatou Waggeh

129

Not Breaking a Child’s Heart

Victor Delarca

132

Lies

Shantel Hernandez Make Believe

Ryan Brown The Lie That Saved My Life

Steven Reid

Patricia Park Pen Names: Helpful Hints on How to Deceive

Liz Wyckoff A Tour of the World

Tim Mucci

108

Truth

Ariana Pabon

53 61 77 117 141

83 88 89 90 91 92 93

writers Born in Peru and raised in Chile,

ISABEL ALLENDE

Jackie Bondanza is a New York City–based book

is the author of many novels, including, most recently,

editor and freelance writer. She has written on travel,

Island Beneath the Sea. She has also written a collection

health, beauty, entertainment, education, and real estate

of stories; four memoirs, including My Invented Country

for iVillage, MSN, Resident Magazine, Online Degrees

and Paula; and a trilogy of children’s novels. Her books

Magazine, and Southern California Senior Life, among

have been translated into more than twenty-seven

others. She has a master’s degree in journalism and is

languages and have become bestsellers across four

also the author of two books on real estate.

continents. In 2004 she was inducted into the American Academy of Arts and Letters. Isabel Allende lives in

Ray Bradbury has published some five hundred

California.

short stories, novels, plays, and poems since his first story appeared in Weird Tales when he was twenty years

LOU BEACH ’s highly acclaimed short fiction can be

old. Among his many famous works are Fahrenheit 451,

found at www.420characters.com. His illustrations have

The Illustrated Man, and The Martian Chronicles.

appeared in Wired, the New Yorker, the New York Times, the Atlantic, Harper’s, and Los Angeles Times, among

RYAN BROWN was born on September 26, 1999. He

others. He has designed album covers for Weather

loves to play the drums. He wants to be a famous drum-

Report, the Carpenters, the Neville Brothers, Blink

mer or singer or rapper when he gets older.

182, Ethel Merman, and others. His debut book will be published by Houghton Mifflin Harcourt. Beach lives in

Dan Chaon is the acclaimed author of Among the

Los Angeles. You can find out more about him at www

Missing, which was a finalist for the National Book

.loubeach.com.

Award, and You Remind Me of Me, which was named one of the best books of the year by the Washington

Koa Beck was born in Lihue, Hawaii, and raised in Los

Post, Chicago Tribune, San Francisco Chronicle, the

Angeles. She is a graduate of Mills College and the 2009

Christian Science Monitor, and Entertainment Weekly,

winner of the Ardella Mills Prize for Fiction. Her work has

among other publications. Chaon’s fiction has ap-

appeared in Bookslut, Daily BR!NK, and the Huffington

peared in many journals and anthologies, including

Post. She lives in Brooklyn.

The Best American Short Stories, Pushcart Prize, and The O. Henry Prize Stories. He has been a finalist for

Roxanna Bennett was born in Toronto, Ontario,

the National Magazine Award in Fiction, and he was

but spent much of her childhood in Corner Brook, New-

the recipient of the 2006 Academy Award in Litera-

foundland. She has studied creative writing at the Uni-

ture from the American Academy of Arts and Letters.

versity of Toronto and Ryerson University. Currently she

Chaon lives in Cleveland, Ohio, and teaches at Oberlin

lives and works in Toronto as a writer and artist educa-

College, where he is the Pauline M. Delaney Professor

tor. Her work has appeared in the Fiddlehead, the Anti-

of Creative Writing.

gonish Review, the Malahat Review, Existere, descant, the Toronto Quarterly, the Dalhousie Review, Barrier Islands

Adam O. Davis works as an educational mercenary

Review, Caper Literary Journal, the anthology Leonard

in San Diego, California. His work has appeared in or

Cohen: You’re Our Man, and is forthcoming in Vallum:

is forthcoming from several journals, including Boston

contemporary poetry.

Review, Sixth Finch, CutBank, POOL, Grist, the Laurel

contributors

Review, and the Paris Review. His writing, and other

writer and, eventually, a novelist. In 2002, Grossman was

curiosities, can be found at www.adamodavis.com.

hired by Time magazine as a book reviewer and technol-

VICTOR DELARCA lives in the Bronx. He is eleven

(2004), and The Magicians (2009).

ogy writer. Grossman’s novels are Warp (1997), Codex

years old. His favorite thing to do is play sports, mostly baseball. He also loves to sing. He loves it so much that

Katy Gunn is an MFA candidate at the University of

he even writes songs. He also loves acting. Once he was

Alabama, where she writes poetry and prose that resem-

in a Disney production, The Jungle Book, the musical. He

bles poetry and sometimes fairy tales.

loves all those things and he hopes to accomplish one of

SHANTEL HERNANDEZ was born in New York!!!

his dreams.

She loves to play around with her sister Daisy. She likes

Sharon Erby has handled an array of jobs over the

to play soccer and volleyball. She was born on June 3,

years—everything from accounts receivable clerk to

1999. She loves to gossip with her besties, Ivy and Day.

technical editor to Navy contract negotiator to being a

When she grows up she wants to be a math teacher or

mother of four—until she finally managed to get back

play guitar and play in a rock band.

to one of her first passions: writing. She earned an MFA from Wilkes University in Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania,

Celia Blue Johnson is a writer, book editor, and

and teaches at Wilson College in Chambersburg, Penn-

co-publisher of Slice. Her debut book, Dancing with Mrs.

sylvania. Her creative work has appeared in Feminist

Dalloway, a collection of essays about the inspirations

Studies, Kaleidoscope, and Mobius: The Journal of Social

behind great works of literature, is being published by

Change, among others.

Penguin in the fall of 2011. Celia grew up running around barefoot in Melbourne, Australia, but now wears shoes in

JoshUA Ferris ’s first novel, Then We Came to

Brooklyn, New York.

the End, won the Hemingway Foundation/PEN Award and the Barnes and Noble Discover Award and was a

Sean F. Jones is a writer who has published feature

National Book Award finalist. His latest novel is The

interviews with Pulitzer Prize winners, internationally

Unnamed. His fiction has appeared in the New Yorker,

bestselling authors, and MacArthur-certified geniuses,

Granta, the Guardian, and Tin House, among other

so he feels pretty bad about himself. He lives in Brook-

publications. He lives in New York.

lyn, New York.

Maria Gagliano is a writer, editor, baker, and co-

Cavenaugh Kelly’s writing has been accepted for

publisher of Slice. Her writing has appeared in BUST

publication in Connecticut Review, Puckerbrush Review,

magazine and at Salon.com and BrooklynBased.net,

Toucan, and Barrier Islands Review. His recently com-

where she writes a regular column called “Made in

pleted memoir, Land of the Healthy, depicts his work as

Brooklyn.” She lives in Park Slope, where she’s teaching

a home health occupational therapist in rural Maine. He

herself how to sew, garden, pickle, preserve, and cook

lives in Holden, Maine, with his son, Dane, and his wife,

like her Sicilian parents. She shares her (mis)adventures

Rosemary.

at www.pomatorevival.com.

Reese Okyong Kwon ’s fiction is published in or

Lev Grossman graduated from Harvard in 1991,

forthcoming from the Missouri Review, Gulf Coast,

and after several years freelancing and working odd jobs

Epoch, American Short Fiction, and elsewhere; her

he enrolled in a PhD program in comparative literature

nonfiction is published in the Believer and the Rumpus.

at Yale. After three years, Grossman dropped out of Yale

Her work has been honored with scholarships from the

and moved to New York City to become a technology

Bread Loaf Writers’ Conference and the Norman Mailer

slice

issue 8

Writers Colony. Recently, she was named one of Narra-

Ha Jin, Allegra Goodman, and Daphne Kalotay. From 2009 to 2010 she was a U.S. Fulbright Scholar to South

tive’s “30 Below 30” emerging writers.

Korea, and she is currently at work on a novel, a mod-

Donna Laemmlen teaches screenwriting and

ern-day reinterpretation of Jane Eyre.

storytelling at the Academy of Art University in San

Jan Pendleton has published short stories in New

Francisco.

England Review, the Antioch Review, the Alaska Quarter-

Matthew Lansburgh lives in New York, where

ly Review, StoryQuarterly, NOON, Quarterly West, des-

he works for the New York Public Library and is a

cant, and the Quarterly. She is the recipient of a James

student in NYU’s MFA program in creative writing. His

Duval Phelan Award in poetry and was a tuition scholar

work has appeared in Guernica, Hobart, Words Without

in fiction at the Bread Loaf Writers’ Conference in 2007.

Borders, and the Quarterly. To read more of his fiction,

The Nature of My Father’s Crimes is from a recently com-

including his story “California,” which was nominated

pleted cllection, and she is currently at work on a novel.

for a Pushcart Prize in 2009, please visit him online at

Find more about her work at www.janpendleton.com.

www.matthewlansburgh.com.

Summer Pierre is an artist and writer living in

Dan Mancilla lives in Kalamazoo, Michigan, where

Brooklyn, New York. Her book, The Artist in the Of-

he’s working toward his PhD in creative writing at West-

fice: How to Creatively Survive and Thrive Seven Days a

ern Michigan University. Dan’s fiction has appeared in

Week, is available from Perigee.

or is forthcoming from such publications as: Chicago Tribune, the Columbia Review, the Dos Passos Review,

STEVEN REID lives in the Bronx. He likes football,

Front Porch, Work, the Pinch (formerly River City), and

math, English, and other subjects. He is twelve years old

specs. Dan was a 2009 Chicago Tribune Nelson Algren

and he loves to write.

Award winner.

Nick Ripatrazone is the author of Oblations (Gold

SUAMNY MELENCIANO is a seventeen-year-old

Wake Press 2011), a book of prose poems. His writing has

senior at Hostos-Lincoln Academy, a New York City

appeared in Esquire, the Kenyon Review, West Branch,

public school in the South Bronx. See page 82 for

Caketrain, Mississippi Review, and Beloit Fiction Journal.

Suamny’s full bio.

He is completing an MFA from Rutgers-Newark.

Tim Mucci is the pen name of Matt Sucher who lives

Paul Taunton grew up in the Phoenix area and

in upstate New York with his twin chocolate Labs, Her-

graduated from McGill and York Universities in Canada.

cules and Mycroft. He’s currently working on a sequel to

He has worked in book publishing for over a decade.

his 2004 bestselling novel, Radio Controlled.

KADEJATOU WAGGEH was born on June 2, 1999.

ARIANA PABON is eleven years old and likes to read

She loves to write, jump double Dutch, play guitars, and

and write. She lives in the Bronx. Her hobbies are read-

play volleyball. She was born in New York and is African-

ing and taking walks. She wants to be an author when

American. She is in the sixth grade and goes to Hostos-

she grows up.

Lincoln Academy.

Patricia Park was born and raised in New York City. Matt Whelihan is currently an English professor She received her BA from Swarthmore College and her

and writer. Before that he replaced rolls of toilet paper,

MFA from Boston University, where she studied under

cooked cheesesteaks, wrote press releases about tools

contributors

used to place fiber-optic cable underground, transâ&#x20AC;&#x2018;

Lawrence Press/Dzanc Books) and the chapbook Silt

ported and dressed dead bodies, bound books, and had

(Dancing Girl Press). She is the poetry editor at Guernica

all of his musical equipment stolen while on tour. He

Magazine.

resides in the Philadelphia area, and his journalism work has been featured in publications such as Cleveland

Liz Wyckoff lives in Austin, Texas. She works at

Scene, San Antonio Current, and Punk Planet.

BookPeople, an indie bookstore, and reads for American Short Fiction. Her work has also appeared in the Slice

Erica Wright is the author of the forthcoming col-

blog, Slices of Life.

lection of poems Instructions for Killing the Jackal (Black

artists Jen Altman p 30

sarah mcneil p 140

www.jeniferaltman.com

www.400pencils.com

sophie blackall cover

julia pott

www.sophieblackall.com

p 49 www.juliapott.com

Karl Erik BrĂ¸ndbo pp 1, 55

Karolin Schnoor p 82

Stephanie Brown p 130

Amy Sly pp 3, 111, 115

www.flickr.com/photos/karlerikbrondbo

www.karolinschnoor.com

www.blueskycomplex.com

www.amysly.com

nas chompas p 94

Tracy Timmins p 118

www.flickr.com/photos/jamsandwich

www.ttimmins.com

yury Darashkevich p 20

cari vander yacht pp 11, 14

matthew genitempo p 63

alex woodhead p 103

www.yurydarash.com

cvydesign.wordpress.com

www.matthewgenitempo.com

www.alexwoodhead.com

Let Us Offer Each Other a Sign of Peace Reese Okyong Kwon

That morning, my wife fell off the train. Mina Lin

suddenly ill, possibly dying, was asking her to go back to

was standing at the doors, and damn it if she wasn’t

church. Miyoung, it’s not so much to ask.

going to be the first one out. The train galumphed over

They announced, Last station, all passengers off, but

the tracks. A mass of loud strangers pushed into her, but

she was in the middle of a sentence and was not going

she was alone—she fixed her eyes on her book. She read

to stop now. Without looking, Mina stepped out and into

to forget what she was here to do. Her deacon father,

nothing.

painting by cari vander yacht

slice

issue 8

And she was falling and there was no ground and

left leg, bright with blood. The other leg was better off.

there never had been a ground and it was her fault, she

Only the knee was cut open. She turned up her hands.

should have known, that nothing stayed—

They were mottled, but the skin, miraculously, was intact. Tenderly, she tested her wrists, her ankles. No bones

It stopped. Here was the ground. Was she dead? Mina sucked in a breath. It hurt. It worked. Was she

were broken. She was breathing. She would be all right.

alive? She lifted her head and looked around. She was

She was all right.

down on her hands and knees on a bed of flat stones,

“Are you feeling steadier?” the conductor asked.

and next to her there was a giant, dirty wheel, taller than

Mina nodded. She bit back a laugh. So, she was cut up and she hadn’t even stepped into the church yet. She

the height of her head. The train. The tracks. The gap. “Did you see—”

was in a sundress and a trench coat, and from the knees

“The train—”

down her legs were naked and on display. No bandage

“Come on—”

would be big enough. Now she would look as profanely out of place as she would feel. “Yes, thank you very

The shouts were coming closer. Stupid, stupid, stupid. She had fallen through the gap between the

much,” she said, and smiled at the man. He had a round,

platform and the train. Shadows crossed and conjoined,

mild, kind-looking face. Maybe he was a father of three,

closer. Her hair fell forward and dropped to the ground

all little girls, and maybe after work he liked to surprise

in long, black lines. Someone called down, “Are you all

them with treats from one of the station kiosks: milk

right, miss? Can I help you up?”

chocolate bars, porcelain figurines, red gerbera daisies. Mina’s father had been generous with his presents too.

She shook her head. She was busy. She was breath-

She glanced down at the gap. It was just wide

ing.

enough for her body. The platform wasn’t so high up

Some other person, farther away, urged, “You’ve got to get her up. Go on, get her up. That train could move,

from the tracks. Six, five feet, not more. A rat skit-

and where would she be? Caught.”

tered under the train, its tail flicking as it disappeared. Nothing was broken. Nevertheless, Mina was relieved

“Miss. Please. This is very important. Take my hand,

as though she had been delivered. And more than

miss. Let’s get you up.”

relieved—exhilarated—and even the pain was exhilarat-

Hands reached down to her. Mina raised an arm, and they grabbed. In the pull of their grips, in the high pitch

ing, and the blood on her legs was flowing and that,

of their voices, she heard what they were imagining:

too, was alive, operatically alive, adding to the hubbub

metal stirring, wheels turning, the brute weight of the

of trumpet and horn and aria all singing and trilling

train crunching her bones. All right. She was a reason-

together: alive! She thanked the conductor again. Someone hand-

able person, she understood their concern, but didn’t they understand that first she needed to breathe? They

ed Mina her bookbag and her book. Someone else

tugged her hand—she rose. They grabbed her under

helped her to the bathroom; there, she cleaned what

her arms, and lifted her. Her body was rasping up the

she could. She pressed until the bleeding stopped. Now

platform edge, her skin singing pain. Her legs failed, tot-

the cuts were clean and red: a wide strip on one leg, a

tering.

circle on the other. The marks looked purposeful, like war paint. Now she was ready. Now she could go. She

“Whoa there, ea-sy,” a man said, holding her, and she

left the station and, limping, hailed herself a taxi.

was upright, on the platform, but oh goddamn it hurt. Something was wrong with her legs.

«.»

The man whistled. He was in uniform, a conductor. “Those are some nasty cuts you’ve got there, miss. You

Here I am, then.

oughta get that cleaned up soon as you can.” The voices of the others fell away. At last, Mina looked

Mina looked up, facing the front steps of a house

down at her legs. There was a scorched path down her

of God for the first time in more than five years. It was

Let us Offer Each other a sign of peace reese okyong kwon

Mina looked up, facing the front steps of a house of God for the first time in more than five years. It was morning on a Sunday in the second week of October, and now she was late for the Mass that she did not want to attend.

morning on a Sunday in the second week of October, and now she was late for the Mass that she did not want to attend. The day was as cold and as fresh as the first of days. After a week of rains, the sky was stark and blue and the early light canted over the tops of the tall city buildings. Half a block away there gathered a crew of men who worked over the ruins and the rubble of the excavated street. Jackhammers beat against the concrete, and a yellow crane paused in its labor. Yellow taxicabs jostled past the wreckage of the site, and then were set free. The crane lifted its head, and Mina turned back to the Cathedral of St. Christopher. For the past quarter of an hour, she had been standing on the sidewalk in front of the church with her fists shoved in the pockets of her trench coat, watching the parishioners, the construction,

first few seconds she saw nothing. And then she saw.

the church, the sky. She had to go in—she didn’t want to

She saw, she saw, she saw. On its outside the cathedral

go in. She wanted to stay where she was. The raw yellow

had been ornate but otherwise unremarkable, over-

light. A fresh-made day.

shadowed by the city skyscrapers. But the inside—oh, the inside. That cathedral! She was an atheist, yes, but

The bells rang noisily. She looked up in time to see a white flutter of birds break away from the twin spires

she was also an aesthete, and the cathedral leaped, it

of the cathedral, driven by the sound, Dopplering out,

sprawled. It loomed. Its windows prismed light. It bul-

dispersing, whitening the blue of the sky like milkweed,

lied, too, but oh, the beauty of it. Beauty is not truth,

like an outsized wish. They slipped beyond the surround-

beauty has nothing to do with truth, but there are times

ing skyscrapers, and then they were gone. The bells

when they look alike. She had been raised in a home-

stopped. Other churchgoers brushed by, yanking their

grown church that met in a warehouse, and she was

children up the stairs. “Quickly!” they said. “We’re late.

finding herself dangerously susceptible to the persua-

Pick up your feet.”

sions of cut glass and crisscrossing rays of light, of high vaulted ceilings.

She was late, and it was time, she thought, to try

Five years since she last had stepped into a church,

to be reasonable. Gam zeh ya’avor, she remembered— this, too, shall pass. But in the meantime she had to go

and even longer since she had been in one of these. A

through with it.

cathedral, from cathedra: the seat of the bishop, the dwelling of God. Her father was a fanatic about these

Reason was no good. Bravery? She tried to think of famously courageous people of the past, of the great,

constructions. When she was little, he had taken her

the true conquerors: Alexander, Hector, Henry V—once

to cathedrals all over the world, in Canterbury and in

more unto the breach, and all that. And who else, valiant

Chartres, in Barcelona, in Ulm, Reims, Rouen, Köln, in

types—young David, Icarus, Calaf singing Vincerò!

Sevilla and Siena—how the words rolled!—crenellated,

Vincerò! This was idiotic, she had no heroes, she knew

gargoyled, and wonderfully old. Later, wiser, she had

little of courage and less of war. She was who she was,

started to recognize the buildings for what they were,

Mina Lin, twenty-five, and she wanted to run away.

rodomontade and bluster, bombast in stone. Momentarily, though, Mina forgot her wisdom. She stood. She

Thinking was doing no good. Don’t think about it,

stared. Everything was foreign, and everything familiar.

then. And she walked up and in.

Beauty so old and so new. She had forgotten how cold

It was dark inside the cathedral, and cold. The break

these places were. She should have worn more. The

from glare to gloom confounded her eyes, and for the

Let us Offer Each other a sign of peace reese okyong kwon

Mina wished for invisibility, or at least for an intermediary, someone she knew; why had she come alone? That morning, she had woken up to find her husband’s hand cradling her head as though to protect her from her dreams. She disengaged herself, to leave. William would be awake by now, wondering where she was. He might have come with her, had she asked.

understood why anyone would choose such a life. The nun was still smiling. Mina wished for invisibility, or at least for an intermediary, someone she knew; why had she come alone? That morning, she had woken up to find her husband’s hand cradling her head as though to protect her from her dreams. She disengaged herself, to leave. William would be awake by now, wondering where she was. He might have come with her, had she asked. Mina fixed her eyes ahead. The pews were full of parishioners. She no longer knew anyone who went to church; who were these people? Tourists, she hoped. Investigating one of the biggest cathedrals of America in the greatest city in the world. If so, they were getting their spectacle. It was a theater in here: the tiered choir all in white, the black songbooks like birds, the bishop in his golden robes, the massive columns, the flags flying from the clerestory, the light like the fingers of God. A mass exercise in make-believe. A Barnum and Bailey show. Through the soles of her boots, Mina could feel the cold of the stone floor. The first time she was supposed to kneel she forgot herself and bent her knees; the pain shot through her. After that, she remembered. At the right times, she

chill of the air—the warmth of her father’s hand hold-

stood up and she sat down and she sat and she stood,

ing hers as he explained what she was seeing, that for

she sat, she stood. Once she had been an altar server.

miles around, Mina, this cathedral was the biggest thing

She had tried to forget it all, but her body remembered

in sight. Just imagine what life was like during the Mid-

every move. Ritual had its effect, gradually. She calmed

dle Ages. People worked hard and they were very poor.

down. Gratefully, she grew bored.

They couldn’t even read. Children often died. But then it

The bishop was giving his sermon. For as long as she

would be Sunday and they would gather here to worship

could she did anything but listen—she glared around,

and there would be the shock of this waiting for them. It

wished for deliverance, conjugated verbs ( je m’énerve,

can’t have been hard to believe in God, in those days.

tu t’énerves, on s’énerve), worried for her father (the

The congregation sat down, en masse. Feeling con-

night before, on her laptop, she had read article after

spicuous, she hurried to a space in the backmost pew.

gleaming article about his disease and ways to fight it,

There were so many people. She put down her bag at

but now it was all a jumble of new and fearful words:

her feet and glanced sidelong to see who was sitting

Campath and rituximab, B-lymphocytes and T-lympho-

next to her. Oh no. A black habit, a white headpiece. Oh

cytes, idiopathy and Jamshidi needles)—until, jittery,

fuck. A nun. She had flubbed. The bishop was speaking.

anxious, bored, in time for the peroration, she gave in

It was too late to move elsewhere, and too quiet.

and listened. Mina could hardly see the bishop (a flare

She glanced again. The nun looked very young,

of yellow hair, a yellow robe), but his voice reverberated

freckled, barefaced, not much older than she was. The

back to where she stood. He spoke deliberately, articu-

sister saw her looking and smiled. Nuns worried Mina.

lating every syllable.

Once upon a time she had wanted to be a nun; her fa-

“Some of you already know,” he said, “that I love

ther, too, had planned to be a priest. She no longer

painting by cari vander yacht

musicals, generally speaking. I don’t know about you,

slice

issue 8

She missed him outrageously, childishly. She was beginning to understand that now. Her own hands told her so. He was made of the most beautiful lies—omnipotence, recompense, salvation, everlasting life, love, lies, lies, lies—and she would, if she could, believe each lie all over again.

but sometimes, on an everyday kind of day, I find that I also would like to break out into song. Who can say? It might be a better world if we all felt free to sing when we liked. Well. I receive many invitations to attend student productions of musicals, though I must admit that, more often than not, I decline. The singing is usually so very bad.” People laughed appreciatively. Mina hunkered down in her seat, annoyed. Flunkies! She thought longingly of all the things she had to do that day. A long train ride before she could be back at school, where she had papers to grade, books to read, people to see; oh, she was busy, but instead she was here. “Once, though, I agreed to attend a high school performance of My Fair Lady. The teacher who invited me assured me that it truly would be very special. ‘You won’t have seen anything like it,’ she said. She was right. “The lead singer who played Eliza Doolittle had no use of her legs, and she was confined to a wheelchair. I

He bent his head and walked away from the altar.

can tell you that it was something to see the girl wheel

Again Mina’s hands were in the pockets of her trench

herself around on that stage, singing that very famous

coat, fingers gripping the slippery inner fabric. Balder-

song about dancing. I’m sure you know it: I could have

dash! What outright schlock. These easy, kitschy clichés

danced all night, I could have danced all night, and still

of suffering. A crippled girl dancing. Starving children.

have begged for more. And I tell you that every person

Why not drag in speared babies? By now, William would have walked out, and why

in that high school auditorium was weeping. As was I. Because, of course, we all saw quite clearly that the girl

didn’t she? Because she had promises to keep, because

was not likely to dance—not in this world.

she had told her father that she would stay. She opened her bag and pulled out one of her books. Marrakech, Mo-

“One day, I thought to myself, one day that girl will stand. One day the Lord will raise her to her feet, and

rocco—1941. Monkeys jumping in the cages. Decidedly

one day she will dance for him. When we see those who

she would like it better there, elsewhere. She opened the book only long enough to let the

are crippled, when we think of all the hungry children in the world, when we consider the grief that is hidden

black print of the page tempt her before she put the

in so many hearts, in your hearts, dear brothers, dear

book back down. Decorum trumped anger. There was

sisters, how, I wonder, can the sorrow and the injustice

a nun at her side. She sat there, suffering. Goddamned

of this world be borne?

nun. Everyone rose; Mina, too. The bishop raised his

“It can be borne, it can only be borne, because we

hands. “Let us pray.”

look to a better world. One day, that girl will dance. One

Mina closed her hands together. What came next had

day, He will lift each hungry child and each child will laugh. One day, He will wipe every tear from every face.

everything to do with her mastery of herself—that, ever

One day we will, all of us, dance with joy. Ah, we shall

since the day she gave up on God, she never let herself

dance. We shall laugh. Because, otherwise, what reason

pray. She brought her hands to the level of her breast-

is there for all of this, for living? No. My brothers and

bone, she pressed them together: together the breadth

sisters, we look to our recompense. I promise you, that

of the palms, and together all along the lengths of the

day will come.”

fingers, and together each fingertip, each pressed to

Let us Offer Each other a sign of peace reese okyong kwon

each, eager to relearn the feel of its likeness, its counter‑

and still there was no recompense. The children of the

part. The first thought she had was of warmth. Palm

sermon would live hungry, and they would die hungry.

to palm, warming together. As though they were old

The crippled girl would never dance. There was no ex-

friends. Her second thought was of space. Because no

cuse. There was no explanation. There was no fucking

matter how hard she pressed—and she was pressing as

recompense. An altar boy was clanking a—something—at the base

hard as she could, now, and as anyone knows who has tried to drink water from a basin, scooping it up and

of the dais. Trying to distract herself, she rose on her

drinking two-handed and fast before all the water falls

toes to see what it was. In three-inch heels Mina was

away—still there were spaces between her fingers: small,

still, at best, five feet five. She couldn’t see. The clanking

persistent rifts. And here, so she once had thought, here

got louder. She was naturally a very curious person. She

dwelled the living God, warm and moving in the splits

considered jumping. Her nose was first to remember. A complicated

and expanses all around her and in her, as elusive as air,

mixture of burnt earth and charcoal, ancient and other-

as alive and as real as air.

worldly, reminiscent of heady mystery, of kings, the three

She pressed her hands together. She closed her eyes, remembering, and her fingers strained together,

kings, of frankincense and myrrh—incense. The boy was

remembering, and later she would believe that all that

swinging the brass container from a long shining chain:

was to come started here, in the warmth and the home-

the thurible, it was called, the censer, the container for

coming of the simple physical act, so old and so new, of

incense. Mina remembered attending Christmas midnight

templing her palms together again. Because, along with

Mass as a child, drowsing with her head in her mother’s

the fear and the dread of her remembering, there moved

lap, hearing the singing, the clanking. She remembered

deep inside of her the first sweet stirrings of delight.

waking, and climbing on the bench to see better.

And more than habit, more than memory, that delight

Aehgee-ah, darling, no, you shouldn’t stand on that, her

was her final inchoate thought—a rogue, hot, rash,

mother said, and she lifted her up.

sweet, wild delight that fixed her hands together, until,

The choir swayed from side to side. You shall see

at last, she remembered herself. She parted her hands.

the face of God and live. Mina recognized the song, she knew the words—be not afraid, I go before you always.

She dropped them to her sides.

She remembered all the words to all the songs. The nun

She opened her eyes. Her eyes burned. Her hands shook. With what? Longing? Angrily, she pocketed her

was singing with her eyes closed, her hands pressed flat

hands. Truant hands, disobedient children, taking their

against her thighs. Her nails were blunt, manlike, cut to

own, old pleasures. Once she had loved to pray.

the quick. As the nun sang, her hands turned up and,

That sermon of his. We look to our recompense.

inch by inch, rose until they were held up high in front

The thing was, there was no recompense. Your mother

of her. She stayed like that for whole long minutes, the

died three days before you were to graduate from your

length of a song, and as Mina watched she imagined the

elementary school and you were at the top of your

walls of the cathedral falling down, the city leavened, the

class and your mother would have sat in the front row,

rest of the world flattened and blown blessedly away, un-

proud of you, but instead of going to your graduation

til it was just Sister so-and-so, alone on a flat land below

you went to your mother’s funeral. And now you were

a flat sky, arms raised, singing to her imaginary God. Christianity—Christ—promised imaginary things. That

the one bewildered in the front row, and there was no recompense. Now your father might die, and there

was the crime, and it was not to be forgiven. To grow up

was no recompense. Just last night, a terrorist’s bomb

all your life wholeheartedly expecting a perfect, waiting

exploded in a nightclub in Bali and all those celebrat-

world, a world where you would open your eyes and

ing teenagers were blown apart, and died, and there

there your mother would be, alive again and smiling at

was no recompense. Hellmouth everywhere—death and

you, Mina, aehgee-ah, jahl isuhn-ni?, and her arms would

terror, disease and genocide, not one of us spared—

open and you would run to her—

slice

issue 8

“Is everything all right?” she asked. Face to face, the

That was his promise. This world is nothing, he said. This world passes, and there is a better one to come.

nun looked like a frank, good person. Chubby. Stub-

Who wouldn’t want to believe in that? And who wouldn’t

nosed and barefaced. Mina was afraid to talk. She nodded. She wished she

fall in love with the God who could promise such a thing?

could throw up an array of concrete barriers with a flick

More clanking. The noise was louder, the air too dense. The incense rising, gasps of fog. Mina couldn’t

of superhuman fingers. She would whisk a cape, she

breathe. What if she was suffocating, the incense

would fly away. “Is there anything I can do?” Her hand was on Mina’s

burning her lungs, rushing into her to fill her up, but there was too much to fill? Because there was nothing

arm again. Why was she touching her? The nun leaned

like it, this loss. It was a large hole at the core of her,

in; she was solicitous. Noli me tangere, noli me dicere.

and these five years had gone by in trying to forget.

Mina was shying.

But nothing filled it, because nothing could. It was an

“I think this is my first time seeing you here. What is your name?”

enormity. A God-shaped gap. The absence loomed so large as to be a presence. When Mina had mentioned

It was too much to ask. Mina heard the bishop

to William that she had once thought she might be a

say, “Let us offer each other a sign of peace,” and the

nun and wasn’t that funny, he said, “Sounds lonely,”

churchgoers turned to one another, extending their

and she agreed, “Oh, very,” but that had been a lie. It

hands, and the nun took a step closer to her, proffering a

might have been less lonely than anything, a life full of

handkerchief, and it was too much. Mina couldn’t shake hands with her, with these people, and she needed to

love, running on love—

breathe, and so, like the tombs that flew out of a cathe-

Because that was the worst of it, really. The worst was not that loss multiplied loss, that by losing her God

dral in Italy because they were unholy, because they

she had lost everyone else she loved too. Nor was it

didn’t belong—splintering marble, sailing over the heads

that she was afraid of hellfire. Nothing so ridiculous. It

of the surprised parishioners—she turned, and, limping,

wasn’t even that she was angry at having been fooled

already too late to flee her all-demanding phantom Lord,

for so long. The worst of it, funnily enough, was this: she

she pushed aside the nun and fled.

missed Jesus Christ.

«.»

She missed him outrageously, childishly. She was beginning to understand that now. Her own hands told her so. He was made of the most beautiful lies—omnipo-

There, Mina. Months later, on the night she left—

tence, recompense, salvation, everlasting life, love, lies,

tired, she said, of our dinner table where we clashed

lies, lies—and she would, if she could, believe each lie all

together every night, gripping philosophical arguments

over again.

like imaginary swords; tired of not laughing; tired of my

Astonishingly, she was crying. That she could still

laughing at her; tired, I suppose, of me—she ended by

wish! That she could still grieve! An orchestration of

saying, as she hefted her bags out the door, “The thing

smoke and song, of memory: that was all it took to

is, William, that you don’t even try to understand.”

make a fool of her. It was ludicrous. Furious, she bit the

You see I’m trying. I’ve pursued every turn and

tears off her lips. She thought again of that day, with

alteration of your thoughts, and for what? This division,

the white curtains fluttering—and she got up from the

it’s bewildering. I’ve read the Bible through, and where

carpet where she had been asking one last time for

has it gotten me? My all-demanding Mina, here I am:

help, a sign, dear God, anything, and she raised her

now where is my salvation? ROK

head and looked wild-eyed around to see a new world, To read an interview with Spotlight winner Reese Okyong Kwon and learn how to enter in the next Spotlight Competition, visit www.slicemagazine.org.

a world without— Someone tapped her on the arm. It was the nun. That nun! She knew the nun would be trouble.

Good People Nick Ripatrazone

Aaron’s parents willed him the property in 1998.

rounded the “o” in “home.” Both wrote left-handed. Both

He was twenty-four. It included a one-floor motel

slept on their stomachs, took cold showers, ate flaxseed

squared around an empty pool, whose dry walls were

oatmeal with honey, put rhubarb in tea, ran the wooded

chipped aquamarine and black. A forty-acre orchard

trails in double-knotted sneakers, smiled at the harvest

spanned behind the motel. After breakfast his wife Erin

moon, hated people who chomped their Black Oxfords

tended the dwarf rows and brought day laborers to

between the rows but walked out with empty bags. They

work the other acres. The workers arrived on a flat-

spit pomegranate seeds in the wind and interlocked

bed, all pressed together, heads leaned against shoul-

hands while they thought in bed. But Aaron and Erin certainly didn’t share blood.

ders, hands on the railing. They worked until dusk and sometimes stayed at the motel, at quarter-cost, taking up each room. They sat around the empty pool, feet

The motel was on 84 and should have been a

hanging in the air. Then they left en masse and the motel

good draw. Brick-walled, thick-carpeted rooms with

couldn’t have been quieter.

gas ranges. Goshawk Mill was only a few minutes to the

It was like that for years: breaths of life, then work.

west, with historical trails, cabins listed on the national

Hayrides in the orchard. Fathers and daughters turning

Cortlands under the sun. Crabapples stomped pink into

course, how many motels had their own apple orchard?

the crabgrass. Erin selling apple doughnuts and pre-

Aaron and Erin sat at the kitchen table and imagined if

serves: raspberry, brambleberry, olallieberry, nectarine,

they didn’t own the place. And they still loved the taste

fig. Apples weighed on the steel scale, the needle jump-

of apples. They imagined driving down 84 and seeing an

ing. Five pounds, ten. Aaron rode the tractor on low gas,

orchard and a motel. They’d eat themselves drunk and

engine smoking. He knelt in the mud, staining his jeans

pass out and wake the next morning and do it again.

black. Brushed away the smoke with his gloves. Erin

Erin said nobody else cared about apples that much. She told Aaron he had to realize that not everyone was

stood behind him, arms crossed.

like him. Not everyone raced a harrier into the woods. Or

“Why do you always have to push everything?” she asked.

closed their eyes while drinking milk. She said this was their place and their life and if it was quiet, then all the

People thought they shared blood, looked alike.

better.

Both had scattered freckles and green eyes. Both

This was before things changed.

good people

Nick Ripatrazone

First was the woman. Nicholle. That extra “l”

“She could have flushed them.” Erin said she didn’t seem like that type. Aaron looked

bothered Aaron but it was what made Erin trust her. Nicholle wanted a room for three months. Not the worst

at her sideways. Erin wondered if they’d done it in the

timing: they were a week into the off-season.

shower. She palmed the periwinkle tiles. Hadn’t been used.

Aaron pointed backward although there wasn’t a

Aaron crossed his arms. “How much do you think she

window. “We’ve got rows of apples.”

charges?”

Nicholle said she was busy. She paid in full upfront: an unheard-of blessing. She had one stuffed bag and

“Why? You interested?”

refused help. Asked for the key and about the drinking

Aaron said he’d never pay for it.

water.

Sometimes people said how similar their names

“Of course it’s clean,” Erin said. “What else would it be?”

were: Aaron and Erin. Trade a few vowels and they’re

That night a man parked his Oldsmobile across two

the same. They talked about that in bed. Argued over

spaces. Aaron walked out of the office but Erin stopped

who’d they’d become if they combined selves: Aaron or

him. Nobody parked there anyways. The man went into

Erin? Everyone who loves anyone, Erin said, loses their

room 13. Nicholle’s room. He left an hour later, tie limp

identity.

over his shoulder, and nearly passed the stride of an‑ other man who stayed for a while and then also left. Aar-

They sat in room 12 and ate turkey and apple

on and Erin had peeked through the blinds while spread-

butter sandwiches, fresh applesauce sprinkled with cin-

ing cheese across wheat crackers. The TV streamed

namon, and drank pumpkin ale. Thursday nights were busy for Nicholle. Three men.

silent at their backs. “Do you think?”

One at eight o’clock, one at ten o’clock, one at midnight.

Aaron was certain. “I’m giving her back the money.”

Most sat in their cars for a minute before driving away.

Erin patted his thigh. “This motel is yours. The apples

They looked satisfied. Not smiling, but content and

are mine. But this is yours. And yours never made any

relaxed. “Maybe she sells pot.” Aaron wiped his mouth.

money until Nicholle.” “What about the troopers?”

Erin turned her bottle. “I didn’t smell it while I

“What about them?” A trooper passed through the

cleaned.”

lot in 1991 and Aaron thought they’d be back before

“How would you know the smell?”

long. None had shown since.

“I smoked at Lafayette.”

“It’s a victimless crime,” Erin said.

“Really?”

“It’s strange for you to say that.”

“Really.”

“I know.”

Aaron pondered that. He didn’t like learning new

Nicholle smoked outside, barefoot. The next morning

things about her. “Do you think she’s ever fallen in love

she asked what there was to do in the area. She looked

with one of them?”

at Aaron but before he could say a word she said apples

Erin shushed him and leaned forward. They held

gave her gas. Erin told her about the mill. Said it was a

hands and listened to the headboard rock against the

nice place for an afternoon. A nice place to take a man.

wall.

“You have a boyfriend?” Nicholle said she didn’t have time for one.

As a woman, Erin wanted to knock on the door in

As soon as she drove off Aaron and Erin sprinted into

the middle of the act and pull Nicholle outside. What the

her room. They searched the sheets for stains. Noth-

hell is wrong with you? Sooner or later you’ll get preg-

ing yellow or red. She’d actually made the bed. And no

nant. Or worse. And they won’t come back to take care of

condoms pasted to the wastebasket.

you. Nobody’s going to pay a hooker with triplets inside.

painting by yury Darashkevich

slice

issue 8

And then other nights she wondered about the dif-

“I think he’s already answered my question.” Max

ferences between love and sex.

turned around.

Nicholle seemed to like the mill. She probably

ward. “She works for me.” She looked back at Aaron. “In

would have fun in the orchard.

the orchard. She knows her varieties.”

“Hold on.” Erin lifted the partition and walked for-

“When’s your orchard open?”

Aaron swept leaves from the walkway. “You should

“Dawn to dusk. Six days a week.”

hire her.” “We’ve got our day men.”

“What about Sunday?”

“They haven’t been coming around much.” It was

“What about it?”

true. They couldn’t get rides back home and realized

“Ain’t that the day of rest?”

they were only spending the money they earned by

“That’s right. That’s why we’re closed.”

staying the night.

“Nothing like an apple on a Sunday.” Aaron and Erin looked at each other.

“I don’t think prostitutes work at farms.” She didn’t

“Would you like a room?”

like the shape of that word. She wanted to suck it back

“I don’t think so. I’ll check with Nicholle while she’s

between her lips. Nicholle wasn’t a prostitute. She had

working. Taste some of your varieties.” He left. He didn’t

sex. She got paid. Or at least they assumed. But she

have a car. They watched him walk out into the parking

wasn’t a prostitute.

lot and disappear into the dark of 84.

“I think somewhere, at some point in history,” Aaron said, “a prostitute has worked on a farm.”

“Son of a bitch.”

Nicholle’s Jeep skeetered off 84. Hair tied back,

Aaron booted the back left tire of Nicholle’s Jeep.

she didn’t look a minute over nineteen.

The axles nearly pushed through the rubber to the

She handed Erin a bag of apples. “Stayman and

asphalt. All four had been knifed, split wide. Erin looked

Winesap. My favorites.”

around.

Aaron wanted to ask what was wrong with their

“You think it was him?”

trees. Erin saw his lips curve: men always wore their

“Who else?”

thoughts.

“Came like a thief in the night.”

“I might be gone for a few days.” Nicholle pulled an

Aaron squinted his eyes. “He didn’t take anything.”

apple from the bag she’d gifted. “Just one or two.”

“Jesus.” Erin locked her hands behind her head.

“You don’t have to sign out with us. We’re not your

“Sometimes I feel like I’m talking to the sky.”

parents.”

That night, after they made love, Erin whispered

“I know. But I’m getting a ride so I’ll leave my Jeep here. You just seem like good people. You just know

into his ear. “I would take your name. I would become

when people are good, you know?”

you and I would be satisfied.”

Yes.

“Maybe he was her pimp.”

Max arrived at midnight. He was bright under the

“Do all prostitutes have pimps?”

moon and the straps of his backpack pinched under his

“I imagine most do.”

armpits. Hair flattened along his forehead, his sideburns

“Even out here?”

colored darker than his hair. He stepped into the office,

“Eighty-four’s a long road.” She walked her fingers

but not until he wiped his boots.

down Aaron’s shirt. “Trucker hasn’t seen a woman in

“I’m Max,” he said. “I’m looking for Nicholle.”

weeks. A man’s got needs.”

Aaron smiled. “She’s in room thirteen.”

“Besides, I don’t think pimps carry knapsacks.”

Erin punched his arm. “How can we help you?”

“I worry for Nicholle.”

good people

Nick Ripatrazone

“Lately you’ve been talking like you’re getting old.”

Max came back. Aaron swore he saw a bulge

“That’s fine. As long as I don’t look it.”

at his back, near the belt. A knife. A gun. He pounded Nicholle’s door.

Lord knows they had tried to have children.

She screamed.

Hundreds of times. Thousands? Imagine if a couple

Erin unlocked the office door. “Get the fuck out of

actually counted sex with chicken scratch marks on the

here or we’ll call the troopers.”

headboard. A record of love. When the doctor said they

Max didn’t pay her any mind. He went back to ram-

couldn’t have children, Erin went into the hallway and

ming the door.

cried. The doctor put his hand on Aaron’s shoulder and

Aaron pulled the rifle from under the counter. He

said it was kind of a blessing, you know?

loaded the rounds. Erin leaned against the door. They

What kind of a blessing?

could hear him. “No.” She picked up the phone.

Nicholle walked off 84, crying. Erin sprinted out

Aaron snatched it from her hand and pulled the cord

of the office. They hugged at the same moment, like

from the wall. He told her to wait, opened the door, and

sisters. Instead of walking back to the office Erin guided

walked outside. He pointed the rifle at Max.

her to room 13, past the sagging Jeep. Aaron followed

Max stopped knocking. “She’s my wife.”

but the door was locked when he tried to open it.

“I don’t see any ring.” He’d never looked.

“Give us a goddamn minute,” Erin said.

“Not everybody wears one.”

She came back an hour later, face flushed. She

“I don’t believe you.”

leaned her forehead on Aaron’s chest. Nicholle had

“You don’t have to.”

walked for miles. A man had kicked her out of his car.

“Get the fuck out.”

She followed the pink light of the motel sign.

Max kicked the door and split the wood.

“I thought it was red.”

Aaron fired a round in the air. Max looked surprised

Erin closed her eyes. “God love her.”

and sprinted off. Aaron thought about what he should do. He decided on one thing and then did the opposite: he

Aaron pulled down the attic door. He said he

sprinted after Max. Both followed the yellow centerline of

was getting his rifle. Said he’d use it on Max if he ever

84. They seemed to go for miles but really hadn’t gone

showed his face again. Erin laughed. Aaron said he’d

very far. Aaron stopped, breathed, and took a shot. Max

shot the gun hundreds of times. Erin asked when the last

tumbled onto the asphalt and grabbed his shoulder. He

time was. He wasn’t sure.

looked back at Aaron, but it was too dark to see faces. Aaron inched forward. What if he really was her hus-

The rifle was in a box. She asked if he had any

band? But what kind of husband would do these things?

rounds. He shook his head. But he could get some. The next morning he left his truck idling outside the

Max stood, left arm limp. He walked into the wheat field on the other side of the road. Aaron turned back,

hunting shop. The cashier was a friend.

rifle against his shoulder. The phone cord was back in

He shook the box of rounds and smiled at Aaron.

the wall but Erin wasn’t in the office. He walked down

“Sure you know how to use these?”

to room 13 and pushed open the door. Erin and Nicholle

Now Thursday nights were quiet. Erin knocked

lay in bed. He could hear Nicholle crying but she hid

on the door with hot milk and a movie. Before Sunrise.

beneath the sheets. Erin looked at him. She wanted to hear it was all

Smoke. Aaron swept the sidewalk and looked through

right. That he had made things better.

the sheer curtains at them. They sat on the edge of

He set the rifle on the table. “I think it’s only started.”

the bed and laughed, the movies bright across their

faces.

How I Stopped Worrying and Learned to Love the (North) Koreans

way back to the Chosun Dynasty. If this was jung, I could do without. But sometime in my twenties, I was plagued with a persistent nagging I could only describe as a sense of unfinished business. I decided this would only be appeased if I reconnected with my roots in Korea. A well-meaning cousin tried to warn me of what awaited. “Sure you want to go through with this?” she said, looking me up and down. “Koreans can be . . . pretty blunt.” I was an adult; surely I’d developed a thick enough skin to be unruffled by a criticism or two. I left Queens and my cousin’s advice behind and flew to Seoul. In retrospect, it was delusional to arrive in a city of twelve million demanding instant camaraderie. The Korean-Koreans I met failed to acknowledge me as one of their own. They told me I was a “foreigner,” that I wasn’t “our country’s people.” I was offered the kinds of comments I initially mistook for compliments: I looked like I played golf, or volleyball; I spoke “cute” Korean; I

Patricia Park

had the kind of eyes Westerners liked. However, I was treated like a Korean when convenient—when I botched a verb conjugation of “our country’s language” or didn’t

Koreans like to say they have a lot of jung,

yangbo my bus seat quickly enough for an elder—and

an unbridled sentiment of warm-heartedness they

was censured accordingly.

heap onto others and receive in return. But growing

A pivotal moment came when I saw a face that

up Korean-American in Queens, I felt that jung was

looked like mine on the side of a bus: tanned, with single-

yet another imaginary concept I was told to believe

creased, almond-shaped eyes and round, high cheeks.

in as a child—like Santa Claus or the Mets winning

I was the “before” for a plastic surgery ad. The “after”

another World Series—that would only materialize

shot? Pale-faced and doe-eyed, with double-creased lids

into disappointment.

and an unnaturally high nose bridge; a repeat of every

I belonged to a race of people that prided itself on

young female face I saw on the streets. I felt like an early

its purity of blood and thinness of frame; as a robust

prototype of the race, one that South Koreans were try-

child with curly hair and a pronounced rear end to boot,

ing to revise, to forget.

I was a genetic glitch in an otherwise homogenous com-

One afternoon on the train, I saw my first Korean

munity. This fact was routinely pointed out by aunts and

homeless man: hair disheveled, his face so brown it was

uncles, the cashiers at my parents’ grocery store—even

almost red. I wouldn’t have believed he was Korean if not

the principal of the Korean afterschool my parents sent

for his eyes—narrow, uncreased, and shining black. The

me to. “Look at your daughter,” she said each time my

same as my father’s eyes. The same as my eyes.

mother came to pick me up. “Don’t you feel ashamed?”

The man began distributing Xeroxes onto people’s

My parents monitored my eating habits with a mili-

laps. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he said. It was a photocopy

tant eye. When I was suspected of foul play, they rifled

of his ID card and a formal apology for his inability to

through the garbage for evidence. The incriminating

find a job. I never spared some change to panhandlers

Snickers Fun Size wrapper or Capri Sun pouch would be

in New York, but this man was Korean—shouldn’t that

brought forth, and my punishment was a tongue-lashing

count for something? I thought of the deli owner by my

that somehow managed to encompass the collective

old office who would comment on my bad Korean before

disappointment of generations of Parks, tracing all the

tossing a freebie pack of gum in my bag.

of the boat and occasionally glancing over, broke into

I looked about for social cues; my fellow passengers continued texting on their cell phones, watching K-

a smile. I was overcome with a tingling sensation, and

dramas from their portable video players, or just staring

it wasn’t just the bathtub soju. Was I experiencing that

into space. None of them—none of us—reached for our

mythical jung? These North Koreans were so gaunt their

wallets. I made excuses to myself—this man was an elder

cheekbones threatened to break the surface of their skin,

and a male, I’d pervert the Confucian hierarchy—but in

and yet they shared all of their food and drink with me. I wanted to do something to express my thanks; ear-

truth, I felt no connection to him. When he took his paper

lier, I had sent over a bottle of soju, but it was a produc-

back from me, I didn’t meet his eye.

tion that required the guide as a go-between. If I flagged

As I grew disillusioned with life in Seoul, I had

him down again, it would only draw more attention. Tour-

the chance to travel to North Korea, and harbored

ists were forbidden from carrying DPRK currency, but

no great expectations for my trip. The DPRK, with its

I remembered I had some U.S. singles I could give as sou-

hermetically sealed borders, represented to me an undi-

venirs. They were brand-new bills, which required pulling

luted version of an already strict, militant culture. On the

out the stack from my wallet and licking my fingers as I

flight, myriad fears should have rightfully fought for my

counted. The tone of the group immediately shifted. “N-n-no!” they said, throwing up their hands. They

attention: that I was entering a totalitarian regime representing not one, but two, enemy states; that my mother

turned their heads away from me, pushing back their

was born in the same province as Kim Jong-Il, and if the

makeshift chairs. “I’m sorry, it’s just . . . as a memento . . .” My cheeks

DPRK government discovered this fact, I’d be handled

flushed with embarrassment.

as they do daughters of defectors (sent to the gulags).

My handler pulled me from the circle, and as we

Instead, my central worry was whether I’d be criticized

walked away, I pinched the skin of my forearms. In God

and rejected by yet another faction of my kinsmen.

We Trust. Had I only confirmed the archetype of the U.S.

The amount of interaction I was permitted with the

imperialist? That fragile moment of unity, shattered.

locals surprised me; the pleasantness of those interactions surprised me more. I met historians at Kim Il-Sung commemorative sites, schoolchildren on playgrounds,

I’ve since returned to Seoul, having traveled to

the elderly on the subway, and to each I introduced

a place no Southern citizen can legally enter. This is a

myself as an American-born Chosun, using the DPRK

fact I’ve taken to dropping into each and every one of

word for “Korean.” I was a head taller and thirty pounds

my conversations. “I never felt jung until I went to North

heavier than the next biggest North Korean, yet they

Korea. Oh right, you’ve never been . . .”

enveloped me in their thin arms like a long-lost sister,

The South Koreans, in turn, shake their heads like I’ve

daughter, granddaughter.

gotten it all wrong. Jung, they tell me, takes a lifetime to

I also never imagined I’d be sitting around a fire with

develop, be it with a favorite mentor or despised mother-

North Koreans, drinking homemade acorn liquor. I was

in-law. What I’d experienced was just “one, big, propa-

on a fishing boat off the eastern coast when I said hello

gandized show” designed to “elicit sympathy” in the

to a group of locals. They evaluated me—my Korean(ish)

form of “cold, hard cash.”

face, my American sneakers—and just when I expected

I often look back on that moment on the fishing boat,

to be met with a dismissive grunt, one of the men pushed

and it disheartens me to think it might have been staged.

a clam into my hand. It was char-grilled, as meaty as

I wonder, too, about the last words the woman had

beef. A woman offered me her seat—a discarded piece

whispered to me as I—disgraced—gathered my things to

of Styrofoam. She pried apart a clam shell and poured

leave.

into one of the halves a clear liquid. “To your health, little

“Just never forget you’re Chosun,” she said, waving

sister!” she said, and I was made to drink.

away my dollar bills. “It’s the only memory worth holding on to.” PP

We also toasted to “one flowing blood line,” to unity for the Chosun people, to the new memories we were forming. Even my tour guide, standing at the far end

An Interview with

ray bradbury Jackie Bondanza For the past eighty years, Ray Bradbury has dreamed about the future. From trips to Mars and meetings with Martians to encounters with bleak underworlds that shelter metaphorical concepts of a futuristic reality, Bradbury’s illustrious love affair with the written word has taken his fans on a wondrous journey across space and time. His stories, rich with carefully constructed prose and rife with a youthful rhythm, have always managed to evoke a unique combination of feelings of nostalgia for days gone by and feelings of wonder for the future ahead. From his ever-popular Fahrenheit 451 to his newest collection of short stories—Now and Forever—Bradbury continues to encourage us to challenge the lies, to imagine the “what-if,” to find the truth in the make-believe. For a man who has influenced a spectrum of generations and preserved the value of literature on a grand scale, Mr. Bradbury is every bit the modest, genuine man I’d always imagined him to be. These days, he spends most of his time in his study, where he breathes life into new ideas and metamorphoses them into short stories, novels, plays, and movies. Bradbury’s stark white hair is the only characteristic that suggests his age; he still possesses that magical, effervescent glow that instantly reveals his youthful soul. It’s a trait that Bradbury attributes to enjoying life every single day, and to doing what he truly loves. “I’ve never worked a day in my life,” he boasts, when I ask him the key to staying so young. “I’ve played my way through life.” His home surrounds him with all things nostalgic, including his Emmy for The Halloween Tree, bookshelves of classic reads, and his cat Hally, short for Halloween, his favorite holiday. After a lifetime of literary success that has sprawled itself across dozens of novels, collections of short stories, the stage, and the big screen, Bradbury seems intent on continuing to electrify each of these avenues. At ninety, what is most impressive about Bradbury is that every day he sits down to his old-fashioned, standard Underwood

typewriter and plucks away, churning out story after delectable story, impersonating the idea that age is anything but inhibitive. When I first visited Mr. B.—as he is affectionately nicknamed—a few years ago, he was busy putting the finishing touches on his newest work, Now and Forever. I recently caught up with him again to chat about his life, his work, and his uncanny ability to color the world with his extraordinary imagination. Excerpts from both conversations follow, some of which have previously appeared in United Hemispheres magazine.

How has our attention to fantasy and illustration changed over the years? There’s a lot of fantasy around; I mean Harry Potter, look at the success. Millions and

photograph by ralph nelson

millions of dollars have been spent on the fantasy of Harry Potter. And then you’ve got The Fellowship of the Ring, the whole rings series, and the rings films, so millions of dollars have been spent on fantasy films.

You just do. You take a subject and you write So that means we’re paying more attention?

about it and you find out. It’s all a surprise. It’s got to be fun or it’s just not worth doing.

Of course it does, otherwise they wouldn’t In such an era of hypercommercialism, how do writers

spend that much money. I mean, you either

sustain their individuality?

like Harry Potter or you don’t. Millions of children love Harry, so it’s proving the obvious.

Well you can’t guess at the marketplace. I Do you like Harry Potter?

never guess at anything, I am me—I have been me since I was twelve years old. You just live your life

Well I’m too old for it! I mean, I appreciate it,

and write your stories, so you automatically reject the

but I have other things to read. I choose to

commercialism; you can’t guess at that anyways. If you

read one thing, but I choose to buy Harry Potter for all

set out to write a bestseller, it can’t be done.

my children and all my grandchildren. All kinds of people What do you think our responsibility is as writers today?

read all kinds of things. Eight-year-olds read me and eighty-eight-year-olds read me, so I encompass the complete spectrum of readers.

To be yourself. It’s the only answer.

You’ve said that good writers must know their subconscious, and must learn to tip themselves over.

That’s a great answer. Is that how you have been

How do we know when to do that?

successful over the years?

slice

issue 8

I never thought about it. I live, I exist, I am

and on the stairs leading up to the second floor was the

being myself in living and existing, and other

strawberry window. And I’d go up and look out the

people are glad for me and pay attention. You can’t

yellow window at all the Oriental people, and the

guess at this.

strawberry window which made people into red Indians, and the blue window which made people look like they

At the end of Zen in the Art of Writing you emphasize

had been dead for a whole year! I put the stained glass

the importance of work but in a positive way. Have you

windows into many stories.

always felt that way? You explain in your introduction to Dandelion Wine Do it every day, but it’s got to be fun. I’ve

(one of my personal favorites) that the book, like many

never worked a day in my life! I’ve played—all

of your works, came as a surprise. Can you explain the

my stories are blissful. I’ve played my way through life.

word-association process that enabled you to become

I’ve never agonized.

a better writer?

Someone who interviewed you a long time ago said

It all goes on inside my head when I’m waking

that Fahrenheit 451 is disturbing because it’s no longer

up in the morning. It’s not really any kind of

disturbing. Do you agree?

process, but it’s more like my early morning dreams, which wake me and send me to my typewriter to get

Well, it should disturb you and make you

them down on paper.

think about what libraries are, and what What’s your favorite pastime?

philosophy is, and what politics are, and what customs are, and habits. All these things go into it, and how we behave and how we treat libraries and reading and that

Writing! It’s the love of my life. I love the theater also. During the last forty years I’ve

experience.

formed a theater group and I’ve put on forty plays at What message do you hope future generations take

various theaters around LA. So that’s a great love; I’ve

from Fahrenheit 451?

been in love with theater since I was in high school. I love to write, but I love seeing my things on the stage.

Well, I just hope that the book is read, that’s

And my third love is cinema; seeing Fahrenheit as a film

all. These things, you can’t think about them;

is a very thrilling experience. So I have many loves.

you just have to get your work done and let people Looking back on your career at this point, how have

decide.

your approaches to writing changed over the years and what are some of the mistakes you made? What

What do you think measures success?

are some of the most fruitful approaches? Success is a stupid word. Just tell me you love me, that’s all, that’s success.

Again, it comes back to the dream-theater in my head first thing in the morning. I’ve always

I’m sure all your fans have their favorite Bradbury

been this way. Of course when I was in my late teens

story. Mine is “The Strawberry Window.” Did you have

and early twenties, I wasn’t a very good writer, but I

a strawberry window in your house as a child?

persisted and gradually became a better writer. I think it also helped that I read every book I could get my hands

I grew up in Illinois, and I lived next door to

on; I truly love literature, and many books and styles

my grandparents. And they had a big house

guided me. One approach that has always worked for

an interview with ray bradbury jackie bondanza

me is simply going to the typewriter, putting anything and everything down, and not worrying about what I’m writing. I then go back later, look over what I’ve written that morning, and move on from there. What keeps you so young? Writing every day and doing what you love keeps you young. When we last spoke, you were working on Now and Forever and a new edition of The Halloween Tree. What are you working on now? I’m currently working on a new collection of short stories, which should be out sometime next year. If you had one piece of advice to give to new and emerging writers what would it be? Do what you love and love what you do. Write for love, not for money; the money will come later, but you must do this out of love for the written word. Let’s hear what’s in store for the future of science

Ray Bradbury

fiction. The future of science fiction will be absolutely

on the Great American Novel

fantastic because people love science fiction.

Bradbury says that deciding whether or not the

Many of the major films being made today are science

great American novel has ever been written is

fiction, and if you just look around and see the money

subjective to what one perceives a great American

that’s been made, it’s either from science fiction or

novel to be. Below is a list of a few of his personal

fantasy fiction.

favorite books, which he considers contenders for the title.

What’s the one thing you’d like people to remember

Moby Dick by Herman Melville Tender is the Night by F. Scott Fitzgerald The Sun Also Rises by Ernest Hemingway The Grapes of Wrath by John Steinbeck

about you? The fact that I love life and I wanted to influence people to be aware of the fact that they’re alive and to appreciate it and to fall in love with the fact that they’re alive. A lot of people wander through the world and don’t realize how fortunate they are.

Dorian in Germany Koa Beck

Dorian had been the daughter forever second

“I can see it.” Her roommate, the buxom Texan with a

from the left.

fur coat, exhaled smoke out the window. “It’s right here,

In the photographs that lined the mantels, she wasn’t

see? In the nose. That’s it.” Dorian nodded and held the photo up to her desk

quite the youngest—the patterns of her dress a little indistinguishable as she twirled in the summer of 1936,

lamp. Contemplating the soft curls upon her nephew’s

hugging her sister close by the tire swing.

head before returning to her physics homework. She was said to often bite pencils in class and shift

She laughed only in bright red lipstick, which became a deep gray that defined her mouth. In the photos of her

in her seat. “Nervous habit,” her mother observed as

as a teenager, she seemed a little wise as she crossed

she reached out to put a hand on Dorian’s leg. Pulling

her ankles over various park benches. In those from

at the doilies on the table and plucking petals from

years earlier, she popped out a bit of hip as she tried

the vase, Dorian often compiled them all into a little

on her mother’s hats and held strings of pearls to her

mound, which she guarded and protected as others

mouth. Round in the cheeks then and smiling into the

watched her. Then she would get up and promptly

camera under taffeta and bows. Not yet four years old,

throw the whole mess away.

and already smiling.

They received many letters from her while she was

In the last photo of her taken before she left home,

away. Their mother always read them at the table after

she stood by the bedroom window near the flowerbed.

dinner. Slowing down her own nervous voice to assume

Folded arms as she laughed out into the garden.

that of her daughter, often long and deep. Dorian wrote

She didn’t go far. A small women’s college that their father said bred strong female character.

about the cold showers in the morning or the way her roommate hummed from her bed.

“Good morals,” he had rattled from the other room,

“I’m not sure I belong here,” was one of the

signing the first check and insisting that a good stamp should be placed upon the envelope. “We don’t want

lines scrawled at the bottom. A little distant from

them making any assumptions about us.”

the previous paragraph and floating just above her signature.

She had hugged her pregnant sister first. Barely

She didn’t talk about school much when she was

nineteen, Eleanor would be a mother twice before she was twenty-one. She and her husband named their first

home. Fingering dinner rolls and answering questions

son after her, Dorian Fitzgerald, sending Dorian photos

dutifully with nods and shakes of the head. “I’m tired.” She brought her napkin to her mouth.

in her second semester and insisting that he resembled

“May I go lie down?”

her in every way.

photograph by Jen Altman

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issue 8

Her brother remembered being instructed not to

coffee on the carpets and dropped newspapers by

disturb her, and so he merely watched her from the long

accident. Walking from room to room with a secret

corridor. Bringing little wooden trucks up to his face and

between them as they studied the drapes and the dining

reaching up as she stepped over him on her way to the

room table. “All of this has to go.” His mother shook her head and

bathroom. “Not now, Brandon.”

pulled chairs from their places.

“Is she sick?” he asked his parents.

He spotted new napkin rings made of silver on the

“No.”

counter. A new sofa that he was instructed not to sit on

It wasn’t quite moping, what she did, but rather long yawns by the daybed, always too sleepy for breakfast

when coming in from outdoor play, and a tablecloth that

and not hungry for dinner.

was only brought out for birthdays and the birth of new babies.

“Tell mother I can’t.” She held the door open a bit

“What’s happening?”

before pulling away and crawling back into bed.

He was told there would be a visitor this holiday sea-

He made up stories to explain her behavior. Theorized over the exhaustion of his older sister, somehow

son. Someone special for Dorian and that they were to

different from when his father collapsed into the arm-

make a good impression. The following Friday Brandon was stuffed into a

chair after work. Her steps lighter in the kitchen, and her

button-up shirt that itched his neck and wrists. Prohib-

appetite curbed only by cookies and biscuits.

ited from the backyard and told to stop fidgeting.

Brandon strained to pull dishes from the top counter, his mother eventually pulling them down for him while

Brandon was the one who saw him first.

in conversation with his father. Their voices low over

Coming down the driveway in a suit with all these dif-

the running water as they considered another semester,

ferent pieces. He had never seen anything like it before.

another school year. As she reached for the faucet, she

Brown with some type of green on the inside. He held Dorian’s hand and eyed their front door for

puzzled over what Dorian could possibly be missing, in

the first time. Kissing Dorian lightly on the cheek as her

this house full of love.

parents rushed over the clatter of plates to receive them.

“Will she go back?”

He was narrow in the face and introduced himself with

His parents nodded, and he observed the detailing on the suitcases by the door. How tightly Dorian had

touches to his pocket watch. Gold with a ticking so loud

pulled her hair back that morning and the last glass of

that Brandon counted the seconds from across the table. “Hello there, old man.” He knelt down.

water she drank before she left.

“Hi,” Brandon mumbled and looked to Dorian, who

That fall there were no letters. She called once to

stood straighter than he remembered.

say that she had arrived safely, and the click from the

“Why does he talk funny?” Brandon asked as he fol-

telephone was louder than the rain outside, or the hail-

lowed his mother into the kitchen.

storm that followed.

“It’s an accent, darling. He is from Alabama.”

“Today, you will start the third grade,” his mother

Brandon ate most of the cookies on the table as Ron-

said, beaming. That was the year he often paused to look at the photographs on the wall as he learned how

ald spoke; the twangs in his words made Dorian smile

to multiply and divide.

as she cupped her grins with her hands. She began to shimmer when the word “nuptials” entered the room and

“Where is Dorian?” He looked for her face some-

he described a house with a wraparound porch and red

where within that of his mother.

shutters.

“You know where she is.” She collected the toys

Their mother cleared the table with another smile

off the floor and walked away.

and asked if anyone wanted more cake.

But before Thanksgiving there was a surge of

Ronald spoke about other countries he had trav‑

envelopes. He recognized her handwriting on the

eled. Described long luxurious ships and his mother’s

coffee table and saw his parents smile. They spilled

dorian in germany

koa beck

Before the previous year, Dorian had never been outside the state. She dreamed of the lakes beyond the neighboring towns and the forests that she had been warned of as a child. Stretches of green and mountains that you could never walk to; you needed a car to get there. And yet, Ronald spoke of places even farther.

“No,” his mother smiled again and pulled at her earring studs. She said they were going to Alabama, to visit his family just like they had done here. Brandon paused and thought about a room full of people who all spoke like Ronald. The wall fixtures and photographs surely swinging back and forth with the force of such a peculiar vernacular. His parents held hands and spoke about Dorian as if she were now much older. “Leaving the family,” they said, and perhaps starting one of her own. “You might be an uncle again,” they told Brandon. “Someday. Someday soon.” He pondered her face in the mud castles he built and thought of her lightly as he aligned his tiny toy soldiers by the back door. Thinking of her in that big house with brand-new furniture and expensive curtains. But there was a phone call very late at night. So loud and persistent that he stirred with the voices in the kitchen. He heard the car in the driveway start up sud-

predilection for bone marrow in Paris. The time he

denly, and then everything went silent.

wandered too close to the Mediterranean Sea and was

In the morning, he was told to walk quietly down the

nearly swept out to Sicily.

hall and be considerate when opening and shutting the

Brandon watched Ronald’s hands move across the

front door.

table and thought of his sister.

“Why?”

Before the previous year, Dorian had never been

She was home again. Having called from the train

outside the state. She dreamed of the lakes beyond the

station with indistinguishable sobs. The only words they

neighboring towns and the forests that she had been

could make out were, “Please, come get me.”

warned of as a child. Stretches of green and mountains

She slept for days, it seemed. Never required to

that you could never walk to; you needed a car to get

come sit at the table for meals and unable to take phone

there. And yet, Ronald spoke of places even farther.

calls. The only times he saw her were on her vacant

Foods even more exotic. Whole cities where no matter

shuffles to the bathroom, her face gaunt as she acknowl-

how hard you looked, there was not a shred of English.

edged him with a downward glance.

He promised her parents that they would visit these

“Sorry, Brandon,” she said, stepping over his toys

places together and bring back souvenirs for the home.

again.

Carpets and vases. Teas and silks.

Brandon didn’t say Ronald’s name at dinner, but

Brandon was instructed to shake the young man’s

remembered his voice as dessert appeared. Playing with

hand and say “nice to meet you.”

the icing, he finally asked his parents if there was still

“Nice to meet you too, old man.” Ronald smiled at

going to be that big house with the red shutters and

him again.

if Dorian was still going to bring them presents from

Dorian knelt down to hug him and said she would see

abroad.

him again in the summer.

They looked to each other and spoke about the need

“Where is she going now?” Brandon asked after they

to take out the flower bed by the back bedroom win-

had left. He was collecting place mats from the table. “Is

dow. Weeds had taken it over, they said, and it was no

she going back to school?”

longer beautiful.

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issue 8

«.»

biscuits and set hot chunks of meat upon the table, as asked. Uncles and aunts told her not to bother, though,

Light and voiceless, she had stayed through the

and whispered that she had been through enough. They

snow and the holidays, and no one mentioned anything

hugged her frail form in the kitchen and told her to

about a spring semester when February came.

come visit. She nodded and said a few words, just a few decibels

Brandon often watched her leave for work in the morning, just a bit earlier than when he would leave for

louder than the sound of the mice her mother was cer-

school. Off to “mix sundaes and banana splits all day at

tain she heard skirting the laundry room floor. After about a month, suitcases were taken down

the soda fountain,” she said, donning a white nurse-like

from the hall closet.

uniform and lacing up white shoes in the living room. He

“Who is leaving?” He studied them, barefoot, before

thought she looked awfully tired every night when she

breakfast.

came home; removing her coat was a laborious task.

“Dorian,” his mother announced. “Dorian is going on

When flowers and trees began to thaw, Brandon

a trip.”

wasn’t sure what to tell the other kids at school. Without the disguise of hat and mittens, it was obvious that that

“Where?”

drifting figure by the market was Dorian Shelley. Cover-

“Over the ocean. Very far. She is going to Germany.” Squirreling money and tips away for such an occa-

ing her face with newspapers and sacks of fruit, she disappeared from the aisles before anyone could begin

sion. Getting out of the town for a while, but neverthe-

a conversation.

less leaving one snowstorm for another. “But who will you stay with? What will you do?”

“I thought your sister was away at school!” a boy across the playground shouted over the thump of base-

their mother pleaded with her at the door. “Why

ball into glove.

Germany?” Dorian paused and held her suitcases tightly. She

“She was!” Brandon heaved the ball back. “She’s on

said there was no tea or nice silks in Germany. She could

vacation now!”

speak a little English if she wanted to, and most impor-

“Everyone knows vacations are only at Christmas and

tant of all, “He’s never been there, Mother.”

in the summer!” The boy held the ball back and wound

Dorian didn’t hug Brandon good-bye but glanced at

his wrist. “Why does she get extra?”

him only as she climbed the driveway.

“I heard your sister was going to get married,” piped up a tough girl on the outskirts, a long scratch of dirt on

«.»

her cheek. “Oh yeah?” Brandon chucked the ball back to the

At first, she was gone for a few days. Then two

boy. “Who’d you hear that from?” “My mom. Your mom told my mom in the grocery

weeks. Then a month.

line at Thanksgiving. But now my mom says that’s not

When everyone began to ask him if Dorian had gone

going to happen because she wasn’t good enough for

back to school, Brandon just nodded and said, “Yeah.”

the other family.”

Surely a trip to Germany would be more difficult to

Brandon paused and clutched the ball in his fingers.

explain.

“Yeah? And where did she hear that lie?”

He stopped asking his parents when she would be

“Around,” said the girl. “It’s true, isn’t it?”

back, what he should get her for her birthday, why he

Brandon shrugged and received the hard ball right at

had a missing sister.

his chest. He plummeted backward and got a visit to the

“Where is she?” He pushed at his oatmeal.

nurse instead of a science lesson.

“In Germany.”

Dorian became an odd decoration during big family

“But where?” He pulled maps from the library and

dinners. She dutifully assisted in the arrangement of

studied the cities. Frankfurt. Berlin. Hamburg. Munich.

dorian in germany

koa beck

He didn’t say anything though, and just watched

“Which one?” He showed them to his mother. “Where is

Brandon devour his dinner before dismissing him from

Dorian?”

the table.

She told him to take the books away from the sink, as

When fall came and school started again, his parents

they would get wet.

called him into the living room. From opposite sides of

“Go outside,” she said.

the sofa, the sofa that had been purchased when Dorian

«.»

came home, they explained that he didn’t have an older sister anymore.

Then, there was a letter. He recognized her hand-

“There will be your oldest sister, of course.” Married

writing and brought it down the driveway, victorious.

with two babies now, and that was fine. They both nod-

Waving it about, he exclaimed, “I found Dorian! I found

ded. “But Dorian is not a part of this family anymore.” They said that she was never born and had never ex-

Dorian!”

isted in this house. That if people asked after her, he was

His parents quickly plucked the letter from him and

to say that they must be mistaken. That he didn’t know

read the words together under the kitchen lamp.

whom they were talking about. That he was one of only

“What does it say?” He hopped up to try to read

two children in his family.

with them.

“But—” He studied them both. “Why?”

His mother brought her hand to her mouth and

They sighed and said that Dorian had done some-

looked to his father, who seemed to be hardening in

thing unforgivable. That she had offended them.

front of the refrigerator.

“What does that word mean?” He kicked the heels of

“I will write to her about this.” He folded the letter

his shoes together, and they explained again.

in half.

“It means”—his mother took the reins—“that people

“Does she say where she is? What city? I want to look

don’t love you anymore.”

it up!”

Brandon watched the photos of her disappear from

He heard the click of his mother’s shoes all the way back into the bedroom, and then the slam of the door.

the mantel. Removed from picture frames and placed

His father set right to work in the office, leaving his door

methodically into shoe boxes. When his father disap-

ajar. Brandon watched him mulling over certain words

peared with a box full of Dorian’s things, bound for the

before crossing them out. He selected different tones as

trash, Brandon stole one of the shoe boxes and hid it

he reread certain lines to himself, and then started new

under his bed. As time passed, he revisited the pictures of her.

letters on new sheets of paper.

Reaching new ages and arriving upon different birth-

Dorian wrote back a few more times that year, her letters concealed as they got swept up in the monthly

days with her in mind. He pulled out the photos to see

bills and his mother’s women’s magazines. Deep sighs

what she had looked like on her twelfth birthday. What

and disgruntlement seeping out from his father’s office

she had looked like when she had been thirteen. He

as new letters were drafted in response.

sometimes compared their faces in the mirror. Holding the photo and his face up to the reflection to spot simi-

“Irresponsible” was a word they used a lot as Bran-

larities in the eyes and nose.

don asked to see the letters. “I want to know where she

He never said her name to anyone, and when he

is,” he often said.

arrived at high school, his freshman English teacher

One day, after school, Brandon rummaged through his father’s entire office, pulling out letters to his grand-

asked him if he was of any relation to Miss Dorian

parents and cousins and peering between books and

Shelley.

pictures. He expected a sermon when his father re-

“No, ma’am.” He shook his head. “I am not.”

turned from work and realized that his things had been

“Too bad,” the old woman grumbled. “Brilliant girl, she was.”

gone through.

slice

issue 8

As time passed, he revisited the pictures of her. Reaching new ages and arriving upon different birthdays with her in mind. He pulled out the photos to see what she had looked like on her twelfth birthday. What she had looked like when she had been thirteen. He sometimes compared their faces in the mirror.

Brandon continued to study maps of Germany and trace his fingers over the raised bumps that represented mountains. He read up on all the different cities and the history. Learning the weather patterns and the amounts of snow expected each year. Reading translations of German literature and poems. He rushed through dinner and often skipped dessert. “What for?” His mother stood with two plates in her hands. “I have to finish my books.” He stayed up late, falling asleep with his forehead to printed pages. He would awake suddenly. Leaping from his literary bed and running all the way to school. “Why are you late, Mr. Shelley?” His teacher made him stand before the entire class. “Because I was reading, ma’am.” “Reading?” She crossed him with her ruler. “Reading what? Surely not last night’s reading assignment.” His eyes lowered.

The year he turned sixteen, there was a competition.

“Well?” She eyed him. “What were you reading?”

The contest was for students of Intermediate German

“Goethe, ma’am.” “Goethe?”

only. Write a two-thousand-word essay on the impor-

“Yes, ma’am.”

tance of Martin Luther in the Protestant Reformation,

For his lateness, he would have to write summaries

and you too could look upon the first Lutheran church. “They pay for you to go?” Brandon eyed the yellow

of why he was tardy. His one-page explanations soon blossomed into articulate literary essays. Describing plot

flyer outside his classroom, and the other students nod-

lines and uses of language. The teachers began to whis-

ded as they exited the room. “Yeah,” the boy with red hair said. “And you get to

per that the Shelley boy had a gift for writing.

go to Frankfurt for a whole week.” He pointed to the

As Brandon began his sophomore year, it came time to choose a second language. When he returned home

city, bold and black, upon the flyer. “Are you going to

one day with a German language book, his mother

write one?” It was said that many students of fourth period Inter-

paused and looked at him.

mediate German were considering the contest. But once

“German?” She squinted. “But why? Why not

it became known that Brandon Shelley would also be

French?”

making the endeavor, prospective contestants hesitated.

Brandon heard himself lie. He said that the classes

They held their essays very close and lingered over vari-

were smaller with better teachers and more resources.

ous sentences, sounding out problematic phrases and

“I see.” She walked away from the book, eyeing the

reading lines aloud in the bathroom.

cover still. For the next few months, German began to travel

“Have you seen any of his?” They leaned over one

through the house. Hard r’s and thick u’s emanating from

another’s desks and whispered about him as he sat only

Brandon’s bedroom caused his parents to finish meals

a few seats away. They marveled at him each time he

quickly and head off to bed. His mother washed dishes

spoke up in class and wondered where his pronunciation

hurriedly and dried her hands. Taking her women’s

came from. How the words connected and fell with all

magazines into the bedroom and shutting the door.

the right genders, all the right constructions.

dorian in germany

koa beck

creeping into the same office he had ransacked as a child.

“He must have family there,” they said.

He thought for certain that those letters had been

Brandon turned around sharply with a slight aggres-

thrown out, but he mused that inside a drawer or hidden

siveness to his mouth.

in a shelf would be her handwriting. Her last address.

“Well,” one girl said, standing up with her books to

Her last attempt.

her hip, “do you?”

Brandon wasn’t as careful in the office as he had

No. Not in the way that they thought, and so he walked all the way home. Pondering the results and

been when he was younger. He didn’t bother putting

studying the calendar nervously.

the books back in the right order or overlapping the paper clips as he had found them. He scattered the

When Brandon did win, as everyone had expected, the

papers haphazardly and pulled out files and newspaper

teacher presented the prize proudly, saying that he had

clippings. The sun began to peek through the window,

never encountered such passion, such a love of Germany.

and he then moved to the closet, pawing through more

“Where do you get it from?” The old man leered over

books and stacks and envelopes. Toward the back, a

his glasses.

sewing box had toppled over. Brandon began to collect

Brandon looked to the ground and mumbled something about intellectual curiosity and scuttled back to

the pincushions and needles, reaching back beyond the

his seat.

shelf for thimbles and thread. With his knees to the floor, he felt his hand graze a

When he told his parents, his mother dropped her

geometric shape in the dark. The long line underneath

fork onto her plate and looked to her husband. “And what is it exactly that you won?”

the shadow just visible as he reached out to touch a

“Frankfurt.” He folded his arms. “For a week.”

shoe box, almost identical to the one he had saved as a

They exchanged glances again and looked at their

boy. The same dark cover. The same beige box. Folded inside were photographs. Ones from other

son on the other side of the table: strange again, and

birthdays and other occasions that he recognized. Some

empathetic in the eyes.

were as recent as Dorian’s departure for college. The

“But, why?” His mother held herself erect. “Why

necklace around her neck familiar. The smile less warm.

leave?”

He searched them, the missing pieces to his collec-

Brandon used the words that he thought were appropriate. He described opportunities and the cities that

tion, remarking the dates hastily written on the backs

he had always seen in photographs.

as he counted out her age. He held up a charm bracelet

“I could go,” he said. “I could see them. For myself.”

to the light and studied the pieces that dangled. As he

They shrugged and began discussing the salt on the

tucked the tarnished silver back into the box, he felt the beginnings of envelopes with his fingers. Under jewelry

table. The bitterness. It wasn’t fresh.

and ratty keepsakes, he identified exactly three. Ripped

“I was hoping—” Brandon pushed his plate to the far

open at the top. The return address just legible.

side. “I was hoping that I might see—that I might be able to speak to Dorian while I was there.”

«.»

Her name sounded flat in the air. Flat and airless as though pulled out from under carpets, books, and the depths of hall closets. Dry syllables that cracked and

He didn’t read them until he was on the boat.

disintegrated in actual speech.

Beneath a rusty pipe he read the first letter dated eight

His mother immediately got up and left the table, still

years before, detailing her arrival in Munich and her ac-

clutching her napkin to her side. His father didn’t say

commodations. She wrote that she was learning German

anything, but paused after a few chews and said that the

and had fallen in with a crowd of artists who often met

salt was, indeed, bad.

in the café around the corner from her flat.

The night that he was supposed to leave, Brandon

On the first line of the second paragraph, she boldly

kept his steps light. Moving his suitcases into the hall and

wrote that she had married one of them. His name was

slice

issue 8

Dieter, and he was more than twenty years her senior.

their faces, only somewhat present as the tour guide lectured.

“I am not alone in this country,” she wrote, “because I have found love. Don’t feel sorry for me.”

«.»

She said they would be traveling east before deciding on a city in which to settle.

On the day Brandon was scheduled to sit in on

“Write me should you like to visit,” she added cheekily at the end.

a German literature course at Frankfurt University, he

Brandon shifted on the dirty floor and pulled out the

disappeared. The professors waiting to receive the boy

second letter; the return address was a small town out-

wonder from America folded their arms and even held

side of Wehr. Her tone was more forthright and brief as

classes back by twenty minutes as they held lists in their

she said they were looking into a house in Saarbrücken

hands. Books they hoped to discuss with him and maybe

so that she might be close to Paris.

even the possibility of trying a conversation in English.

“Dieter says that I will adore the French and appreci-

They floundered for a phone number, calling his hotel

ate the museums.”

only to hear unanswered rings and the hotel desk saying

“And no,” she wrote curtly, “I will not consider an

they had no other number.

annulment.”

Brandon handed his passport to the guard who came

The last letter displayed the return address as Saar-

through the train aisle.

brücken; perhaps, Brandon considered, that very house

He studied Brandon’s passport and looked up at him

that she had discussed purchasing in the previous letter.

with soft inquisitiveness.

“I will no longer maintain a spiteful correspond-

“Amerikaner?” he said.

ence,” she opened. “Come. Visit. Meet my husband.” She

Brandon nodded, as the guard was probably only a

skipped down to the next line. “Or, don’t.”

few years older than he was.

Brandon reread the line as he imagined her flirting

In German, Brandon asked him if he was familiar with

with their threats. Mulling over the words she chose as

these smaller towns they were entering. Specifically

their father had done and deciding upon the ones that

Saarbrücken.

held more weight. More force. He wondered if she was

“Die adresse.” He held up the letter.

shocked by their response, taken aback by their final

The guard said that Saarbrücken was quite small, and

reply, or whether she saw it coming all along.

that most residences could easily be reached on foot.

He pulled his various maps from his pockets and

Brandon thanked him and turned to the window;

traced the trains bound for Saarbrücken.

there was heavy snowfall.

«.»

Frankfurt, Brandon thought, was a city encased

The street signs were easy for Brandon to read.

in fog and cold water. He wrote to his parents that the

He pondered the smoking chimneys and arrived at a

night during which he had arrived was still present in

fork in the road. The snow was fresh under his feet,

this new morning, heavy in pockets of clouds over news-

and he noticed a few round faces watching him from

paper stands and clinging to the sides of buildings.

a small bakery.

“Today,” he wrote, “I went to the house of Goethe.”

He entered, a little startled as a single bell jangled

He had climbed the stairs and touched the furniture,

behind him. An older woman with gray hair and a towel

peeking into wardrobes and deep into bookshelves.

in her hands smiled at his arrival.

A German tour group had grazed his shoulder as he

He presented her with the same address and asked

studied the first recorded map of Frankfurt; their

her which way. She studied the exterior of the letter and

German had been thick and heavy as he watched

motioned to the left side of the fork. He thanked her

dorian in germany

koa beck

and smiled too. As he was turning to exit, she inquired

back an apology from the road. He had suddenly forgot-

sweetly whom he was hoping to see.

ten the word for “mistake.” Fehler. That was it.

Brandon paused, realizing this was a small town,

The older man pushed back a bit of his thin, gray hair and called into the house. He said that there was a boy

almost like home.

at the door. To come look for herself.

“Frau Shelley,” he said her name, hoping to see then

“Dorian,” he called her once more, his accent per-

another smile, some sign of recognition. Seeing none, he remembered that his sister had married. “Err . . .” The

haps summoning a different somebody to the door than

man’s surname escaped him. “Frau Dieter?”

Brandon remembered. She appeared, long in the throat and jaw as she

She said she didn’t understand but continued to smile.

pulled her hands from an apron.

He described a woman. Very tall and thin with

“Brandon?” She said his name across the snow, smil-

dark hair. “Eine Amerikanerin?”

ing as she remarked on his height and reached out to

“Ja.” He nodded.

him from the doorstep. She embraced him and said she didn’t have any English words to say. “I’ve forgotten a

The older woman nodded back and said that the

lot of them.”

woman was usually home around this time. That he

Dorian led Brandon to a tiny kitchen in the back of

should follow the path to the edge of the hill and go to

the house.

the brown house at the very top.

“This room is always the warmest because of the

He thanked her and made a second attempt for the

oven.”

door, her voice sweet again as she asked him if he was

On the counter were sprinkles of flour and several

hungry.

mixing bowls.

“Es schneit,” she said to him and produced a basket

“Please.” She pulled out a chair for him and removed

from under the counter. “Brown bread,” she said in bro-

his coat. She brushed more flour from her apron and put

ken English. “Fresh.”

a kettle on the black stove. “Do you like tea?” She turned

He hesitated and took a piece. He thanked her in

to him suddenly. “I don’t remember.”

German.

He nodded. “Tea is fine.”

«.»

He watched her move, almost robotically, as she gathered cups from the cupboard and chose saucers. He

The house that the baker woman described

recognized her precise manner as she placed everything

was just like the many others he had passed. Brandon

on the table, in the way she cleared the spaces and

paused as he examined the address in his hand once

aligned the plates.

more. As he approached the wooden door, he thought

“Do you need help?”

of polite phrases for “I’m sorry, I think I have the wrong

“No.” She shook her head fiercely. “I’m fine.” As she took her seat, she spoke about the winter, and

house” or “Sorry to have bothered you.”

how this was one of the coldest she had ever seen.

Before he could knock, however, an older man in a

“I shiver sometimes.” She mimed the action. “In the

flannel shirt and gray trousers opened the door. He asked

night. You know.”

Brandon if he could help him, if he was lost. His German

She began to speak about her first visits to the coun-

was thick and hard, and startled Brandon into English.

try and how she had been unable to find a proper coat.

“I’m sorry, I—” He hesitated.

“I was always cold,” she said. “All the time.”

The older man studied him, his deep-set eyes squint-

She spoke about the days when her German wasn’t

ing in his heavy eyelids. “Amerikaner? Nicht wahr?”

that good and how she would go weeks with only hellos

Brandon nodded, his own German in pieces in his

and thank yous to sustain her. “It was all I knew. It was all I knew how to say.”

mouth. He considered backing away slowly and yelling

slice

issue 8

she said that it was as she had expected. That those

She said she caught on, though, and was first invited

times when she had seen them, sitting miles away in a

to speak via the rich red abstracts on the wall.

home that she had forgotten, old and set in their ways,

“That one, right over there.” She pointed to a paint-

not speaking, had not been dreams after all.

ing just by the doorway. “He had it out at the café, and

“It’s true,” she finished in English and nodded.

he asked me, ‘What do you see?’”

Dieter didn’t comment but watched Brandon.

She picked the obvious words first. “Rot.” Red. “Linien.” Lines. “Dreieck.” Triangle. He had asked what else.

“Do you speak German, Brandon?” Dorian asked.

He asked her how they made her feel.

Brandon hesitated, intimidated by his sister and her husband. He wanted to say that he was considered the

Angry, she thought. “Ärgerlich.” She had chosen the

best speaker in his class, but that wasn’t really what she

word without thinking and turned to his face.

was asking.

He had smiled and brought a new painting the fol-

“Ask”—she pointed to Dieter—“ask him something in

lowing day, a different one with lots of blues and new

German. And I’ll just listen.”

shapes. He had asked the same questions, and she had

Brandon sipped again and searched the table.

begun to pull from the ends of her own vocabulary, to

He knew then that, in forming his words, he was mak-

strain for new words that weren’t quite “sad” or “unhap-

ing mistakes. As he pieced the words together, he hoped

py,” but “qualen,” for anguish, and “verloren,” for lost.

that Dieter would see through his errors to the meaning

“It just kept going like that.” She smiled and held her

beneath, as from across the empty plates he asked if

hands to one side of her lap. “I kept learning that way.”

his sister was happy now. He described her melancholy

She said it all happened a lot faster than she could recall, and soon they had an apartment together some-

through his boyhood and her temperament that he

where close by. He was very good about including her

knew so well. He asked if this was what she had always

in discussions and asking for her opinion in the café, her

wanted. If this kind of life was giving her any peace. Dieter considered the questions carefully and

own voice shaky among all the German ones.

rolled the edges of his cup with his gruff fingers. In a

Dieter shuffled into the kitchen and poured himself some tea, studying their words and observing them be-

deeper, thicker German than his wife’s, he said that

fore taking a seat himself at the other end of the table.

when he first met Dorian, she seemed very young and frightened. “Gebrochen” was the word he chose as he

“Do they know you are here?” She used “they” faintly, looking to her brother then to recognize of whom

remembered her. Always broken and distorted by the

she spoke.

café doors, unsure of whether she should enter, with whom she should speak.

“Yes, th-they do.” He looked into his mug. “Although

He said that now, nearly ten years later, she still

they are not happy about it.” He spoke of his German class and the trip. The woman in the bakery and the

resembled that girl in many ways. So much so that he

maps he had been studying since she left.

thought he hadn’t married a woman, but rather a very little girl.

“What are they like now?” She sipped quietly and

Brandon was unsure of the last part of what Dieter

looked into him, a little shakiness in her wobbling knee.

said, but it was something about the slope of her nose.

He shrugged and looked to Dieter, who also sipped

“Wie, bitte?” Brandon was puzzled.

and pondered.

“That’s how he knew you and I were related,” she in-

“Old.” He didn’t know what else to say.

terrupted in English. She reached out for Brandon’s face

He said that their father was rickety and had stopped

and touched his nose lightly with her finger.

telling jokes. Their mother would say nothing all day and

“You have the same one.” KB

then suddenly ask him to turn the light on in the dining room. “They don’t really talk to me,” he concluded. She nodded as her eyes settled into the table. She sighed before turning to her husband, and in German

Note to Slip in Your Pocket, Never Slipped

Did your mother ask when you’ll bring a wife, purse her lips until they disappeared? Did you show her the ceramic bird then shut it away with the other birthday gifts? You say you’re better off than most married folks you know, and I want to toss off,

erica wright

let’s you and me make a go of it. You can fill your truck bed with hydrangeas. I’ll dig their holes with my hands. Then again, to be honest, I don’t much care for dirt, so let’s scratch the whole thing, can’t we? I never told you about the night your friend sang to me as I clutched his infant son in my lap and asked, when’s Susan getting back from her sister’s? As if my refusal had anything to do with him, he shrank and snapped, you’re holding him wrong. I don’t know how to hold anything. I’m trying to say I’ve only done one thing right, and that was leave. I’m trying to say I can show you how if you’d like: Let your wings grow back; ignore the sores they make on your shoulder blades; welcome the dun-colored feathers and infection.

Pen Names: Helpful Hints on How to Deceive (From the Authors Who Deceived You) Liz Wyckoff

f you’re a writer, you care about your publishing

. . . you’re a woman!

name. You give it serious thought—whether to go

In the literary world, there are plenty of reasons to hide

straight and sophisticated (full name) or quirky and cute

your gender and plenty of women who can show you

(nickname). You deliberate over including your middle

how. The Brontë sisters—Anne (Agnes Grey and The

initial and type variations into blank computer docu-

Tenant of Wildfell Hall), Charlotte (Jane Eyre), and Emily

ments like the autographs you used to scrawl all over

(Wuthering Heights)—published as Acton, Currer, and

your fifth-grade notebooks. And you’re right to care!

Ellis Bell, respectively, for most of their writing careers.

The possibility of a meager, tenuous livelihood as an

In the 1870 preface to Wuthering Heights titled “Bio-

“established” author hangs in the balance.

graphical Notice of Ellis and Acton Bell,” Charlotte very politely stated: “We had a vague impression that author-

In certain cases, however, a rearrangement of your given name just won’t do. This is why some writers take

esses are liable to be looked on with prejudice.” Yes, the

the balls-to-the-wall, full-on fabrication approach and

Brontës were writing in the early nineteenth century, but

change their names completely. Now, this is not for the

this industry is no picnic for modern authoresses either

weak at heart. And if you think a pen name might be

(just ask Jennifer Weiner and Jodi Picoult!). The very bold may take on a man’s name, like George

right for you, you’d be wise to take a few pointers from authors who have used them (with varying degrees of

Eliot (née Mary Ann Evans) or George Sand (née

success) in the past. Do you have what it takes to pull off

Amandine-Aurore-Lucile Dupin), but many women opt

the ultimate literary ruse? Have you got the gumption?

for the more subtle use of their initials. Dorothy Cath-

You might if . . .

erine Fontana wrote much of the Star Trek series as D. C. in order to make her gender ambiguous to readers

Lewis Carroll published Alice’s Adventures in Won-

in the 1960s. And in 1967, Susan Eloise Hinton published

derland and Through the Looking Glass under a moniker

her classic teen saga The Outsiders as S. E.; Viking Press recommended she use the pseudonym to avoid early

because he wanted to keep his creative writing separate

dismissal from male book reviewers. Even as recently as

from the products of his day job as a mathematical lec-

1997, Bloomsbury encouraged Joanne Rowling, author

turer at Oxford. The pen name allowed Charles Lutwidge

of the Harry Potter series, to publish as J. K. so as not

Dodgson to publish An Elementary Treatise on Deter-

to alienate any young male readers. Take-away lesson:

minants without receiving any flack from his colleagues

if your name reveals your womanhood, abbreviate; and

about that hookah-smoking caterpillar. On the other end of this spectrum, Theodor Seuss

remember, you can’t go wrong with George.

Geisel inflated his level of education with the pen name

. . . you want to conceal your ethnicity!

Dr. Seuss. This author of a seemingly endless list of children’s classics (including my favorites: Horton Hears a

As an author, your cultural heritage can play a heavy

Who! and There’s a Wocket in My Pocket!) took the title

hand in determining your success. For example, in 1984,

Dr. to tease his father, who had always hoped Theodor

writer Danny Santiago won a fiction prize from the

would earn a doctorate at Oxford. Take-away lesson:

American Academy and Institute of Arts and Letters

pseudonyms can enable you to quit your job without ac-

for his novel Famous All Over Town, which features a

tually quitting, and to achieve a degree without actually

Chicano teen as its protagonist. Soon after the prize was

going to school.

awarded, however, Santiago’s given name was revealed: Daniel James. Turns out this author was actually a

. . . you’re kind of a big deal!

seventy-three-year-old, white, former Communist Party

Authors lucky enough to become famous sometimes

member—not exactly the novelist from the barrio the

adopt pseudonyms in order to, incredibly enough, es-

prize panel might have imagined.

cape their fame. Stephen King has written many novels under the name Richard Bachman (which he apparently

George Orwell, famed author of the dystopian novels Nineteen Eighty-Four and Animal Farm, also used a

chose to profess his love of Bachman-Turner Overdrive).

nom de plume. The author chose not to stick with his

And Nora Roberts has adopted the name J. D. Robb in

given name, Eric Arthur Blair, because he felt Eric was

order to publish even more romance novels to fill the

too Norse and Blair too Scottish. Some scholars believe

shelf space right before the seven shelves already dedi-

that the names George (common among Christians) and

cated to her work published as Roberts.

Orwell (an English river) allowed Blair to distance himself

In the 1980s, Doris Lessing secretly submitted two

from his privileged, middle-class background. Take-away

novels to her UK publisher under the name Jane Somers,

lesson: obscuring your roots with a pseudonym often al-

attempting to prove that it was not her talent as much

lows you to more fully connect with your readers.

as her status that continued to earn her publication. Results of the experiment were ultimately inconclusive,

. . . you have another job!

however, because the books were accepted by Alfred A.

Not many of us fall into this category nowadays, but

Knopf. Take-away lesson: if you’re a bestselling author,

pseudonyms have been proven to effectively disguise

a pen name might be a fun way for you to rub other writ-

an author’s other profession (if the author happens to

ers’ unpublished faces in it.

have one). John le Carré uses a pseudonym to publish

In the end, whether you are a woman who secretly

his spy novels (The Spy Who Came in from the Cold, The

dreams of Klingons, a mathematician who dreams of

Constant Gardener, and many others) because, well, he

Bandersnatches, or just an incredibly prolific writer who

was actually a spy. David John Moore Cornwell worked

loves “You Ain’t Seen Nothing Yet,” a pseudonym could

for British military intelligence as he developed many of

do for your writing career what nothing else can. Except,

the novels he published as le Carré.

maybe, writing well. LW

An Interview with

joshua ferris celia blue johnson & maria gagliano Imagine walking, though this isn’t your average afternoon stroll. You have no control over your direction or when you’ll stop. This typically mundane action is a burden, a sickness unlike any other you’ve ever confronted and one that you may never escape. And you’ve stumbled into the life of Tim Farnsworth, the protagonist in Joshua Ferris’s second novel, The Unnamed. At first glance, this new book seems completely different from Ferris’s debut, Then We Came to the End, which is told from the collective viewpoint of a group of cubicle- and office-bound advertising professionals. But both books share something in common: they focus on people who are pushed to an extreme. In different scenarios, Ferris considers just what it means to explore the terrifying places that lie beyond personal limitations. One of Ferris’s most outstanding gifts is his ability to create something extraordinary out of what seems like routine existence. When we chatted with Brooklyn-based Ferris, he offered insight into this creative process and then took us back to his childhood and to the worlds of make-believe that helped shape his own views on writing.

How did you come up with the idea of Tim’s unknown

greatest challenge is not mere adjustment, but the

walking ailment in The Unnamed? Was it inspired by

continuing effort to find meaning in a compromised life.

any real-life conditions, or did you take special care to

My character’s disease may be unique to him and the

make it unlike anything that the average person could

world—I wanted to avoid all the predictable pigeonholes

experience or understand? If so, why?

of diagnosis and treatment—but hopefully the questions it arouses are familiar to anyone with a chronic illness.

Sickness is unique to the sufferer no matter The Unnamed calls into question how we think about

how common it might be in general, because it always happens to one individual who, until the moment

diseases, particularly with the juxtaposition of cancer

strikes, has been free of this particular illness. It’s always

and the unknown ailment. Did you discover new

strange, foreign, unwelcome, and challenging. The

concepts about disease and suffering throughout the

process of writing the book? Or were most of your

After a kind of mental breakdown, set off by the return

ideas already shaped before you began?

of the walking, he starts to discourse with his body, almost to do battle with it. Formally that was a chal-

They were in place prior to writing the book,

lenge. The risk was not a fear of failure, but of distin-

but in an inchoate or subconscious way. Most

guishing between the walking (incurable, corporeal) and

writing to me is discovery. So the writing unearthed

the schizophrenia (treatable, mental)—of distinguishing

many ideas about sickness, meaning, significance,

between the disaster of the body wrought by the

love. It brought them into the light and made them

walking and the mental despair of its return.

clearer objects for examination. This is especially true for the dynamic of Tim’s family, how his wife and his

In The Unnamed, Jane realizes that she and her

daughter dealt with the sickness and related—or failed

husband can never completely understand each

to—with Tim.

other. They are described as “two inviolable spheres touching at a fine point in their own curves, touching

Did that discovery process result in any unexpected

but failing to penetrate.” How do they negotiate their

turns or breakthroughs as you were writing? What was

relationship with this distance? Do you feel that there

one of the most surprising discoveries as the story and

are any points when they are able to grasp more than a

characters unfolded?

fine point?

One big discovery was the dialogue that Tim

Marriage is often misunderstood, both for

has with himself in the third part of the book.

good and ill. It’s easy to take a superficial peek

photograph by Nina Subin

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issue 8

into someone’s marriage and believe it’s constant and

While the worlds in the two novels are vastly different,

loving, an assessment fiction teaches us is more likely to

that journey away from “the good life” is a very real

be foolhardy than accurate. On the other hand, if we

struggle in both cases. How did that major change

based our understanding of the state of marriage on

affect your characters? What would you say they

fiction alone, we’d be forced to take a rather grim view. I

learned along the way?

didn’t want marriage in The Unnamed to be used as another vehicle for dramatic conflict. I wanted to show

There are quite a few characters in Then We

the way that proximity to our closest loved ones is often

Came to the End, and they all deal with layoffs

a thing in radical flux, for reasons barely discernable by

differently. There is no one lesson they learn or one

the people involved. And I wanted to do this in a

exact way in which they deal. Some act recklessly, some

heightened way. An un-diagnosable and incurable

cower in fear. In The Unnamed, Tim’s sickness makes him

disease made that possible.

regard the world in a fundamentally different way than, say, his colleagues at his law firm do.

In both of your novels, characters are forced out of

It’s the nature of a certain type of fiction to delineate

their normal existences—by an unknown catalyst in

the particulars of each character’s experience, and the

The Unnamed and layoffs in Then We Came to the End.

nature of all fiction (at least that worthy of the label) to

What drew you to write about the boundaries that

avoid articulating a collective lesson. That’s the nature

keep people locked in to everyday worlds and the

of fable, not novels.

possibilities beyond them? What is your writing process? Do you work from detailed outlines or let the story unfold as you write?

I like extreme behavior. Fiction benefits from extreme behavior. Characters in both books have the rug pulled from under them, and they have to

Always unfold.

confront brave new worlds that cause them to question everything, to adjust to the possibility of great loss, to Where is your favorite place to write?

find comedic relief wherever it can be had. I think this is part of what we do when we’re shaken out of our everyday routines, and something that can animate

My house upstate. It’s solitary and quiet and

fiction in unexpected and dire ways. It can get the book

beautiful, especially this time of year, when fall

to start asking essential questions, not just about life

is giving way to winter.

and death, but about what it means for something to be What’s one of the most memorable lies you’ve ever

truly, terrifyingly funny.

told? Do you have any favorite books by other authors who also push characters to the extreme?

My most memorable lies have been completely suppressed from memory.

All of Beckett, all of Kafka. Captain Ahab is As a child, did you build worlds of make-believe? Or was

exhibit number one in American fiction.

there a favorite imaginative game that you used to play?

Nabokov consistently created marginal characters best described as obsessive and ruinous. Bellow and Roth never met a passive character. Pynchon’s Oedipa Maas is

I used to pretend I knew how to read long

heroic in her tragic persistence. One of my favorite

before I did. I remember pretending to be

secondary characters rife with cynical extreme is

reading a James Michener novel at around five, while

Nathanael West’s Shrike in Miss Lonelyhearts.

two friends of mine, who could read a little, questioned

an interview with joshua ferris

celia blue johnson & maria gagliano

the swiftness with which I was turning pages. I don’t

What was your favorite book growing up? Is there

know if that’s an imaginative game so much as a

one in particular that really got you into reading and

fraudulent one. I still haven’t read any James Michener.

writing?

What is your favorite make-believe world?

The Richard Scarry books were pretty important, as was Sylvester and the Magic Pebble by

Charles Kinbote’s.

William Steig. Later it was Judy Blume, Roald Dahl, and Beverly Cleary. At thirteen it became Dostoevsky and Nabokov.

What in particular do you love about Kinbote’s world? Were you reading Dostoevsky and Nabokov just for fun at that age? What sparked your interest in them?

The humor. A great partisan of table tennis, Kinbote has two ping-pong tables in his basement. When asked by a colleague why, he replies,

I never read them without having great

“Why not?” He also thinks he’s a deposed king living in

fun—but I think you mean, were they assign-

exile in New England. What’s not to love?

ments? No, I picked them up independent of my

(nevertheless very literate) high school English teachers.

Are there any people (authors or otherwise) who have

Why? They possessed the magic.

been role models for you as a writer? What are you working on now? Sure. But they are too numerous to delineate, A book, silly.

and they no longer menace my workday.

House Made of Snow Matthew Lansburgh

Stewart pictures things to make himself stay

she asks. He looks up at her, still thinking about the

awake—a lion roaring into his face, a leopard chasing

dancers’ bright swords. “This jacket he has is too thin,”

him in the night. The theater is warm and his eyelids are

she says to his father, who’s two steps ahead, the collar

heavy. He draws a hand over the velvet covering of his

of his coat turned up over his neck.

seat cushion, grazing the bristly texture. Bristly like a

His mother rubs his back with her hand. “Tonight, we turn on the heat.”

seal’s gray skin or the soldiers’ red vests or his father’s wiry beard.

The car warms up fast, and they start the drive back

His father looks like a walrus. Stewart wants to

to his father’s house in the forest. Each time Stewart

pet his face, rub his nose and the top of his head. He

drifts into sleep, he catches himself. He knows his fa-

wonders what his father would do if he reached up now

ther doesn’t want to have to carry him into the house.

and brought a hand to his skin: touched the hair on his

“You baby him too much,” his father always says to his

cheeks and under his chin. Before his father could grab

mother.

him and spank him, he’d jump out of his seat and leap

A few months ago, Stewart was visiting his father for

onto the stage. The men with black boots would give

the night, and they went to see Mary Poppins. His father

him a sword.

bought him licorice and a soda and told him they could

He could make his father sit still, train him to balance

sit in any seat Stewart chose. “I bet your mother doesn’t

a ball on his nose. Make him keep both flippers down to

buy you licorice when you go out,” his father said. And

his sides.

then later, he asked him a question: “Your mother still taking baths with you?”

«.»

Stewart didn’t respond; his eyes were closed, and he was starting to dream. “Stewart!” his father shouted.

As they cross the pavement, Stewart’s mother

“Wake up! Don’t be like your mother now—give me an

holds his hand. “Are you warm enough, mein Schatz?”

answer.”

illustration by julia pott

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issue 8

and alive, crouching out in the snow or dashing for

Stewart wasn’t sure what to say; he was thinking about the bubbles that piled up like snowdrifts on top

cover—but after a while, it becomes harder and harder

of the water. He liked it when his mother put a beard on

for him to keep his eyes open. “Stewart,” his father says. “Wake up! Don’t make me

his cheeks or a hood on top of his head. He was thinking

say it again.”

about pouring the green gel into the water—slowly—as

It’s past midnight when Stewart’s father turns onto

it filled up the tub, gel that turned to white bubbles that

the dirt road leading out to his house. His house is small,

were lighter than air.

with thick concrete walls and a roof made from old

“It’s okay, son,” said his father. “I know this hasn’t been easy on you.”

wooden beams. All around are bushes and trees.

«.»

“There’s nothing to be afraid of,” his mother once told him. “The forest is full of magic and wonder. When

The freeway is empty and open. Stewart likes

I was a girl, Omi and I hiked for hours in the woods,

to watch the countryside speed by outside. “I love The

collecting blueberries and strawberries and then, at the

Nutcracker so much,” his mother says. “They play it so

end of the summer, raspberries so ripe, they turned to

beautiful.”

juice in your fingers. When we returned home, Omi put the fruit in a pot on the stove and boiled the berries with

“Beautifully,” says his father. He has a mad sound in

sugar until the house smelled like it was made out of

his voice.

candy.”

Stewart wonders whether his father will say something mean. When they were still living together, his fa-

“Stewart?”

ther yelled all the time. “English, Edda. You’re in America

“Yes?” he replies, making his voice sound awake.

now. This isn’t some hut in the mountains.”

“Just checking.” Once they’re inside, Stewart’s mother gets him ready

“Beautifully,” she says. Her voice is soft and quiet and

for bed. She folds his clothes and helps him put on the

almost invisible. Stewart repeats the word silently.

pajamas she brought over in a grocery store bag.

There were times when they had company and she was trying to talk that his father stared at her in a way

“Can’t he do that himself?” his father asks.

Stewart knew meant Be Quiet; afterward his father

“I just give him a little help.”

made a list of his mother’s mistakes. He wrote down on

“Did he do his reading today?” His mother hesitates. “Today? Not today, but every

a lined sheet of paper what she had said and then, in the

other day we have been reading.”

next column, the list of corrections. His mother saved

“Well, it has to be every day. I do not want an ignora-

the sheets in a large envelope, and sometimes she sat in the kitchen and read his father’s versions aloud. Stewart

mus for a son.” His father is standing in the living room

sat on her lap and she held him, repeating the words. “It

in his undershirt and his briefs. Stewart knows what his mother is thinking. First

is so nice to finally meet you,” she said to him. She repeated the phrase again and again, alternating between

thing in the morning I must read with my son. There

high and low voices, until Stewart started to laugh.

will always be groceries to buy and pants to wash out. Already his Walkjanker is getting too small. I should have

Sometimes, when he and his mother are driving at

bought him something warmer in wool.

night, Stewart will point out things he sees in the dis-

“Stewart,” his father says, “come over here.” He steps

tance. A caravan of elephants. A haunted castle. A giant octopus moving toward a river. Usually she’ll play along,

to the bookshelf and picks out a book of Grimm’s Fairy

pretending to see the things Stewart describes. Now,

Tales. “Why don’t we read one of these stories.” “But, Raymond, look what time it is. The boy should

though, there is nothing outside. The moon is low, the

be already in bed.”

world frozen and sleeping.

“Quiet, Edda. Come over here, son.”

Stewart tries to find shapes in the white, open

He looks at his father and walks toward him. His

fields—once or twice he thinks he sees something big

house made of snow matthew lansburgh

Then it happens again—the tail of the y begins to curl up from the paper, reaching out toward him, like a long tail: the tail of a lizard or an iguana or a black dragon. It lassoes his neck, tugging the l and the a and the i, pulling the word up off of the page. Stewart watches the letters peel up—the word, then the sentence itself, like a streaming ribbon, slippery as a minnow.

father’s undershirt is white and tight across his chest and his arms. They sit on the couch, and his father asks which story he wants to read. He shrugs. “Which story, Stewart? Look at the table of contents.” Stewart takes the book and studies the page. It takes him a moment to focus. “How about Hansel and Gretel?” his father says. His mother has told him the story many times. Each time she tells it, it comes out differently. “They have Hansel and Gretel?” His father finds the page and puts the book on Stewart’s lap. His hands are already sweaty. He knows he has to do his best to read well. “Once upon a time,” he begins, “there was a poor woodcutter who lived on the edge of a big forest”—he sounds each word out slowly, even the words he has seen before—“with his wife, who was not . . .” Stewart pauses when he comes to the word especially. “Sound it out now,” says his father. “Es-pe-k-a-ly,” Stewart tries. “Especially,” his mother says quickly. She’s standing a

art. Do you know what B-EEE-A-OW-T-EEEE-FUL

few feet away.

means?”

“Don’t help him now, Edda.”

Stewart’s body is hot. His father’s arm is resting

The next word is just as hard: beautiful. He isn’t sure

across his shoulders; he feels the man’s hair rubbing the

how to say it.

back of his neck.

“No,” his father says. “Do it again.”

“Raymond,” his mother says quickly. “Please. This is

Stewart says the sounds again to himself, but he can’t figure out which word he is reading. He knows

too hard.” She’s standing a few feet away, holding her

what goes on in the story. It’s about a mother and father

nightgown, gripping it tight. Stewart knows his mother

who are poor and can’t feed their children. The father

wants to say more. Earlier today, she told Stewart that

takes his son and his daughter into the woods so they

his father had promised to give her a check. If she had

can’t find the way back to their house.

gotten the money this afternoon, she could take Stewart and leave. Why did I not ask for the rent when my lipstick

“Stewart, you’ve got to pay attention now. This is

was nice and my hair had not flown away? Today was so

only the first sentence.”

windy. It made me a mess.

“B-eeee-aaaaa-ow-t-i-f-u-l,” he says, sounding out the word again—almost inaudibly—as the letters begin,

“Shut up, Edda!”

magically, to float up off the page.

Stewart’s throat contracts so he cannot breathe. He knows if he tries to relax, if he lets air into his mouth,

“I can’t hear you,” his father says. “What did you

he’ll start to cry. He keeps his eyes open wide.

say?”

“Don’t cry now, Stewart. Start the sentence from the

He tries again, using all of his strength. He struggles

beginning and try to think about what word would make

to hold the pages in place, wills each letter to stay still.

sense in this context.”

“B-EEE-A-OW-T-EEEE-FUL is not a word, Stew-

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issue 8

squirrels and deer brought him baskets of food. Do not

He reads the words to his father, one by one, making sure no letter moves. When he gets to especially, he

be afraid, the moon said to the boy. I am here to protect

freezes. He knows his mother just told him the answer,

you.

but he doesn’t remember the word. He makes the “E”

Stewart watches the moon. His mother is right: if

sound and the “SP” sound. Then it happens again—the

you look closely enough, you can see the moon’s face.

tail of the y begins to curl up from the paper, reaching

It smiles at him. He sees the stars stretching out toward

out toward him, like a long tail: the tail of a lizard or an

him, reaching down through the trees.

iguana or a black dragon. It lassoes his neck, tugging the

Inside the house he hears his mother crying. “Why

l and the a and the i, pulling the word up off of the page.

are you like this to us? I made myself beautiful. Is this not

Stewart watches the letters peel up—the word, then the

the outfit you thought I should wear?” He listens for his father’s response but hears nothing

sentence itself, like a streaming ribbon, slippery as a

at all. He wonders whether his father is standing on the

minnow. “Stewart! Don’t fart around now. You just said it.”

other side of the door, listening to Stewart’s tears. May-

He’s crying now. He can’t help it. His breaths come

be his father has gone into the bathroom to brush his teeth. Maybe his father will change his mind and make

short and fast. “Okay. That’s it! Go outside until you calm down.”

his mother stand outside too. If they both have to sleep

“Outside?” says his mother. “He can’t go outside! It’s

in the woods, they can build a house made of snow, like the Eskimos do in the North. They can use branches

the middle of the night!”

from pine trees to keep themselves warm.

He’s afraid his father will hit her. When his father

In the distance, the ground spreads out like a carpet

starts yelling, his face can turn the most horrible red. “Outside, Stewart!”

of silver. The moon begins to approach very slowly.

He feels the sounds coming out of his father’s mouth.

Come closer, it beckons. It’s okay. Stewart sees the branches in the woods sway back

He gets up from the couch, his pajamas wet from sweat. His mother looks around for her shoes. He walks toward

and forth. He wonders whether the reason the trees

the front door, and she hurries over to him. She puts his

move in the wind is that they are trying to stand close

arms in the sleeves of his jacket, then helps him open

together, for warmth, or whether they are trying to

the door. She steps outside with him, but his father says,

dance. Each tree in a past life was a famous ballerina

“No, Edda—you stay in here.” She pauses and looks at

who was graceful and nimble and beautiful. Stewart is at the far end of the gravel driveway when

the man, then back at her son.

he hears his father call out his name. He stops. The voice

“You be okay,” she says. “Nothing will happen. Think

is distant and far. “Stewart?” his father repeats. “You still

of what Mommy has said.”

out here, kiddo?”

The air surrounds him like a cold river; his eyes adjust

He turns and sees him, in socks, at the doorway. A

to the night. Above him, the sky is full of bright stars and

man looking out in the night. “You better come back

the luminous moon: large and white and perfectly round.

inside. It’s getting late. I made up your bed.”

Once there was a boy who was lost in the woods,

Don’t worry, he hears the moon say. There is nothing

and he walked and walked in the night. The villagers all thought he would not find his way home, and they took

to fear. He decides to walk quickly. His father’s voice

lanterns and went out into the forest to look for his foot-

grows faint until it is only a speck. ML

prints. Hour after hour, they searched for their Bübchen. The later it got, the brighter became the stars and the moon. They made light so the boy could see in the night, and they kept him company out in the snow. The boy did not grow afraid—he sang songs to himself and, as he sang, the animals came out of the forest. The owls and

River X

In the nearby town of S—, the unfinished bridge waits for signage. Cars wait on either side

Erica Wright

for years, neat rows of impatience. The roadside diner courts new arrivals: 1937 Special: 30-Cent Burgers. Inside, Hazel has grayed then dried then given up. They should call it after me, she thinks and thinks she sees whales on the highway beginning to shake their marbled flukes toward the other shore. The tribe tries to name the river each year, and once the youngest son of the barber drowned. For days after, the papers ran with “The Warning River” until Kaliska, “Coyote Chasing Deer,” sent a letter on offensiveness and its causes. The list contained many wrong names.

THE NATURE OF MY FATHER’S CRIMES Jan Pendleton

A finger of wisteria wound its way along the

ers. The doctor said it wasn’t uncommon for inmates to

top of the fence—it seemed an offering, a way to get

get sick before release—thoughts of all that wide-open

through the day. Naomi had stayed at a motel so she

space and no routine to get them through the day. As

could get to the Vacaville facility by seven and help Karl

her father shifted what couldn’t have been more than

through his release procedures. Now, as she pulled into

a hundred and twenty pounds into the wheelchair she

the driveway of the one-story apartment complex and

held open, the cuff of his jeans caught his ankle bracelet,

found her father’s slot, she realized it was close to four.

revealing a patch of chafed skin. Naomi fought shame,

It had been slow going, all the forms and procedures,

revulsion—mostly pity. How could her father’s life have

traffic sluggish along Bayshore, Karl saying little, missing

come to this? She still saw him as a victim, the young

the other inmates, she imagined—especially Jorge, the

girls at Carrows with their bouncy, fleshy boobs and mid-

aide assigned to help him get around the last two years.

riffs climbing into his van and begging him to buy beer.

Naomi had met Jorge inside an insanely noisy sensitive

They’d all seen the signs—Naomi, her older sister Meg,

needs room where Karl and men like him were packed

the woman Karl had lived with during his later years,

with their visitors, correction officers circling with their

Brenda. Karl had practically turned himself inside out in

badges and pepper spray.

what had seemed a return to adolescence. Why hadn’t

“It’s not much, Daddy,” she said. Housing had been

someone stepped in? Why hadn’t they saved him?

difficult, two thousand feet from parks and schools. The

The small semi-furnished was L-shaped and drab.

complex was on the expressway, a stone’s throw away

Naomi had stopped by the day before with prints for the

from the train.

walls; a few cushions to brighten up the sofa bed.

“I’m not picky.” Karl had asked for little in life. A state worker, he’d followed maintenance crews up and down

“I made soup,” she said. “You go ahead. I don’t have much of an appetite.”

the coast of California. That was before the state park

Karl wheeled himself to the window and sat looking

system split off and men without college degrees were

out at the train. This would be his regular spot. Naomi

told to report to kids just out of school. Naomi was glad

remembered him claiming the sliding glass doors at the

her father was done with it all. Old and frail now, he had

mobile home he’d shared with Brenda. The soup she

a myriad of health problems. They’d stopped at Kmart

took from the fridge looked thin and unappealing. She

to fill eight prescriptions—heart and cholesterol meds,

was about to turn on the burner, hoping the simmer-

blood thinners, insulin, anti-depressants, stool soften-

ing broth would stimulate her father’s appetite, when

photograph by Karl Erik Brøndbo

the smell of Indian food wafted in from a neighboring

An Indian woman faced away from the window as

apartment—rich, buttery curry sauce. Something more

Naomi passed by, a long gray braid hanging thinly down

substantial seemed in order.

her back. The neighbors must have been warned. No

Gathering her purse and keys she said, “I’m going to

children lived in the complex, but there was nothing

the store. What can I bring you?”

to prevent them from visiting, even moving in. It made

“Smokes.”

Naomi tense to think of leaving her father alone, not that

“Your heart.”

she saw him as a threat. “My father stopped function-

“I don’t suppose it matters much.”

ing sexually a long time ago,” she told the therapist

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issue 8

she’d been seeing for some time. Brenda had made her

magazines next to his hospital bed—she had stopped

privy to this and other private information before leav-

by while he was sleeping with a Sports Illustrated and

ing Karl; she had a way of demeaning him in the end.

Field and Stream. It would be easy to get angry if he

Once a pedophile, always a pedophile, the therapist had

weren’t so damned humble, so weak and vulnerable.

assured Naomi. Sex offenders were the most likely to

She scooped salad onto the plates and was pulling a

return to prison, their crimes more about who they were

leg from the chicken when Geeta came outside holding

than what they’d done.

something wrapped in foil. She seemed even smaller without the apartment around her, a pair of large white

Mollie Stone was the closest market. The aisles were widely spaced and arranged at odd angles, making it

tennis shoes making her look like an adolescent boy

hard to find what you needed. Naomi put a rotisserie

dressed in a thin turquoise sari.

chicken in her cart and added potato salad. The water‑

“Chapati,” she said, holding out the bread.

melon was a last-minute impulse; so were the True

“How kind of you. Will you join us?” “I’m a vegetarian.”

Lights she asked for at the counter, just one pack.

Geeta followed Naomi to the table and opened the

When she pulled back into the driveway, the smell of curry had grown stronger. The Indian woman was facing

foil. She began tearing the bread into strips with her

the window now, her face old and darkly wrinkled. A

slim, pliant fingers. “You must eat while warm.” “Smells like biscuits,” Karl said.

shy nod before averting her eyes. Naomi walked to the

The bay wind came up as it did late in the afternoons.

clearing on the other side of Karl’s apartment—someone had set a plastic table and chairs on a square of cement.

Karl leaned down to scratch his calf. His jeans rose, ex-

Geraniums grew in clay pots. They looked sturdy but

posing the ankle bracelet and chafed skin. Geeta turned toward her apartment. Naomi had

dry. She set the groceries on the table and got the hose. It was October but still warm; the last of Indian summer

heard about the way prisoners were treated in India.

lingered. Soon it would rain. Fall seemed to grow colder

She assumed Geeta would never speak to them again,

and darker each year in the Bay Area.

but she came back outside with a small baggie of yellow powder. “Turmeric,” she said, tipping some of the spice

“I got cigarettes,” she said as she helped her father outside. They would have a picnic—take advantage of

into her palm. Adding a few drops of water, she circled

the long, slow evening.

her finger in the thickening paste and offered it to Karl. Karl smeared the salve onto his own palm and

“Matches?” “I forgot.”

rubbed it into his calf. “Feels better already,” he said.

She was starting inside to use the gas burner when

Naomi fought a pang of jealousy—her father seemed

she pictured the sleeve of Karl’s bathrobe catching on

unappreciative of all she did. Her sister had given up

fire. Instead she went next door. The Indian woman

on him a long time ago, and so had Brenda, going off

came quickly, a maroon bindi lifting tenuously in the

to live with her daughter in Nevada. Naomi was all her

wrinkles of her forehead.

father had.

“Sorry to bother you. I’m helping my father settle in. I

«.»

wondered if you might have some matches.” “One moment please.” The woman closed the door. She came back with the matches, extending her delicate

Karl’s parole officer turned out to be in San

arm beneath the fold of her sari.

Jose—his office was on the third floor of a high-rise near

“I’m Naomi by the way. My father’s Karl.”

the county offices. He met them at the door—a young

“Geeta,” said the woman, and closed the door.

man, stocky with a broad, friendly face. Karl came alive

Karl’s hands shook as he lit his cigarette. They were

in the presence of a man, a jovial cheer riding above

old and veined, one bruised from the IV. Naomi re-

the pain and fatigue he must have felt with a damaged

membered her father’s surprise at finding current-issue

heart, the toll the diabetes was taking, and the general

the nature of my father’s crimes jan pendleton

haze of medication that made his eyes blurry. The Old

“How about lunch, Daddy?” Carrows came unavoidably

Spice he’d applied early that morning—part of the re-

to mind. She remembered Karl edging her to the side of

lease kit he’d been given (Kmart jeans and a sweatshirt,

a booth so he could get a better look at the young wait-

a few toiletries, plus two hundred dollars in gate mon-

resses at the snack bar—she had been just forty at the

ey)—had overpowered the small meeting room where

time and no longer her father’s darling. “We could drive

they sat going over what Anthony called the game plan.

to the coast. Have some seafood.” “I’d just as soon go home if you don’t mind.” The

No hanging out where children might gather—schools, malls, movie theaters. No alcohol or illegal drugs. No

thought of her father calling a dreary little apartment

sexually explicit films, not even regular ones with a

on the expressway “home” filled Naomi with despair. As

child as the main character. Karl listened attentively, his

they stopped at a light, a group of teenage girls walked

hooded sweatshirt making him look like a schoolboy

through the crosswalk, fat little pink things with bra

with a wrinkled face.

straps showing, everything pierced and tattooed. Naomi gripped the wheel. She resisted the urge to tap the horn.

Naomi found a reason to walk down the hall and

They drove back to the apartment. She was cutting

find a bathroom. She stood at the sink briskly washing her hands. A quick glance in the mirror confirmed that

up the rotisserie chicken and adding it to the soup when

she looked every bit of fifty-two, her skin lifeless and

Geeta knocked on the door. She’d brought more chapati.

drawn, roots graying—she’d put off a hair appointment

“Will you have a cup of tea?”

and forgotten to reschedule. At least she didn’t have

“I take tea.” They sat at the kitchen table, Karl eating the thin

the wrinkles some of her walking friends had—single women from her condo complex who used terms like

strips of bread Geeta tore for him while she talked about

nursemaid. All men wanted nursemaids. They got sick

India. Her husband had died young, at just fifty-four. “A

and old and looked for women to take care of them.

good man, very good. Up all night coughing and still

Then there were the nutcases, men who searched online

talking and laughing the next day.” “You must miss him,” Naomi said.

for bizarre things, those who made it clear they wanted

Geeta glanced at the patio beyond the sliding glass

nothing more than sex. Naomi had made a few attempts at online dating herself; she’d met men in cafés, all very

doors, another slab of cement surrounded by a gray-

awkward and frightening. She supposed this was why

washed fence. “In Mumbai, hundreds of people pass by

she’d settled for Owen Bradley, a middle manager at the

your window every day. Even at night you are sleeping

corporate office where he’d worked for years. Friends

in small rooms with your husband’s family, so you are

with benefits was what people called their sort of rela-

never alone.” Karl looked up from his chapati. “I saw a young fellow

tionship today, visits and dinner when he was in town, followed by casual sex with no expectation of further

leave your apartment early this morning. He could have

commitment.

been your boyfriend?” Naomi cast a warning glance Karl’s way. His teasing was inappropriate.

Anthony was making notes on a yellow pad when she

“My son has a very good job. He is working with

got back to the office. “I’ll stop by once a week or so.

computers. Everyone is, same as in India.”

See how things are going. I’m over that way on Wednes-

“I wouldn’t know how to turn one on,” said Karl.

days, say around two?”

“They have classes at the senior center. Classes in

“Two is good,” said Karl.

everything. I am teaching yoga. Very good for circula-

“Be sure to register at the police station. They’ll give

tion. There are things you can do in your chair.”

you the official dos and don’ts.”

Naomi brought honey to the table, a child’s plastic

The thought of meeting with the police overwhelmed Naomi—there was only so much she could be expected

bear that Karl turned upside down and squeezed on the

to do. Thinking a change of scene might do her and her

bread. “The senior center’s a good distance,” Naomi

father good, she took El Camino instead of Bayshore.

said. “Do you drive?”

slice

issue 8

Karl reached for a toothpick. “I ought to be able to

“I take two buses. One bus and a shuttle. Part of the

manage on my own.”

way I am walking.”

Geeta went next door to cook for her son. Karl fell

Geeta’s energy put Naomi to shame—all the cooking

asleep by the window, giving Naomi a moment to her-

she did for her son, the way she pulled a life together, the teaching, getting here and there on public trans-

self. She sat at the kitchen table with her laptop. Open-

portation. Naomi felt uneasy when Geeta mentioned

ing an email screen, she wrote a note to Owen:

supervising children during lunch at a private school

Father settling in. Things going well.

near Mollie Stone. At least Karl didn’t drive, and he was

Always upbeat, her messages brief and fleeting, as if

too weak to wheel himself more than a block. An old

she didn’t deserve his time. Owen had become distant

man trapped in a wheelchair—it seemed fair enough

since Karl’s release—she hadn’t shared the specifics,

punishment.

and yet she imagined he’d done some online investigating. Out of curiosity she Googled sex offenders in Santa

“My son and I are going home for a visit. I am having my saris cleaned in Mumbai. Too expensive here. Five

Clara County. A cluster of blue stars came up, some in

yards of material.”

Karl’s neighborhood. His picture was under one of them, an old man who looked bewildered, caught in someone

“Five yards.” Karl kept eating. He chewed with his

else’s humiliating circumstance. Sickened and shocked,

mouth open, embarrassing Naomi.

feeling as if she had become part of her father’s crime,

She kept Geeta engaged in conversation, Geeta speaking in the present tense as if her mother-in-law

she turned off the computer and went next door to ask

were still alive. “Very kind woman. People welcome in

Geeta if she could watch her cook. The two-bedroom Geeta shared with her son was

her home no matter what time. She is getting out of bed

furnished with teak and wicker, tapestry wall hangings

at one in the morning and making chapati for visitors.” “People visit at one in the morning?” Karl asked.

in bright colors. There were photos of her three sons,

“Guests always welcome.”

the technical support specialist she lived with and two

“You never remarried?” Naomi asked.

older men, one a pediatrician who lived in Boston. “Very successful,” Geeta said. “All of my sons do

“Only one husband in India.” “Even if you’re widowed young?”

very well.” She showed Naomi how to brown the mus-

“Sometimes women are taking another husband

tard seeds in canola oil, then sprinkle onion and garlic

now.” Geeta indicated the bindi on her forehead. “They

into the pan, leaving green beans and cauliflower

are wearing stickers, not powder.”

to simmer along with strips of potato. She kneaded

Karl sipped his tea. “What’s the dot stand for?”

the chapati dough and covered it with a cloth, then

“Husband puts on at marriage, powder on the fore-

opened the dishwasher to show Naomi where she stored the pots and pans.

head and on the hair. He also gives black beads. You

“My son is saving to buy his own house. One with

take them off when you become a widow.”

a big kitchen. You have to have big kitchens in India.

Naomi looked at the bracelets circling Geeta’s tiny wrists, two gold bangles and a red band that rose and

Monsoons.” Geeta’s eyes misted over as if she were

fell as she lifted her arm. “You are not married?” Geeta

remembering something specific, perhaps to do with

asked.

her childhood. “Heavy rains, not like here. Good for rice. They are growing rice in the South,” she said, her voice

Karl answered. “I tell her she ought to get out more.

thickening. “Nothing but rice.”

She’s turning into an old maid.”

The chapati dough rose. Geeta shaped it into balls

Naomi glared at her father. He had been the child of the family, the one whose needs were seen to first. And

and pushed them flat before browning them in a hot

yet beyond the self-centeredness, she knew her father

skillet. They puffed to twice their size on the rack she

cared for her and that she would be lost without him.

set over the burner. When she finished, she insisted on

“And who will take care of you if I do?”

sending a sampling of everything home with Naomi.

the nature of my father’s crimes jan pendleton

«.»

a refrigerated shelf holding a mix of vegetables and herbs, some of them unfamiliar. Indian women dressed

Anthony came on Wednesday. He and Karl sat in

in Western clothes passed by with their carts. There was

the living room going over the basics. Naomi offered

a lethargy to their movements, even the young beautiful

coffee and store-bought cookies. She checked her

ones, their faces heavy with makeup. They seemed bur-

laptop. Nothing from Owen. The last she’d heard he was

dened by shopping, the hours of preparation ahead,

vacationing with some friends from work at Tahoe. She

their husbands perhaps critical.

imagined him with a new girlfriend, someone younger

“You must try this one,” Geeta said, reaching for a

with a less complicated life. Perhaps he’d told his col-

thick, prickly vegetable shaped like a pickle. Running her

leagues about her father being a predator—a word that

fingers over the nubbed surface, she said, “You take off

made her think of a poisonous spider. She and Karl had

the skin then cut in small pieces.” Reddish dirt clung to the milky roots of a curly-

stopped by the police station, both of them surprised when Detective Henley turned out to be a woman.

leaved herb she’d tasted in Geeta’s kitchen. “You are

Thick-calved, she had walked ahead in her navy blue

washing them first. Everything must be washed before

business suit. A formal reading of Penal Code 290—she

eating.”

must have memorized it, working exclusively with sex of-

They’d talked of going to lunch, but Naomi was

fenders. Naomi’s attention wavered and refocused when

anxious to get back to Karl. She was concerned about

she learned Karl would have to re-register every year

his health, his mood. He still wasn’t eating much, just the

on or near his birthday—offenses with children never

chapati Geeta made for him. The traffic was thick at three

went away. He’d been lucky. With just one conviction,

in the afternoon—manufacturing workers let off at that

the DA had offered lewd and lascivious acts with a minor

time. Merging onto El Camino, Naomi tried to look ahead

under the age of fourteen in exchange for dropping the

and see whether the turnoff to the expressway was on

kidnapping charge, which would have kept him in prison

the right or left. She overshot the entrance and had to

twenty-five years to life.

make a U-turn. Geeta looked smaller and more fragile riding in a car, the traffic swerving around her. Naomi felt

Karl and Anthony began talking sports, closing her out of the conversation. Owen was unavailable—she im-

protective, responsible—the way she felt about Karl, the

agined his new girlfriend, young and appealing. Even her

way she realized she’d felt since she was a child. He was sitting outside smoking a cigarette when

walking friends had been busy when she suggested coffee. Calling into the living room, her voice sharper than

they got back to the apartments. Holding up two plastic

she’d intended, she said, “My father’s ankle monitor is

bags, Naomi said, “I’m going to make dinner.” “Everything from scratch,” Geeta added.

irritating his skin. Something needs to be done about it.”

“Some bread I hope.”

“It’s nothing,” Karl said dismissively.

Geeta guided her as she made dhal and curried

«.»

vegetables. The preparation was extensive, attending to everything at once, cooking the beans without letting

Fall came suddenly and briskly. Naomi offered to

them boil over, cutting up the garlic and ginger, dicing

drive Geeta to Cash and Carry, an Indian market on the

the onions and tomatoes, browning the spices. Cash and

south Peninsula. She had been helping with the cook-

Carry had been out of racks for the bread, so she’d bor-

ing and wanted to see things as they came directly from

rowed Geeta’s metal plate. By then Geeta had gone next

India, everything tightly sealed in plastic pouches—the

door to see to her son’s dinner, leaving Naomi on her

beans, grains, meal, powders, nuts, and spices. There

own. She ended up ruining the chapati—something was

were jars of ghee and Milo, boxes of breakfast cereal

wrong with the dough. It didn’t rise, and she served it to

with names like Crunch-O. Geeta led the way along the

Karl hard and flat. “Pretty good,” he said, hiding his disappointment.

produce aisle that stretched the length of the store,

slice

issue 8

He didn’t eat much, pushing his food around on the

clear this was not a neighborhood where two women

plate. Naomi cleared away the dishes, and left Karl at the

should be walking, especially not at night. The residen-

window looking out at the train. Wondering why she’d

tial area thinned quickly as the industry started—ware-

gone through the bother, she opened her computer and

houses, auto-body shops, a used-car dealership, some

started her email program. Pressing down hard on the

small businesses housed in buildings sided with corru-

keys, she sent a terse message to Owen:

gated metal. Naomi was about to suggest heading back when

I AM NOT MY FATHER.

Geeta turned to look at her. “In my country men are mar-

«.»

rying children. Mostly poor families.” Surely she couldn’t be justifying Karl’s behavior. Naomi walked on. They

Karl was outside with Geeta when Naomi came

were passing a sign shop, the smell of toxic paint com-

the next day. He was sitting at the table smoking a

ing from inside, then a vacant lot, an old camper parked

cigarette while she watered the geraniums. Naomi felt

in the shadows, no doubt a homeless person—at least it

another twinge of jealousy—at least her father had a

was warm. They were approaching Industrial Boulevard

friend.

when the rain started, large drops pelting the street and soaking their clothes. Naomi reached for Geeta’s hand.

“The goo is working,” Karl said, lifting the cuff of his jeans. As Geeta leaned down to get a better look at the

She was about to urge her back toward the apartments

wound, Naomi observed the old woman’s soft, tender

when Geeta leaned her head back and let the rain coat

scalp beyond the straight part she must work hard at

her face. A smear of lights came from the strip mall—

each morning. Something about her innocence, the

REI, Costco, Pet Depot, the standard eateries. Naomi

determined attention she gave to the details of her life,

thought of Karl so weak and frail—she had left him in the

prompted Naomi to say, “I don’t believe Geeta under-

sofa bed she’d made up with fresh linens. Anthony had

stands the nature of your crimes.”

stopped by that afternoon to help him shower. At least he was comfortable and clean. It was hard to explain

Karl hung his head, remorseful, a guilty boy.

even to herself how much she loved her father, how she

«.»

wanted him to find happiness in his later years. Geeta turned, her silhouette boyish in the light com-

Geeta was heating milk in a pan when Naomi

ing from In-N-Out Burger. “Best to have a soft heart,”

passed by that evening. Naomi didn’t feel like being

she said, addressing Naomi’s earlier apology. “People

alone. Knocking softly on the door, she waited for Geeta

who have hard hearts die young.” Naomi thought of

to come. “I’m sorry for what I said about my father. He

Geeta’s husband dying at fifty-four. She wondered if

values your friendship.”

things had been as ideal as they’d sounded.

Geeta stepped outside. The evening had turned

Geeta’s sari was soaked through. In the dark-print

warm and moist. The sky had been low and swollen all

fabric, Naomi thought she made out a young girl walk-

day. Avoiding the subject at hand, Geeta rubbed her

ing through the woods. She imagined Geeta as a child

fingers together. “Rain soon. Not monsoon. Monsoon is

growing up in the South. They are growing rice, she had

different.”

told Naomi, her face young and expectant under the

“Would you like to walk?”

wrinkles. Nothing but rice, she’d said, as if her life had

Geeta turned off the stove. She put a sweater on over

been very pure and simple, as if she’d wanted for nothing. Now the small old woman headed toward the shops

her sari.

and the people milling about, some with umbrellas. This

They took one of the side streets past some apartments and duplexes, a row of houses with iron lace cov-

wasn’t Mumbai, but she would take what she could get.

ering the doors and windows. Pit bulls ran the lengths

Naomi followed after her. She thought briefly of Karl

of low fences, their hungry, neglected pining making it

then walked on. JP

Rubric. Adam O. Davis

A sad history sits

sent into the middle

of this worldâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s many

mighty seas with

their quarried cargo; the

of its curious

for conscience

everything

aboard ships that are

weight

we touch.

the mission of drowning

words too much

We orphan

to bear.

Gypsy Christmas Dan Mancilla

Nicu shifts his weight from one foot to the other.

And don’t blow the rest of that wad on the Polack. Go to

Imagines combinations flying at him and bobs accord-

the Monkeywrench. Make an offering to the Gypsies. Mel

ingly. Old habits, nervous energy. Hunched over the

Bimbay should know what we’re doing.”

early edition, his boss, Diamond Jim Figgis, sets a cof-

“How about I send for him to come here?”

fee mug down and picks it back up three times before

“You gotta go to the Monkeywrench and talk to him.

taking a sip. The mug stamps brown rings on the Black

Gotta pay respect to the Gypsy King.” The Hobo Fair,

Hawk Union-Observer that’s spread out on the table.

the Monkeywrench, Gypsy Downtown, whatever Black

“Dishwater,” Diamond Jim says after the mug finally

Hawkers called it, the old Chicago & Northwestern

reaches his lips.

roundhouse, the seat of the Bimbay clan’s Kris, was as

“You want the baker to get a new coffee machine?”

much a power center in the Third Ward as Diamond

Nicu says.

Jim’s café table at Huber’s Bakery, the watch command-

Diamond Jim Figgis leans back in his chair, circles an

er’s office in the Third’s station house, or the Meatpack-

arm over his head. “Look at this dump. Don’t count on

er’s union hall on Tower Run.

the baker for buying new things.” The café in Huber’s

Diamond Jim produces a penknife from another

bakery, Diamond Jim’s unofficial campaign headquar-

pocket, opens it, and traces around a coffee-ringed

ters, is two wobbly tables and some plastic lawn chairs

picture of Shelly Rousseau in the pages of the Union-

crammed between flour sacks and a half-empty display

Observer. He shakes his head. “This lady’s got more fairy

case. “New don’t always mean better, Nicu.”

tales about your people than a bunch of ten-year-old

A slick of creamer pinwheels on top of the old man’s

boys.” Rousseau’s latest claim was discrimination on the

coffee. Diamond Jim takes another sip through gritted

part of Black Hawk’s dry cleaners against the Bimbay

teeth and moans. He pulls a money clip showing hun-

clan Gypsies. She organized a rally the next day at the

dred dollar bills from his shirt pocket, tosses it to Nicu.

only cleaners she’d deemed Gypsy-friendly.

“Be sure to pick up some tomatoes, the older the better.

“Maybe she’s got a point,” Nicu says. He looks at

photograph by matthew genitempo

slice

issue 8

Shelly Rousseau’s picture. Kind of young to be running

Johnny Duran and Phil Carizzi, Cleo “Fort” Knox, the

for public office. She’s got short hair like a nun. It makes

Buendia brothers, Larry Firenze, Angelo Pulaski, and

her look even younger.

many more—some now in jail, some dead, none of them amounting to much of anything, none of them bosses.

“Ain’t discrimination if it makes sense,” Diamond Jim says. “Whenever one of your people dies you drop off all

«.»

the dead man’s clothes at the laundry and expect them to take care of it, burn it or whatever.”

People walk the streets in shorts and T-shirts.

“Not my people. Ma moved us away from all that after my daddy died,” Nicu says.

Indian summer in Black Hawk. It’s too warm for Nicu.

“You and every other Bimbay’s a half-breed nowa-

His blood, Mom used to tell him, ran hot on account

days. None of you want to claim full-blood since the

of his Gypsy daddy. When he was a boy during these

Great Acorn Wars.”

autumn heat waves he’d refuse to go to school and hide

“The cleaners could resell the clothes,” Nicu says. He

in the basement until his mom found him behind the old

flexes, unflexes fists.

washtub. She’d sit down next to him and empty a jelly

“To who? What Gypsy wants a dead man’s suit? And

jar of wine in one long gulp. “Just like your daddy used

what gadjo you know would want to wear that stuff?

to make,” she’d say, running her fingers through his hair.

Except maybe on Halloween.” Diamond Jim folds up his

Then she’d tell Nicu stories about the old neighborhood,

paper and slaps it against his thigh.

about the wine his old man made, the press he’d insisted

“This Rousseau would do better setting up shop west

on carting across Butcher’s Row on their wedding day,

of town. Keep the sludge farmers on Foothill Road from

about the apartment they lived in when Nicu was a baby,

drinking themselves to death at the Dutch Inn. Those

and the hobo choir drunk on his daddy’s wine that used

white trashes need more help than the Bimbay clan.”

to sing a colicky Nicu to sleep.

Twelve years working for the old man, four elec-

Gypsy Christmas was what the gadjo boys at school

tions, and it’s the first time Nicu’s ever heard Diamond

called Indian summer up in the Heights. Whenever it

Jim talk about an opponent. There’d been an Alderman

turned hot so late in the year they’d punch Nicu up and

Figgis running the Third longer than Nicu had been

warn him not to steal their baby sisters in the middle of

alive. Diamond Jim inherited the post from his dad,

the night.

Little Bill Figgis, who took over the Ward from Dia-

Nicu wants to hibernate, but the rest of the world

mond Jim’s grandfather, Boss Figgis. But now the Third

buzzes back to life. Bees materialize, seemingly out

Ward—notorious bed of gambling and prostitution,

of nowhere, to inhabit every empty liquor bottle and

quasi-legal cock fights and Gypsy swap meets—was

full trash can. Old ladies scavenge vacant lots looking

legitimately being contested. Shelly Rousseau had

to score one last haul of dandelion greens, no doubt

raised enough money to open a campaign headquar-

for magic potions or their version of Gypsy wine. Kids

ters eight blocks south of Huber’s Bakery in the Parrot

choose up sides for impromptu baseball games. Paleta

Hill neighborhood. The Union-Observer had her run-

men sell off the last of their summer stock of frozen

ning just two points behind Diamond Jim only four

treats. The Third Ward even smells different now. Fami-

days before the election.

lies in West Side neighborhoods, like the one he and his

Diamond Jim holds Shelly Rousseau’s picture next to

mom lived in for a time, take advantage of the warm-up

his face. “Which one looks like a boss?”

and rake piles of leaves to the curb, douse them with

Nicu considers Diamond Jim, then the girl. The

gas, and light them up. The smell of burning leaves

young woman, haloed in coffee, looks like the stained

descends on the flats of the Third Ward and masks

glass martyrs over at St. Al’s. And Nicu “Kid Pharaoh”

the stench of the slaughterhouses and the margarine

Bimbay replays fights in church basements. Sees op-

factory for a while. It’s the only thing Nicu appreciates

ponents’ mugs he’d taped to his mirror over the years—

about Indian summer.

gypsy christmas dan mancilla

He walks south on Pere Marquette Boulevard. It’s

Indian summer in Black Hawk. It’s too warm for Nicu. His blood, Mom used to tell him, ran hot on account of his Gypsy daddy. When he was a boy during these autumn heat waves he’d refuse to go to school and hide in the basement until his mom found him behind the old washtub. She’d sit down next to him and empty a jelly jar of wine in one long gulp.

the Third Ward’s vena cava, running through the heart of Butcher’s Row, following the bend in the Fox River into the Parrot Hill neighborhood. Pere Marquette is mostly commerce through Butcher’s Row. It’s block after block of shops, mechanics’ garages, and greasy spoons for workers at the Wheelock and New Era slaughterhouses. Hardly any vegetation except for the occasional vacant lot gone to seed or the halfhearted attempt at window-box landscaping in a few of the row houses. This stretch of Pere Marquette cooks in the late morning sun. Asphalt bakes brittle and occasionally cracks open like a broken scab to reveal red brick pavers. Nicu imagines what the neighborhood had been like years ago—women in plumed hats and hooped skirts, mustachioed men wearing monocles and fine Elgin watches dangling from their pockets. Gas lamps, carriages, and cobblestones. No doubt a Figgis running the show. The energy on the boulevard is palpable. Nicu hears it in voices. “How’s it goin’, Kid Pharaoh?” Maria, the lazy-eyed undertaker’s assistant asks and throws a jab, a standard greeting from those who remember Nicu’s days in the ring. The old-timer running the fruit

tions. “It could happen,” was the refrain, the unofficial

stand bullshits Nicu about having a sweet tooth and

motto of the Third Ward. There’s a fat woman in a housecoat sitting on one of

tosses a candy apple in with his bag of tomatoes. “On the house,” he says. “Just make sure Diamond

these piles of furniture, blotting neck sweat with a wad-

Jim knows I’m taking care of his man.” Bondra the

ded up Union-Observer, yelling, “Gimme my pictures,

plumber whistles to Nicu from his truck, tells him that

sons-a-bitches!” to the men doing the evicting. Kids on

Diamond Jim can count on the support of the Plumb-

bicycles circle the scene like vultures. “Get Bitsy her pictures so she shuts the hell up,” a

ers & Pipefitters Local 127. Children play tag, dodge

man shouts.

one another around parked cars and piles of shabby

“Nicu Bimbay, you tell Diamond Jim about this,”

furniture. One can always tell it’s a new month by the trash bags bursting with clothes and broken parlor

someone else calls down from the building the fat

sets dumped on the sidewalk. Eviction notices, Third

woman’s been evicted from. “They gonna do us all like

Ward–style. Out of respect scavengers will give it a

they done Bitsy so they can put up sky rise mansions!” “That’s not my pictures! Where’s my pictures!” the

day before helping themselves to the piles because who, after all, hadn’t lived hard times, or wouldn’t at

woman yells at the muscled-up men who toss boxes of

some point? One never knew when Wheelock or New

junk at the foot of the pile and head back inside without

Era would cut down production on the line; Mad Cow

looking at her. The louder the woman gets, the larger

panics and vegetarianism were on the rise. And the

the crowd gathers around her for the free show.

margarine factory, everyone said, was months away

Nicu follows the men up the steps into the build-

from complete automation—robots churning fat-free

ing’s vestibule. It’s not air-conditioned, but it’s cool and

butter twenty-four hours a day, no breaks, no vaca-

dark. A welcomed break from the heat. “What’s this

slice

issue 8

about pictures?” Nicu asks. His voice echoes in the tiled

the cash register. One holds an inflated whoopee

entryway.

cushion at eye level and connects with a right cross.

“None of your concern, pal,” the bigger of the two

“Crunch,” he says. “What the hell you got crunching, tough guy?” says

men says without turning around. Nicu puts a hand on his broad shoulder. “Yeah. It is.”

Angelo Pulaski. He’s behind the register, wearing a white

“You got a problem?” The man spins around, ready

clerk’s apron. “Just some punk. Broke his nose.” Both the kid and

to fight. Anger gives way to contrition when he recognizes Nicu. “Sorry.” Nicu doesn’t know him, but the guy

Pulaski examine the inflated whoopee cushion. Nicu

looks familiar. Then again everyone in the Third looks

moves through the store, still light enough on his

familiar. “Man, you think Diamond Jim’s got room for me

feet not to elicit groans from the old plank floor, and

and my buddy? We’re looking for work, right Tommy?”

browses a spinner rack: fake vomit, hand buzzers,

the guy calls down the hall to his partner.

Chinese finger traps, costume dog poo—packaging yellowed and covered in dust. Another boy, younger

Nicu hears the fat woman shouting from the street. “I’ll check with Diamond,” he says. “Just get this lady her

than the ones at the register, stocks a display of rabbit’s

pictures. She’s making a scene.”

foot key chains. “You been reading too many comic stories, son. The

Nicu waits with the fat woman until the men hand over a shoe box of photographs. She sits in a pile of

only people who says ‘crunch’ about a broken nose is

blankets and shuffles through the pictures, narrating the

somebody that never busted one,” Angelo Pulaski says.

story behind each photo to no one in particular—“Nilda’s

He turns his head in profile, gives the boys at the coun-

christening day it snowed a blizzard . . . I told them

ter a good look at his lumpy nose. “Maestro, what’s it

nobody goes to Peoria for a honeymoon. You think they

sound like when a nose busts?” The boy stocking the key chains answers without

listened to me?” While Bitsy stares at her photos, Nicu studies the billboard in the vacant lot next door.

looking up. “More like a pop. Smacking a lunch bag full

com -

of air, but quieter. Like popping a bag under water, you

ing soon ! marquette galleria : a lifestyle center . retail space available . contact pankow, strum & associates .

told me.”

Below the text

“That’s right, maestro.” The boys turn and look over

is an artist’s rendering of an outdoor shopping center.

the maestro kid.

Vivacious blond women window-shop while dashing

“What’s that little shit know?” one of the bigger

businessmen enjoy cocktails in sunny, open-air bistros.

boys says.

Well-mannered children walk hand-in-hand with smartly

“Be respectful. That fella’s trained in the pugilistic

dressed, athletic parents. None of the patrons imagined

arts.” All three boys crack up when they hear this.

by the artist look like Bitsy, Maria the undertaker’s assis-

“Disrespect don’t make the world work,” Pulaski says.

tant, or anyone else Nicu’s ever seen in Black Hawk.

“Neither does queering,” says the boy with the

Oaks and maples canopy Pere Marquette once the

whoopee cushion, “but that don’t stop you.”

boulevard climbs south and leaves the crush of busi-

Angelo hops over the counter, as quick and nimble as

ness and industry lining Butcher’s Row. In Parrot Hill,

Nicu remembers him years ago in the ring, and snatches

one place in the city that hasn’t been burned by Indian summer, trees still hold their leaves. It’s a quiet place,

the whoopee cushion away from the boy. “No sale!

quiet enough to hear the chatter of the nesting Monk

Learn some respect. Learn how a busted nose busts,

Parakeets the neighborhood’s named after. Nicu pauses

and beat it.” The boy looks at Nicu. “Don’t ask him,” Angelo

a moment outside Marquette Novelty, where red-andwhite

vote rousseau

Pulaski says. “Kid Pharaoh was always a body puncher.

posters are taped to the store’s win-

Never busted a man’s nose.”

dows, and listens to the birds before entering the shop.

“Or busted mine,” says Nicu. He runs a finger down

Inside Marquette Novelty, Angelo Pulaski’s holding

the straight slope of his nose.

court over a group of kids. Three boys stand next to

gypsy christmas dan mancilla

The kid spins the display rack of gag gifts on the way

after Ed Padilla tenderized you.” Ed Padilla. Nicu remem-

out. Dust clouds around the merchandise. “Your store

bered him. A tough cruiserweight. Heavy hands.

sucks it anyways,” he says and leads his friends outside.

“Your old man was something else, kid. He could’ve

“Ain’t my store. I’m just working for the man!” Pulaski

made a lot of money,” Nicu says.

shouts.

The boy nods and salutes both men. “Thanks for the

Everyone in the Third still calls it the Magic Store

apple,” he says and hustles into the storeroom.

though the name on the books, the one that appears on

While he doesn’t remember much of his fight with

shipping manifests and in the phone directory, is Marquette

Padilla, Nicu remembers his last fight with Angelo Pulaski

Novelty. Trade in real magic moved underground thanks

like it was yesterday. It was the biggest fight of his life,

to Addendum 2.5 to Chapter IV, Section R of the city code:

the biggest of Angelo’s too, though Pulaski would go on

“Concerning Soothsaying, Portents, Divining, and Card

to bigger things. They fought for the Fox Valley Middle-

Manipulation.” The law, aimed at Gypsy fortune-tellers,

weight Championship at the Black Hawk Armory before

encompassed such non-Gypsy endeavors as three-card

a packed house. Promoters and gangsters sat ringside.

Monty and “artful” deck shuffling, and all but eradicated

People from the neighborhood packed the rafters. Nicu

the impromptu gatherings of magicians in city parks and

had been up on points. It was the eighth round of ten,

bus terminals, driving them to a refuge on Beggar’s Island.

all hard-fought, when a choking black smoke overtook

Nicu spins a rabbit’s foot key chain around his finger.

the Armory. This wasn’t the familiar cigar-blue haze they

“I haven’t been in here since the Great Fazazz died.”

usually fought in. It was the heavy smoke of incinerated

“They still got his picture up.” Pulaski points to the

timber, of exploding machinery and flaming rooftops.

oil painting of a tuxedoed magician wearing a turban. vote rousseau

The century-old watch factory sprawling across two

posters flank the portrait. “Them Chicago

city blocks had gone up in flames just down the street.

lawyers that bought the place after he died thought it

Amid the screams and shouts were mutterings of “Gypsy

looked snazzy.”

King’s Inferno.” Though no one in attendance of the

“They’re supporting Rousseau?”

fight was old enough to remember the Gypsy King’s

“She’s using their office as a campaign headquarters

Inferno, that catastrophe which incited the Great Acorn

two blocks from here.”

Wars haunted the imaginations of all Black Hawkers—

The kid who’d been stocking the key chains darts be-

gadjo and Gypsy alike. Spectators fled the Armory in

tween Nicu and Pulaski with an empty box. “Who’s your

a panic. Some looking for Gypsy wagons to ransack.

assistant?” Nicu says.

Some running to the river. Some to the factory to watch

“You mean my protégé. My sister’s kid.”

the spectacle. A few, even, to try and put out the fire.

The boy stops. Stands next to his uncle. “What’s in

Nicu stood at the edge of the Armory’s parking lot in his

the bag?” the boy asks.

trunks, gnawing tape off his fists, watching flames lap at

“Vegetables,” Nicu says. He takes out the candy ap-

the factory’s magnificent clock tower. He entertained no

ple. Tosses it to the kid.

thoughts of a rematch as he watched the tower succumb

“Maestro, this is Kid Pharaoh. What I tell you about

to the flames and crash to the earth in a glorious blaze.

him?” The boy looks at Pulaski then at Nicu, closes his

Nicu drops the shopping bag of tomatoes on the

eyes like he’s doing a hard math problem in his head.

counter. “We all clear on what needs to happen?”

“My dad knocked you out,” the boy says.

Angelo Pulaski straightens the Great Fazazz’s por-

Nicu smiles. “Son, I won a lot more fights than I lost,

trait, rips down a campaign poster that’s obscured part

but that doesn’t mean I remember all the losses.”

of the painting. “I act up. You come in and put a stop to

“Maestro’s daddy was the one who turned you into a

it. I take a fall. I know what to do,” Pulaski says. “It just

middleweight,” Pulaski says.

don’t seem right.”

“I dropped weight classes once I started running.”

“Not a matter of right and wrong. You owe Diamond

“The way I recall it, you got serious about roadwork

Jim.”

slice

issue 8

King, Nicu walks deeper into Parrot Hill. It’s cool here.

“That’s bullshit too. I would’ve made bail and got out that day.”

Breezes cascading down from the Heights echo the rush

“They were gonna charge you with felony assault on

of whitewater cascading over the Kimball Street Dam three blocks to the east. Monk Parakeets make short

a police officer.”

flights from maple branches to transformer boxes atop

“That cop tripped over me. I should sue those smegma for all they got,” Pulaski says. He crumples up the

telephone poles and work on winter nests. The houses

campaign poster and shoots it in the direction of a trash

here, three- and four-story Victorians, are painted in

can. He puts a big arc on it, enough to kiss the store’s tin

dreamlike purples and oranges and greens. They’re not

ceiling. As it descends, the poster unfurls, glides back-

garish colors like those found on a Gypsy caravan, but

ward, and lands at Angelo Pulaski’s feet. “It’d be better if

naturally brilliant like June poppies and allium in full

I could be the hero on this one,” Pulaski says.

bloom. Shelly Rousseau’s campaign headquarters is located

His record didn’t show it, but Angelo Pulaski had been the best of all of them. He was the one who should

in one of these Victorians. The gold-leaf

have made it. Guys like Cleo “Fort” Knox and the oldest

& associates

Buendia brother had the talent but no heart. Angelo had

Marquette is nearly obscured by Rousseau’s campaign

it. Heart, killer instinct, granite fists, and nimble feet. But

posters.

now he’s a joke, bounces around from shit job to shit

pankow, strum

adorning a picture window fronting Pere

Entry into this building does not go unnoticed. A

job. Last time Nicu ran into him, Pulaski was scavenging

young campaign worker in shirtsleeves and bow tie

Dumpsters and selling scrap metal to Al Vargas down at

greets Nicu. “What do you say, brother? You look lost.”

the wrecking yard.

He’s stumpy and dark. Wiry hair and bad teeth give him

“You’ll be on top. In the long run, brother. This,” Nicu

away as a Bimbay Gypsy. Nicu wonders if the kid made

kicks the poster away from Pulaski’s feet, “is nothing but

him for half-a-Gypsy himself.

bad trouble for the Third. For Black Hawk.” Nicu peels

“I ain’t your brother, piker,” says Nicu.

off three hundreds from Diamond Jim’s money clip.

“Hey. There’s no need to be hostile. We’re all friends

“Just show up tomorrow. Pipe up, throw some tomatoes,

here. Just reaching out to a brother who’s lost his way.”

then get to the stage for the schmazz. Diamond Jim’s

The little Gypsy extends a hand to Nicu. Nicu ignores it

got security taken care of. Nobody’ll touch you until we

and walks around the office, studies the plaques on the

mix it up.” Nicu raises his hand like he’s taking an oath.

walls. Chamber of commerce awards, college and law

“‘History will remember you as a man of the people.’

school degrees. A picture of Shelly Rousseau wearing

Diamond Jim told me to tell you that.”

a hard hat breaking ground on a new housing project.

The two fighters stare each other down for a mo-

Another of her on the mound at Garibaldi Park throwing

ment as if they were in the middle of the ring awaiting

out the first pitch at a Tomahawks’ game.

the ref’s instructions. A crash in the back room snaps

“Brother, you registered to vote?” the little Bimbay

Pulaski to attention. “Maestro,” he says and disappears

says. Nicu thinks of the story about Angelo Pulaski

into the back of the store. Nicu leaves the store. Walks a

being arrested last week. One of the beat cops on

block before he realizes he still has the rabbit’s foot key

Diamond Jim’s payroll told him how Pulaski kept

chain. He considers taking it back, but doesn’t. Luck’s a

shouting “You know who you’re messing with?” after

limited resource in Black Hawk.

they hooked him and crammed him in the back of the cruiser. Nicu wants to ask this college boy Gypsy the

«.»

same question. “Stefano, I’m sure this brother is registered. Why

Nicu spent most of his adult life avoiding the

don’t you make sure Rico and Patricia have the parking

Monkeywrench, so putting off going there another hour

details for tomorrow worked out,” a woman says. It takes

or so won’t matter. Instead of paying a visit to the Gypsy

Nicu a moment to recognize her. Her red hair is longer

gypsy christmas dan mancilla

Nicu did like his job. Did like being a part of some-

than it is in the candidate photo the Union-Observer had run. In jeans and a T-shirt she’s more curvy than she’d

thing with Diamond Jim. Always felt he had a place

appeared in her pantsuit.

with the old man. If he had the inclination to answer her honestly about what he wanted, if he had the words,

“Shelly Rousseau,” she says and extends a hand

he’d tell her something about wanting things to be like

to Nicu.

they were. But deep down knowing that the memory

“Nice meeting you,” Nicu says and takes her hand. It’s milky white, but not soft, not delicate. He feels cal-

he wants back is something that never existed in the

luses on the pads of her palm. She looks at him like she’s

first place, like a picture that fuses with a memory to

waiting to hear something more. “Nicu. You got a nice

become something else. Thinking about this makes Nicu

place here,” he says, circles his arm over his head like

uneasy, makes his shoulders tingle. He feels the urge to

he’s Diamond Jim Figgis.

hit or be hit. Shelly Rousseau smells of vanilla. He wants to kiss her, suck on her ear, lick her neck. Inhale that

“Some people who care about the future of this city

vanilla, devour that milky white skin, crawl under it, and

provided the office space.”

sleep for a thousand years. “I want this heat to break.

“These guys?” Nicu points to the name on the

Things are boiling over down on Butcher’s Row. It’s not

window.

like up here.”

“I used to work out of the firm’s Loop offices. Left the practice after we moved out here. I saw a need for

She digs a tattered, yellowed leaflet out of the desk.

my services in the community. These people—” Shelly

Hands it to Nicu. He can’t read the text, it’s some kind

Rousseau stops herself. “This city deserves better.” She

of Slavic language, but the image is familiar. Four

crosses her arms on her chest and looks Nicu over. “You

old-fashioned Kalderash Gypsies yoked and chained,

work for Jim Figgis. I’ve seen you driving him to City

whipped along by a Cossack overseer. “You should be

Council meetings.”

fighting against this,” she says. Nicu laughs. “They taught us that in grade school.

“He didn’t send me here,” Nicu says.

Attitudes that made slavery times in the old country

Shelly Rousseau continues staring at Nicu. She smiles, points a finger at him. “You’re the boxer. What is

possible were the same ones that led to the Great Acorn

it with this town and fighting?”

Wars over here. Those ideas were a thing of the past, they told us.”

Nicu laughs. “You trying to get me to say the blight-

“Sounds quite progressive.” Rousseau closes her

ed Third Ward’s a breeding ground for gladiators?” He moves a few steps closer to Rousseau. In a match they’d

desk drawer. Stands. Moves closer to Nicu. “So what

say he was taking an angle, cutting the ring. “We’re not

happened?” “Who knows? They preached that equal rights stuff

fighters all the time.”

the same time they tried teaching us the metric system.

“Of course you’re not,” Rousseau says. The smile

They said gallons and miles was a thing of the past too.”

fades from her face as she ducks around him and strides

She smiles, rests a hand on Nicu’s arm. “Okay. I’m not

across the room. She sits at an old rolltop desk, rum-

so subtle, but you understand what I’m trying to do. This

mages through a drawer. “It’s Nick, is it?” “Nicu.”

matters. More than getting parking tickets fixed or mak-

“You’re a Bimbay?

ing a buck selling absentee Streets and Sanitation jobs,”

“My daddy.”

she says. “You could offer quite a bit to this campaign.

“Nicu, I assume you’ve lived in Black Hawk all your

To my administration.” There’s a look, quick as a flash.

life. You’re a Bimbay and you work for Figgis. I have to

Eyes meet. For a moment Nicu entertains the possibil-

ask: What do you want? For this place. For yourself. I

ity of being with a woman like Shelly Rousseau. And it

can’t imagine someone with your . . . experience is satis-

burns out as fast as it sparked. “I should get along,” he says. “That anachronism’s

fied chauffeuring some anachronistic ward boss around

got me running all across Black Hawk today.”

town.”

slice

issue 8

But deep down knowing that the memory he wants back is something that never existed in the first place, like a picture that fuses with a memory to become something else. Thinking about this makes Nicu uneasy, makes his shoulders tingle. He feels the urge to hit or be hit.

“I suppose it’s too much to ask for your vote Tuesday?” “Diamond Jim pays the bills.” “It was nice meeting you, Nicu.” Nicu takes her white milky hand. Closes his eyes, inhales. Loses himself in something he can’t quite say until the voice of the little Bimbay volunteer intrudes. “Let me get you a bumper sticker, brother . . . ”

«.»

It feels even hotter in Butcher’s Row after spending time in Parrot Hill. Fewer trees. More people. Narrow streets and heavy traffic. It’s hard for Nicu to believe the two neighborhoods are part of the same district. As foreign as Shelly Rousseau’s corner of the Third is to Nicu, there’s absolutely no mistaking the Monkeywrench for anything but Third Ward—to him, to anyone in Black Hawk. Go to the Heights, Foothill Road,

logic or evidence. But there’s no Kris now, no honor tri-

or the Argentine Quarter and ask anyone about the

als or disputes over money to be settled. The building is

Third and the Monkeywrench will be right up there with

peaceful. Just Nicu and these two boys. “Wo mangel te

the slaughterhouses and Diamond Jim Figgis in their

avel!” the boy shouts again. He wants to see you. Words

collective imagination.

return to Nicu. “He don’t understand,” the other boy says. “Wo si

The stagnant air in the rail yard along the Fox River smells of diesel exhaust and rotting fish. It’s two miles

Rrom kashtalo.” More words find him. Something about

above the dam, so water runs still and deep. There’s a

a wooden man. Nicu remembers his daddy using this

constant low hum of idling train engines. Anchoring the

term when talking about Gypsies who didn’t speak the

far end of the yard is the Monkeywrench, the cavernous

language. Remembers him warning his mother it would

graying roundhouse. Weeds sprout through cracks in its

be bad luck to move to the Heights. That Nicu would

roof. Inside the old building it’s dark and dusty. Reminds

lose his language, become Rrom kashtalo. “Come on. He’s by the back.” The boys wave him

Nicu of hiding in the basement on those unbearable

along. Nicu follows through the shadows.

Indian summer days as a child.

The boys scatter when an old man tells them to go.

High above the rafters, windows long ago broken shoot blocks of light through the dust. Two boys

“Zha!” It’s Mel Bimbay, alone, sitting in a recliner pulled

dash in and out of the shadows. “Wo mangel te avel!”

up to the end of a picnic table. He spoons sugar on or-

one of the boys shouts to Nicu. Nicu searches for the

ange slices. Pops one in his mouth and gestures for Nicu

words. It’s been so long. He stares at the boys. They’re

to sit at the table. He offers a piece of orange to Nicu. “Thanks. Nais.” The sugarcoated orange is sweet and

small, like all the Bimbays, the sawed-off men, the little

rough on Nicu’s tongue.

women. Nicu’s thankful he inherited his size from his

The Gypsy King rummages through a box of junk.

mother. The boy’s words echo in the cavernous space. It’s quieter than Nicu remembers. He came here as a

He pulls out a picture frame. Works on unfastening the

child, stood at his father’s side as he sat at a table of

back of the frame with a long fingernail. “You been gone

high ranking Bimbays. Men chain-smoking clove ciga-

away a little while, Nicu,” he says without taking his eyes

rettes argued their points with sheer volume instead of

off the frame. More than twenty years, Nicu thinks. But

gypsy christmas dan mancilla

time is different for them, he knows. A series of present

away in a sleepy corner of the Third. There’s Martinez’s

moments. The past reaches only as far back as the old-

saw crib, a Water Works pumping station, and vacant

est Gypsy remembers. The future, even shorter, scarcely

lots. But today, a Sunday afternoon, there’s a carnival

farther than speculating when a pot of stew will come to

atmosphere. Lăutari play festive tunes on their fiddles.

a boil.

Donkey carts and Black Hawk police cruisers clog the street. People, gadjo and Gypsy, fill in the gaps.

“Dat’s okay. You’re in Diamond Jim’s kumpania now. He’s friend.” Mel Bimbay works the back off the frame.

Mel Bimbay’s nowhere to be seen, but his entou-

Removes a piece of paper. “What’s Diamond Jim want

rage of men in purple and green suits fan out over the

from Mel Bimbay?”

crowds and politic for the Gypsy King. One gets an ear-

Nicu explains, in the vaguest of details (a tactic

ful from an old woman convinced Mel Bimbay’s cursed

Mel Bimbay understands) the plans for tomorrow. He

her because all her cats disappeared. Another hears a

presents the Gypsy King with five hundred dollars, but

complaint about price gauging between rival Bimbay

there’s still hesitation. All part of the Gypsy negotiation

body and fender operations. A pregnant girl argues

process, Nicu knows.

with a street vendor over the price of cherry strudels while her boyfriend swipes a few for free. Sweets go

“The girl wants to help us. What’s Diamond Jim gonna do for the Bimbay?” The old man sucks on another

fast in this crowd—elephant ears and sacks of candy

sugared orange.

corn in nearly every Bimbay’s hand are a testament to the Gypsy sweet tooth. There’s tamales and hot dogs

Nicu peels off another two hundred. Places it on the table. “The avokatos Rousseau works with are buying up

steaming on the backs of carts too. Red-and-white

buildings. Turning them into gadjo-only places.”

rousseau

Mel Bimbay shrugs his shoulders. “Dat’s no good.

and

rousseau 4 change

vote

posters litter the street.

Children collect as many as they can, accordion fold

And Diamond Jim doesn’t want?”

them into fans, and sell them to college kids as Rous-

Nicu nods. Peels off three hundred more. “‘New don’t

seau campaign memorabilia. As soon as Monsignor

always mean better,’ he says.”

Faustino says something about the heat, Father Can-

The Gypsy King takes the money off the table. Folds

deleria pops an umbrella for shade, mentions how the

it and tucks it up his shirt sleeve. “Then okay. Diamond

basilica could use new fans. It’s not like St. Alphonsus

Jim’s words are strong. He duma zorasa. And you speak

is equipped with AC after all. Everyone has angles to

with power too, Nicu.” Mel Bimbay hands Nicu the paper

work in the Third.

that had been in the frame. this certificate recognizes: yanko bimbay

Nicu finds a spot near the dais, keeps an eye peeled

for Pulaski. There’s a smattering of applause when

as participant in: reading olympiad

Rousseau welcomes the crowd. The Bimbays can be

at : jessup wheelock elementary.

boisterous, but they withhold praise for the time being,

Mel Bimbay crosses out the name “Yanko.” Writes

cautious of another gadjo promising them the world.

“NICU” in a clumsy block script. “Take stifikato. Is yours.”

The microphone’s feedback reverberates through the

Mel Bimbay slaps his hands together and waves them

street when Shelly Rousseau speaks. “This isn’t about

over his head. “No more bi-baxt. Bad luck’s gone, Nicu.

Us and Them,” she says. “It’s about Black Hawk.” A lit-

No more Daddy. Is okay.”

tle more applause at the mention of the city. “Time has come for change. Time has come to turn the page. To

«.»

step from the shadows of strife and emerge from an invisible history. It is time to reclaim what was lost, an

Shelly Rousseau’s not a tall woman, but she

opportunity—”

towers above the Lolas as she escorts them to seats of

A tomato splats against the podium. A second catch-

honor on the dais. They’re the old couple who run the

es the Lola man on the chin. “Rousseau’s a liar! Shelly

“Gypsy-friendly” dry cleaners. Their operation’s tucked

Rousseau’s a crook!”

slice

issue 8

It’s all according to plan. Nicu’s slapping around

“Shemu!” someone shouts.

Pulaski and standing up for the Gypsies with actions, not

“Hell yeah, I’m crazy. I’m a Black Hawker. Screw the

words like Shelly Rousseau. In the crowd there’s a Gypsy

Gyppos!” says Angelo Pulaski.

boy on his father’s shoulders. The two aren’t moving, but

“Right on,” someone cheers, but most of the crowd

no one really is. There’s a stillness to the crowd despite

remains silent. Pulaski’s ten feet from the podium. The people around him move back when he rips his shirt off.

the ruckus. The Bimbays settle in as if to watch a movie.

He throws it and another tomato at Rousseau. “Chicago

While they’re locked up, spinning in circles, both men

Carpetbagger! Gentrified Gyppo lover!”

see a group of wide-eyed boys. Pulaski shouts something. Sounds like “maestro,” sounds like “my son,” then

Shelly Rousseau’s pointing at Angelo, but not saying

tenses up.

anything. He gets off three more shots, nails Rousseau in the face, and hits both Lolas before he makes it to

Punches are no longer pulled. Pulaski looks at those

the stage. It’s just as Diamond Jim told Nicu it would

boys, shouts something, comes at Nicu with heavy and

go down. No cops, no security interrupting. Nicu’s

quick fists. These do damage. These, even if Nicu had

able to push his way onto the stage with little trouble.

expected them, would hurt. Pulaski leads with a wild left.

This is theater, so they’ll have to play for the back rows

Exposes himself, but it doesn’t matter. The punch lands

and work like professional wrestlers instead of boxers.

square on Nicu’s jaw, spins him, loosens fillings. Pulaski

It’s a show. Entertainment. That was one reason Nicu

follows with a right, a sloppy uppercut that snaps Nicu’s

never made it as a fighter. His style was efficient. Quick

mouth shut. Front teeth grind against the back of his

and violent, but tidy. Not like Pulaski’s. His fights were

lower teeth in an unnatural underbite. Five, six blows in a

sloppy and wild, win or loss, they were spectacles that

row. It’s all Nicu can do to step in and tie Angelo up. But

drew crowds.

Pulaski knows how to work close, rocks Nicu with elbows to break the clinch. “Sorry, brother. It’s for the maes-

And now they had a crowd. “Let the lady finish!” Nicu

tro,” Pulaski tells him before they untangle. Once there’s

shouts. He runs across the stage, gets a whiff of Shelly Rousseau’s vanilla perfume, and catches Pulaski with a

daylight between them Nicu can’t even count the strikes

worked kidney punch before Angelo gets off another

they come so fast. Body shot, body shot. Left ear, right

round of tomatoes.

ear. Vision tunnels, air buzzes. That warm, fuzzy feeling before the KO takes hold. A bony fist packs in Nicu’s

That first punch is clumsy, like they’re working out

nose, and there’s a pop. It’s broken.

dance steps. Before the cops break everything up,

Before Nicu goes down, cops and Mel Bimbay’s men

before Mel Bimbay’s men do anything they square off and get in a few good shots. The secret to making a

crowd the stage. Huber the baker whispers something

schmazz like this look real is to get in close, work snug.

into Angelo Pulaski’s ear as the police cuff him and drag

Elbows up. Rabbit shots and the occasional haymaker

him off. Nicu’s out on his feet, only standing because

off target to the shoulder instead of the ear. Angelo

he’s propped up by the crush of people on the dais. That

Pulaski’s bare torso makes things easier. Nicu’s open

fuzzy feeling washes over his body. He’s numb to the

hands do little damage, but the smacks sound good.

blood flowing from his nose and into his mouth, dripping

Sound real.

off his chin. The buzzing in his head sounds like cheering. Sounds like Lăutari playing a familiar tune. Reminds

“Hey! That’s Diamond Jim’s man!” Nicu hears someone shout, no doubt a shill for the old man. “That’s Nicu

Nicu of his daddy’s hobo choir. Nicu hears his name then

Bimbay.”

the word didikai, friend to the Gypsies. “Doctor,” some-

“That’s Kid Pharaoh. He’s Diamond Jim’s man.”

one says and hands lay on him. He floats over the crowd.

“Diamond Jim Figgis is the true friend of the Bim-

Sees Shelly Rousseau. Red hair in a sea of black burns bright. Her white skin glows electric. Nicu can’t be sure,

bay,” another man shouts.

the tears that come with a busted nose cloud his vision,

“Diamond Jim is didikai. Friend of the Gypsies!” A

but he thinks she’s smiling at him. DM

woman’s voice this time.

Be There Soon Donna Laemmlen

Seven-year-old Lola Jones sat on a park bench

willing to guide her. Nothing in the park enchanted

directly across from the Bean, a 110-ton sculpture she

Lola’s mother. Morning after morning, she sat glued to a

hoped would change her unhappy life. Big and shiny, the

bench surrounded by a New York Times crossword puz-

Bean was sixty-six feet high and thirty-three feet wide

zle, a venti Starbucks coffee, two black pencils, a pack

and shaped like a bicycle helmet. Built for Chicago’s Mil-

of Marlboro Lights, her eyeglasses, and a cell phone.

lennium Park, the Bean’s highly polished stainless steel

Eventually, Lola had come to appreciate different days

surface reflected the city in every direction. The Michi-

of the week based on the puzzles themselves—the later

gan Avenue skyline appeared magically trapped in its

in the week, the harder the puzzle, the more time she

exterior, the buildings’ silhouettes arched over unnatu-

had to play. And today was Saturday. It would take her

rally, as if stooping to peer at the visitors who peered

mother at least two hours to finish. That would be more

back at them. Lola had frequently been mesmerized by

than enough time.

her own warped reflection: her thick body stretched thin

The school psychologist had been the one to recom-

like taffy; somber black eyes crazy as pinwheels; chunky

mend the park, a wonder of art and architecture thriving

pigtails wispy and too high on her head. She relished

in the heart of downtown. Summer therapy, she had

her distorted image and wanted to run underneath the

called it, for the both of them. Her mother had had “a

Bean, through the twelve-foot-high arch that led to its

difficult year,” a phrase Lola had overheard from other

concave interior, but her mother had said no, there were

teachers and parents sympathetic to her mother. Ap-

too many people milling about and she didn’t want to

parently, thirty-five fourth graders had been difficult for

keep an eye out for her today, waiting for her to come

her mother to wrangle. But Lola had just finished fourth

out the other side. She wanted to do her crossword puz-

grade herself, and she knew it to be easy and boring.

zle in peace. Lola didn’t know how to tell her mother she

What was so difficult about teaching multiplication ta-

had no intention of coming out the other side this time.

bles and the history of rocks and minerals? Maybe if her

Being inside the Bean felt like the only way out.

mother had just tried a little harder, been a little nicer somehow, they wouldn’t be in need of therapy now. Still,

«.»

Lola was grateful for any excuse to escape their small, lonely uptown bungalow for a couple hours every day.

Her mother had never shown any interest in the

With the Bean’s arrival, Lola’s parents had momentar-

Bean, let alone being in it, though Lola had always been

ily been smitten—all three of them holding hands even,

slice

issue 8

as they circled the spaceship of steel. That was when

Lola understood the boy’s frustration. Every day

Lola’s dad had first given her the idea. Standing in the

she wore her water sandals and a bathing suit under

interior, wrapped in the shafts of light that had snuck in

her summer dresses in case her mother would relent

on the Bean’s surface, he had squeezed her hand so tight

and finally let her play in the Crown Fountain. Lola had

her elbow tingled. “One . . . two . . . three,” he teased, and

never seen anything like it: a shallow pool book-ended

then winked as he pretended to launch the whole family

by two fifty-foot glass block towers that projected giant

into the vortex of the Bean. The tight ring they made

video images of different people. Every five minutes,

shivered and jerked with make-believe voltage until her

when a stream of water appeared to flow from some-

mother snapped, “Stop it, Jonathan. You look like an

one’s mouth, everyone in the wading pool went berserk,

epileptic,” and stormed off into the plaza. Her mother

screaming and crowding one another under the water-

had become embarrassed by most things her father did.

fall as if it were bestowing a secret potion upon their

“Immature,” she said. “And weird.” After that, they spent

heads. The towers were both strange and exhilarating,

their time in the park fighting—about money, about her

and no one ever wanted to leave their shadow.

mother’s moods, about the single blonde who lived next

“One . . .”

door and made Lola’s dad the best brownies ever. And

Lola wandered over to the family and lingered at the

now that her dad and the blonde were gone, Lola didn’t

edge of their bench, watching as they squabbled with

care if her mother understood being in the Bean or not.

the boy. He looked about her age, and she hoped his

She wanted to be gone too.

tantrum meant he loved the fountain as much as she did. “Two . . .”

«.»

When the boy caught Lola’s cool gaze, he quickly willed his fit of temper under control.

It usually took about fifteen minutes for her

The boy’s mother forced a smile for Lola. “He loves

mother to become so engrossed in her puzzle that Lola

the water. And in this heat, well, who can blame him?”

could tiptoe away, so she waited patiently, watching her

She looked frazzled and drenched in her white tank top

mother slip into her routine: folding the newspaper’s

and cotton shorts, her own face flushed and damp. She

puzzle page into a perfect square; lighting a cigarette

looked across to Lola’s mother, who sat cross-legged

and sipping her coffee; nibbling her eraser while scan-

under her loose-fitting skirt, intently focused on her

ning the clues. As soon as her mother penciled in that

puzzle.

first word, Lola started making plans for her new life.

Lola snuck close to the boy’s father and sat on the

A sudden howl broke Lola’s concentration. A scream-

bench. “My dad’s in the fountain,” she said, with enough

ing fiery-haired boy and his agitated parents sat down

conviction to charge the atmosphere.

on the next bench. “I want to go back!” the boy cried.

The father snagged his cap from the concrete and

His freckled nose was sunburned and his T-shirt and

cinched it back on his head. “He is?” He laughed. “How

baggy shorts were soaked.

did he get in there?”

The father held the squirming boy in a clutch-hold.

“They took his picture and then they put it up there,”

“Adrian, stop it!” he begged. “You’re making a scene.”

Lola said. “He’s the one with the brown moustache.” A

“The fountain!” the boy continued. “I want to play in

brief silence stifled their conversation. Lola spun her

the fountain!”

pigtails wildly with her hands. “It’s okay. No one ever

“I swear to God, you’d better stop this right now.”

believes me,” she continued. “We went to that build-

The boy wailed as the father jerked him into the sit-

ing over there and they took pictures of one thousand

ting position. He retaliated by flailing an arm in the air,

people.” She pointed to the ornate Chicago Cultural

knocking his father’s Chicago Cubs cap to the ground.

Center on the corner of Michigan Avenue and Washing-

“Damn it!” The father sucked air as his face turned

ton Street. “But they didn’t use mine. And ever since my

bright red. “That’s it! I’m going to count to three.”

dad left us, my mom won’t let me play there either.” Lola

be there soon

donna laemmlen

That was when Lola’s dad had first given her the idea. Standing in the interior, wrapped in the shafts of light that had snuck in on the Bean’s surface, he had squeezed her hand so tight her elbow tingled. “One . . . two . . . three,” he teased, and then winked as he pretended to launch the whole family into the vortex of the Bean.

women, her mother always said), and their last lunch together had been well worth the stomachache. “Are you hungry?” The boy stood in front of Lola now, offering her part of his sandwich. “My name’s Adrian.” It wasn’t yet noon and Lola was still full from her bowl of Lucky Charms, but she accepted the portion of sandwich anyway. “I’m Lola.” They ate in silence, looking up now and then at each other, smiling. The parents welcomed the quiet and soon granted them permission to wander near the Bean. “We’ll keep an eye on them,” the father shouted to Lola’s mother, who waved them off as she lit another cigarette. “I’m almost through,” she promised. The parents shook their heads and shrugged. “Stay where we can see you,” the father ordered, and off they ran, to the edge of the concave interior. Lola had discovered that if she stood in the concrete square directly in the middle of the entrance, she could see herself reflected in four different angles. With Adri-

twisted the hem of her flowered sundress and looked to

an standing in the adjacent square, they were suddenly

the boy, who was now calm and smiling at her.

multiplied into eight deformed figures, some pudgy and

The boy’s parents busied themselves with unwrap-

dwarfed, others towering and frail, all of them goofy

ping submarine sandwiches and opening bags of chips.

and weird. But it was too crowded and they were easily

The father divided their lunch as Lola swung her feet

nudged from their squares by the hoard of visitors. They

under the bench and hummed. The sandwiches smelled

obediently tried to stay at the outer edge of the Bean,

of dill pickles. Lola loved any kind of pickle, as long as it

lying on their backs in the shade, their feet propped up

wasn’t sweet: dill pickle chips, garlic dill stackers, Heinz

on the Bean’s smooth shiny surface, which made them

whole dill pickles. The last time she saw her father,

look like daddy longlegs. They waved at Adrian’s par-

he had taken her to Barney’s for a stacked pastrami

ents to prove they were still there. But soon Lola raised

sandwich oozing with Swiss cheese, a birthday tradi-

her dress to show Adrian her secret swimsuit. “It’s too

tion. His extra special treat had been to buy her her

hot,” she said. His smile confirmed what she had hoped

first jumbo dill pickle, straight out of Barney’s jumbo

all along—he had the daring. Adrian’s parents appeared

pickle jar, a gastronomical treat more challenging to

to be studying a map, turning it this way and that. Lola’s

eat than even a double-decker ice cream cone. She

mother stared off toward the Chicago skyline, tapping a

had nibbled through the crisp cucumber all the way to

pencil to her forehead. Momentarily free of all watchful

the stem end, dribbles running down her elbows, her

eyes, they bolted for the fountain.

fingers vinegary and wrinkled. It was an impressive

Lola quickly steered her new friend through the

feat for a seven-year-old, her dad had said; and she

dense fence of evergreen shrubs that corralled the

knew it. “Baskin–Robbins?” her dad challenged after-

Bean, disappearing behind the instant cover, winding

ward. “Pickles and ice cream will give you wild dreams

through the potted sea lavender and onto a terrace

tonight, birthday girl. I promise.” He smiled his mad

lined with sycamore trees and butterfly weed, past the

smile then. Lola loved the crazy things they did behind

black granite benches and a public art display, zigzag-

her mother’s back (jumbo pickles were for pregnant

ging through the art lovers and the happy families, and

slice

issue 8

sailing down the concrete staircase that connected to

past the hot dog stand and the line for ice cream, charg-

her beloved fountain. In less than a minute, they were

ing up the steps on the backside of the Bean, clutching

sloshing through the pool, splashing each other and

hands and laughing harder, animated and loony down to

racing to the south tower for a spot under a spigot.

their bones, almost there now, their delight rising higher

Lola watched the photos click by as she waited for the

with the cresting of the Bean, reaching the top step

magical flow: the young black woman with curled eye-

and gasping for breath, and then . . . ONE . . . the Bean

lashes and a sparkling white smile; the pudgy boy with

smiling at them, congratulating them, they had done it,

blond spiky hair; the woman with harsh red hair and

they had escaped the parents and their unhappy lives

colorful eyeglasses. When she saw the carrot-orange

. . . TWO . . . the Bean beckoning them into its concave

hair of the freckle-faced man, she grabbed hold of

interior, sharing one last beam of joy between them,

Adrian’s hand and started jumping up and down.

shouting to the sky be there soon . . . THREE . . . planting

“Five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . . one!” she shouted,

themselves in the middle of the Bean, in the middle of

and then she was shrieking, “There he is! That’s my

the light, in the middle of the smiling families and happy

dad! My dad! My dad!” The water gushed from the

kids, smiling and happy forever, it really wasn’t so hard,

mouth of the man with the brown mustache, drench-

you just had to want it . . . more . . . than . . . anything.

ing them both until a heavy-set kid in tiny black trunks

«.»

elbowed them from its stream. She careened off one soaked child after another, an out-of-control bumper car screeching about the man on the giant glass tower,

Lola wandered out of the Bean and sauntered

working herself into a frenzy. She was so enthralled she

toward her mother, still perched on the bench but wav-

didn’t even notice that the other children had backed

ing her hand now.

away from her, everyone except Adrian, who savored

“There you are! I finally finished,” she said. “Sorry it

the spotlight under the flow of the fountain too. When

took so long. Byzantium was harder than it should have

the water ebbed, Lola and Adrian bulldozed the middle

been.”

of the pool, arms outstretched, slapping waves of water

Lola stared at her mother in silence.

onto everyone, making some kids in street clothes cry,

“Are you hungry? Want a hot dog?”

convincing others simply to strip to their underwear.

Lola looked at the empty bench next to them.

In retaliation, two bigger kids doused Lola and Adrian

“Do you have to be like this every single day?” Her

with sheets of water, an act worthy of an all-out scuffle,

mother grabbed Lola’s hand. “Just tell me what you

but soon the fountains spewed their streams again and

want to eat.”

the quarrel quickly stopped, leaving everyone breath-

“Fish sandwich.”

less and crazed.

“Anything to drink?

Just above the fountain, at the edge of the granite

“Root beer.”

terrace, Lola spied Adrian’s parents. His father pointed

Her mother pulled her along the plaza, through the

angrily and suddenly rushed through the throng, a

groups of people staring and pointing at their reflec-

frantic look on his face. His mother hustled right be-

tions in the Bean.

hind, keeping the children in her sight as she shuffled

“Things will get better, Lola, but you have to help

sideways down the stairs. “They found us!” Lola said,

too,” her mother said.

grabbing Adrian’s hand. “Come on, before they make

Lola could see Adrian floating in the Bean’s polished

you go home!” And they were off and running again,

exterior, floating in a cluster of happy kids, all smiling

through the shallow waves, past the brilliant blue-and-

and waving, all waiting for her. DL

red tiles of the north tower, away from the stairs and the boxy evergreen shrubs, keeping low across the crowded plaza, dodging legs and dogs and strollers, laughing

Holy Ghost Tuesday.

Faces like hot dominoes in doldrums (their destiny too dense to parse, too dear to describe), the crowd is in

adam o. davis

denial; not once and a river yet: a rapid run of reckless mouths

gnashing their way through the alphabet’s many motorways.

Give them this day their daily bread before they chew even

the scenery, before they crush the shunts that keep the sky in its place and squash the sarsaparilla tufts of cloud that congeal at the eye’s very edges. To care is to sometimes kill as we have sometimes been told. To care is to carve the image of our caretaker into this idle tree and border crossing. By the salty tines of Satan’s seasick fork, it’s hot! Open a window or something—I feel the crisp heat of a holy oven upon my heart. Under how many watts must this age be broiled? Douse me in better water for brisker belief. Do this in remembrance of our impractical head and heads, our illiterate heart and hearts.

An Interview with

Isabel Allende Celia Blue Johnson & Maria Gagliano Some say that Isabel Allende is the world’s most widely read Spanish language author. She’s written nine novels and several other works, including a story collection, four memoirs, and a trilogy of children’s books. It’s easy to assume that such an accomplished writer must be gifted with time, resources, and muses that the rest of us could only wish for. That’s hardly the case. Allende has built her literary career writing mostly about her family. From her memoir Paula to her acclaimed novel The House of the Spirits, the love she shares with those around her has fueled her most inspired work. And while she does have a private writing space now, she’s written entire novels at her kitchen counter and in cars and coffee shops. She doesn’t let anything get in the way of her passion for writing. We caught up with Allende to discuss her latest novel, Island Beneath the Sea. She also offered us a peek into her inspiration for The House of Spirits, her writing process, and some mischievous memories from her days as a romance-novel translator.

What was the source of inspiration for your latest

slaves. Soon there was a class of free people of color

novel, Island Beneath the Sea?

who had education, trades and professions, economic resources, and their own culture. Naturally, the research

The original idea was to write about New

forced me to focus on the Haitian Revolution.

Orleans, a city that I like very much; it’s different from any other place in the United States. As I re-

In this novel, the historic backdrops of Saint-

searched the history of New Orleans I realized that much

Domingue and New Orleans during the late eighteenth

of its flavor—cuisine, French terms, voodoo, music,

century are brought to life with vivid and detailed

African influence—came from the ten thousand refugees

descriptions. Was it challenging to capture the time

who escaped the slave revolt in Saint-Domingue (today

period? Did you have to conduct extensive research

Haiti). They were white French colonizers and many of

or were you already familiar with these places and the

them brought their most trusted domestic African

time period?

I was not familiar with those places, and I researched extensively for four years. But I could not start the novel until I could visualize Zarité, the protagonist. She appeared to me in a dream, or maybe I just imagined her, or she was a ghost from the past that walked into my life, I don’t know. I saw her exactly as she is: tall, dark, with a long neck and elegant hands; perfect posture, high cheekbones, slanted eyes, low voice, and a courageous and passionate heart. One of the major themes in this novel is change, from the rebellion in Saint-Domingue to forging new lives in New Orleans. Which characters do you feel underwent the most dramatic transformations over the course of the novel? I think the most dramatic transformation was of the children, Maurice and Rosette, who experienced the violence of that time. Of course, Zarité’s life also changed when she obtained her freedom, but her personality did not change. Zarité’s narrative voice is enchanting, filled with

Every book I have written responds to a certain

rhythm and insight. Did you feel a particular

moment in my life—to a question, a personal

connection to her throughout the novel? And are there

experience, or an important memory. I never know what

any characters that were difficult to relate to or write

I am going to write next, or why I have to write a certain

about?

story. It is usually much later that I am able to understand the book and explain why I wrote it or what it As I said before, I saw Zarité like an apparition,

really means. Writing is a very organic and mysterious

a visitation from another time and space. She

process; I have learned to go with the flow, to wait

possessed me. It was not difficult at all to write in her

patiently for the characters to manifest themselves and

voice; I had the feeling that she was dictating to me. In

tell me their stories. Every book has its own tone and

general, I never have too much difficulty with any of my

rhythm; every story has its own voice.

characters. The greatest challenge in a novel like this one is to weave in the historical facts without being

Are there any writers who have particularly influenced

didactic or boring.

your work?

You’ve written in a wide variety of styles, from short

I have been influenced by many writers that I

stories and novels to young adult fiction and memoir.

read in my youth—the writers from the Latin

What has your experience been shifting from one

American Boom, Russian and English novelists, even

approach to another? Do you have a style you feel

some science fiction, and One Thousand and One Nights.

most at home with?

But I’ve also been influenced by movies, traveling, and the personal experiences that have shaped my life.

photograph by Lori Barra

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issue 8

What are the best conditions for you to write? What

for me. I write eight to ten hours daily for several

does your writing space look like?

months, until I have put down the story. I don’t follow an outline; usually I meander for a month or so before the

I have the perfect space for writing: a little

story shapes up and the characters speak to me. Then

house in my backyard—warm, private, luminous,

the rest happens like in a trance. Starting next year I will

silent. In it, I keep the first editions of my books, diction-

change my writing routines. I am tired and I want to

aries, maps, and the research for the book in process;

work less and have more fun, so I will not start another

also photographs of the people I love, dead and alive. It

book on January 8; I hope to write in a more relaxed and

is perfect but not really indispensable. I wrote The House

playful way.

of the Spirits at night on the kitchen counter in an apartment in Caracas; Of Love and Shadows in a closet;

The House of the Spirits began as a letter to your

The Stories of Eva Luna in a car and in coffee shops. To

grandfather and evolved into a novel. When did you

be able to write I only need time and silence.

realize that the letter would become something larger than itself? Was there one moment, or one story

Do you have a typical writing process, or does it

element in particular, that fueled the expansion?

change from book to book? Do you tend to write from outlines or simply take off into a story as soon as an

I realized it was not a normal letter very quickly,

idea sparks?

let’s say on the third day, when I had written several pages. I was trying to tell my grandfather that he

I have always started my books on January 8,

could die in peace, that he would not be forgotten. I

out of discipline and superstition. It’s a lucky day

remembered everything he had told me—the family

an interview with isabel allende

celia blue johnson & maria gagliano

anecdotes, his life, random stories. But then I noticed

virgins with green eyes and big breasts, so I made a few

that in the telling, I was adding stuff—it was fiction, not

changes . . . I would hate it if my translators did that to

memory or chronicle.

my books!

In The House of the Spirits, Clara has psychic and

Your books have been translated into more than

telekinetic powers. She often predicts events in her

twenty-seven languages. Do you work closely with

family’s lives and practices moving inanimate objects.

all of your translators? Have you found it challenging

What inspired you to add this magical element to the

for your writing’s spirit to be translated into certain

story? Did Clara’s powers help you portray her family’s

languages?

essence? I work closely with my American translator, Clara is modeled after my grandmother, who

Margaret Sayers Peden, who has translated all

spent her life experimenting with the paranor-

my books except the first one. Other translators email

mal. She had weekly séances, practiced telepathy with a

me their queries, usually about the meaning of a word,

couple of friends, and studied Gurdjieff and other

but I can’t read those languages. When I write, I keep in

philosophers and psychics. In the novel, Clara’s powers

mind that the book will eventually be translated into

helped to build up suspense and tension by foretelling

other languages, so I avoid slang and words that could

what might happen next.

not be found in a normal dictionary, unless the meaning is clear in the paragraph.

Letter writing has played a major role in your life. You’ve said that you write a letter every day to your

What are you working on now?

mother. And The House of the Spirits begins as a letter. How have letters helped you on your journey as a

I finished another novel that will be published in

writer, daughter, mother, and friend?

Spanish in 2011.

Letters have been very important because they

What is the worst lie you’ve ever told? Did it make it

are a record of everything that has happened in

into your writing?

my life and are a strong connection to my mother. Unfortunately, this year I have been traveling a lot and I

I am a born liar and a fiction writer; I can’t

have relied more on emails and telephone, but my

remember all the lies I have told!

mother always writes to me. When my daughter Paula was alive, we made copies of the letters and they went

You’ve become a master at conjuring magical worlds

to the three of us.

in everyday settings. What is your favorite world of make-believe created by another author? Has it

You worked briefly translating romance novels in Chile

inspired your own work?

until being let go for making unauthorized changes to manuscripts. Many of your fans applaud you for

The fictional world of eroticism, adventure, and

this! Can you talk a little about the experience? What

pleasure of One Thousand and One Nights was

inspired you to get creative with your translations?

decisive in my early life; it opened up for me the possibility of fantasy and storytelling.

I translated romance stories—which were all alike, all predictable, and rather boring for me because the female protagonists were feebleminded. I like strong and passionate women, not manipulative

title

author

journal entries

rising voices

Suamny Melenciano Suamny Melenciano is a seventeen-year-old senior at Hostos-Lincoln Academy, a New York City public school in the South Bronx. Her cultural heritage is Dominican, but she was born in Connecticut and moved to New York at the age of three, when her father passed away. She now lives with her mother, sister, brother, and daughter in the South Bronx and has a parttime job after school working at a supermarket in lower Manhattan. Suamny started keeping a journal in third grade, and she became more involved in writing as a result of a requirement in her junior English class to complete a journal entry every day. Suamny is a single parent who became pregnant and had a child at age sixteen. Her daughter is named Katelynn, and she turned a year old on December 24. Suamny would advise everyone to wait until they have finished college and have their dream job before even thinking of having a child. She says that people can give a lot of advice, but you don’t really learn until you experience the consequences of your actions. Suamny is now writing poetry and in her spare time, which is limited, she likes to go to the gym, work out, and try to keep in shape. Her current project is to lose twenty pounds, which seems excessive to her friends. Suamny submitted excerpts from the journal she kept during her pregnancy for our Rising Voices section.

Scared

October 1, 2009

Self Positive?

Sometimes I wish I could go and buy a pregnancy test;

The way I feel is negative. I feel like the world is going

it’s so hard to believe I’m having a baby. Sometimes it

to rumble down on me. Ever since I was in 3rd grade

even feels fake, not true. I can sleep and feel my baby

I have had negative thoughts, thoughts that make me

going crazy inside; I wake up and feel like I can’t do

feel nothing will happen. In the 10th grade I changed,

this. I feel that things are never going to be right. I want

I started to think positive about myself and everything

Miguel in my life forever, but then I don’t. We are going

around me. I started to see how much attention I had

on a year and a half, by the time the baby is 6 months,

taken from my brother and sisters. I am done with my

we will have two years together. Wow! I can’t wait, but

selfishness and am going to think of others; I’m not a

then in a way I can, I’m fed up with feeling like a cow,

negative person??? I think. Who am I? Do I know who

like a huge person. It’s fine, it’s OK, I have to realize I am

I am and what I want in life? Is this who I want to be?

not the only person having a baby in the 11th grade, but

Life brings you many questions, but I just wonder, hold

I feel like my baby won’t have everything she needs. I’m

my thoughts and wonder. I want to be strong, but I just

scared.

crash into rust. Dirt I become.

illustration by karolin schnoor

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issue 8

October 2, 2009

going to get an abortion for him because his thoughts

His Heart

meant the world to me. But no! I have been dealing with

His heart is like mine; we share the same beat, my heart

this behavior for 7 months and now I don’t care about

beats just for him. My heart is missing a piece I can’t

him and what he thinks. My mind is set on my life, on my

find. At night when I go to sleep I dream of that missing

daughter and my future; if you are not going to help me

piece, wondering where it could be and hoping to find

in any way, I don’t need you. My life will not be harmed

it and have it fill my heart with joy. His heart is mine and

without you. Today I realize who my friends truly are. My

my heart is lost, I must have dropped the missing piece

uncle still thinks the same of me, but I am being strong

somewhere far along in my dreams.

and forgetting him.

October 7, 2009

October, 2009

I was at home while she was at a doctor’s appointment

I was at the doctor getting a physical done so I could get

with my mom and my brother, when my mom called

my working papers, when I asked the lady if she could

me and told me that my sister had been diagnosed as

test me to see if I was pregnant. She made me pee on

obese, that she weighs 177 pounds and is at risk for

a stick and walked out for a while, so I got up, stared at

diabetes. When she told me that, I was scared. But my

the stick, and started waiting for the line to pop up. Two

sister didn’t seem to care at all, she was eating chips and

lines appeared and I was so happy because I thought that

eating like nothing mattered. I’m scared for her, but she

meant that I wasn’t pregnant. She walked in, looked at

isn’t scared for herself; that was about a month ago and

the stick, and said, “You’re pregnant.” I started laughing,

she seems to have gained 20 more pounds. My reaction

thinking she was joking, but she wasn’t. I said, “No! Two

is shock. She is at risk and she doesn’t care. I am afraid

lines popped up.” She said, “That means you are preg-

that my sister won’t do her part and my mom won’t con-

nant.” I started crying. I couldn’t control myself and I was

trol what she eats.

crying so much that my nose was dripping. I asked her,

My Sister

Her Reaction

“Can you please take a blood test just to make sure?” She

October 8, 2009

said, “OK.” And she did. The results were, “Three weeks

My Best Friend

pregnant.” I cried and went home with a face no one

He was my best friend. We went everywhere together.

would be able to describe. What was I supposed to do?

He was always there for me. If I needed a pair of new

I went home with the pregnancy test in a plastic bag.

sneakers he would be there, if I was hungry he was

I lay on my bed and felt alone in a way no one could

there, he would try to give me anything I needed. We

understand. I wanted to keep it to myself and tell no one,

went to the movies, walked around town, my best friend

not even my boyfriend. I wanted to set my life with a child

was my uncle. How can someone just forget about you,

in it in front of me and just look at it. That night I couldn’t

throw you out of their life just because you are having a

stop crying. I woke up in the middle of the night, went

baby? I haven’t spoken to my uncle in about 7 months:

to my mom’s room and said, “I’m pregnant.” She said,

that is really talked to him. He hates me. He called me a

“What?” and I walked out. She came to me and said, “Oh

slut and made fun of me, told me my life is going to be

my God, no. You’re too young.” This made me feel worse.

ruined and that I am not going anywhere. This hurt me

I felt like shit. But later that night she came to me and said

more than ever; it hurt me so much to think he would

she loved me and would accept any decision I wanted to

stop talking to me for something so childish. I try to get

make, she told me she would always be there for me.

him back by writing him notes and letters and texting

October, 2009

him. But I stopped because I realized I was the one looking stupid: if he doesn’t want to talk to me it’s his

My Crazy Mom

loss. It was hard for me to get rid of his angry thoughts

My mom isn’t crazy, but Oh, God, she has something

and to forget about hanging out with him. At first, I was

to say about everything and she relates everything to

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author my baby. “Cover your belly or the baby is going to get

ting a lot of cream on, until this day, and I haven’t seen

cold; don’t eat spicy food because it’s going to burn

any new stretch marks.

the baby’s skin; eat a lot because the baby gets hungry

October 21, 2009

a lot; don’t write or put fake tattoos on your body because it’s going to harm the baby.” My mom goes

Surprise

crazy about everything. “Don’t paint your nails; read a

Strange, but I didn’t know my sister cared whether

lot so the baby will be smart.” My mom is always trying

she knew our father or not. I had just gotten out of the

to find a way to make things better or thinking of ways

shower and I came out so slowly that she didn’t hear me.

to connect everything to my baby. I really don’t pay too

I heard her reading out loud something she was writing

much attention because she cares, but I won’t be as

about our dad and she was talking about how there is

worried as she is. I’ll let her do all the worrying and I’ll

a missing piece in her heart. I was like, Oh my God, this

take care of myself.

is coming from her? This is not like her. She is the quiet, strong one who doesn’t cry or show any weird feelings.

October 19, 2009

I was surprised and happy, but also sad. She actually

Stretch Marks

cared about our dad and our life without him. It was so nice of her to write a story about our dad.

Everything changes when there’s a baby inside of you. You start to gain weight, your fingers get swollen, your

October 27, 2009

belly starts growing, and things you don’t want to experience start to come up, no matter how hard you try to

My Boyfriend Miguel

avoid them. Some of your reactions won’t be nice.

He is a beast about everything. I get mad and get over it, but he keeps going. He questions everything and

Everywhere I go my eyes are my stomach. When people look at me they look at my belly. This makes me

thinks there is a problem with everything. I’m sort of the

feel so bad. They look because my belly is so big—seven

same way, but he just overdoes it. He’s lazy and thinks

months, going on eight. Every morning and night I put

he knows what’s going on with me, but really he doesn’t

what seems a pound of cream on my belly, all over, just

know anything. He doesn’t know what I feel and why I

so that my skin won’t get dry and stretch marks start to

feel this way. The reason he doesn’t know is because I

come.

don’t tell him. He gets jealous easily and if my mom or my sister whispers something to me he isolates himself

My belly is growing so fast, I didn’t even notice it; then one day I was lying down on my bed with my shirt

as if we are talking about him. When he’s around his

up, because when it’s down it gets really itchy and they

friends he is a different person, he starts playing around

say when you scratch, stretch marks start to appear.

and making nasty comments. Sometimes it feels like

That’s what I was trying to prevent. Some days my mom

he’s so freakin’ fake and I feel as if I have to get through

comes home with a treat and it’s usually chocolate. I love

it and I have to be with him just because I’m having his

it! My mom came into my room to give me something

baby.

wonderful and screamed, “Oh! My! God!” I said, “What?

November 3, 2009

What’s wrong?” She said, “Look, Suamny, you’re not

Maybe

putting enough cream on. Look at that stretch mark!”

My dad passed away a few weeks after his brother was

I started to cry. I couldn’t believe it. I refused to take the piece of chocolate. I got out my cream and put so

put in jail for two murders he didn’t commit. My dad

much on my belly that my belly turned white. I was so

used to swallow drugs in bags and bring them from

upset. I didn’t want to have stretch marks for the rest

place to place. One of the bags opened up inside of him

of my life. But my mom says it’s going to be OK, that all

and he had a heart attack in the airplane. I cried so much

mothers go through this, it’s just part of nature.

and asked God why? But no one answered. As I grew up,

I realized that it wasn’t such a big deal, it was just

I got over it; I still think of it sometimes, but not as much.

something I didn’t want to experience. But I am still put-

It hurts not having my dad there for me, maybe if he had

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issue 8 still been here everything would have been different

a person like him would change. He even spent money

with him by my side. I miss what I never had.

on my baby, he brought me food, and he actually cared about my situation. It was like he had it all planned. But

November 6, 2009

there is still a part of me that just won’t forgive him for

She Hurt Me

the damage he caused in my life. There is something

She told me that our family is messed up because of me;

that is never going to be the same again. I will never

that we are going through this money crisis because

get the feeling that I had with him back, because I don’t

of me—my own sister. Can you believe it? She said that

know when might be the next time that he will switch

our family is going through a money crisis because of

on me.

me, because I am having a baby and that I am messing

November 20, 2009

everything up for her. Why? Why in the world would she say that. I wanted to beat her up but I know I can’t fight

Can’t Wait

because I am having a baby. She fills me with anger. I

I am so tired today, I just feel like blah! Last night I

have a huge amount of hate for her and everything she

couldn’t sleep, I was up all night touching a Pamper, just

does. I come home from school tired and I want to do

feeling it and playing with it. I’m desperate. I want this

my homework and sleep, but no, she’s in the next room

baby to be born. I want to get my body back in shape, I

with the TV on really high, moving her bed around, mak-

want to be able to wear jeans again and feel good about

ing a lot of noise. She is so annoying. If I tell her to shut

myself once again. Right now, I feel nothing fits me and I

up she goes crazy and starts to make more noise, she is

look like blah. I’ve gained 30 something pounds.

so messy and I have to do most of the cleaning.

November 28, 2009

Sometimes I wish she wasn’t my sister, sometimes I wish to come home and not find her there lying down

Sky

99% of the day with the TV on wasting light. Hello! She’s

I never really looked up in the sky and enjoyed the

the one making the bills high and making us go through

clouds, but today I did and it felt so good. I just looked

this money crisis. I didn’t want this life. I am not the one

up and saw the trees and the breeze felt so good. I felt

ruining our family, you are. I really want to hit you.

relaxed and when I looked back down I felt like nothing could compare with the view of the sky, so I looked right

November 7, 2009

back to the sky and enjoyed it. Me, just sitting there in

School

Manhattan, by myself, made me think about where we

I can’t believe I passed all my classes except one. Wow!

go when time is up. Do we really go up to the sky where

This marking period I really worked hard and I proved

we can look down at people and actually see them? I

to my mom that I can do it. I’m so proud of myself, but

just wonder how things will be in the future and is there

I hope that I do as well next marking period. I want to

really life after death and, wow, the sky is so nice.

prove to my mom that I can pass all my classes for the whole year. I want to work hard and show my daughter

November 29, 2009

that I can do it because a lot of people are saying I can’t.

I don’t know why I keep coming back to this topic, but

I’m going to show everyone that becoming a mom isn’t

every day I start to see more. My sister is a middle child

going to stop me from doing well in school. I am going

and maybe she feels left out or she just doesn’t feel

to try my best.

like she is receiving as much attention as she deserves. I have a little brother who is seven and my sister, the

November 11, 2009

witch, is 12. My brother is always being bad and my mom

My Uncle

always has to talk to him and tell him what not to do. I

I can’t believe people do change. My best friend is my

am having a baby and everyone is worried. My sister has

friend once again. My uncle just started talking to me

nothing but her attitude. She feels like there is nothing

again, out of nowhere. I would never have thought that

for her. In a way I feel bad, but then I don’t, she is too

title

author much—she always thinks she knows what’s right and

I didn’t want to push. I wanted to get a C-section

she is always trying to argue with people just to dis

and get this over with. Then another pair of doctors

agree. I wish that I knew what the hell is wrong with her.

walked in and said I might not be able to push the baby

The other day I went to pick her up from school just to

out because she was so big. I was getting really upset.

surprise her and I took the train all the way to Woodlawn

Then, when I felt a contraction, instead of sitting up, I

to her school just so I could come home alone. She said,

opened my legs and started pushing. I was supposed to

“Why are you here? I’m not taking the train back home

push three times during each contraction. I pushed and

with you. You are embarrassing.” Can you believe my

pushed. When I heard, “We see the head,” I got more

annoying sister called me embarrassing? She crushed

motivated to push. The doctor cut me to allow more

my heart. I was like, it’s not even worth trying. I’m just

space for the baby to come out—and she did. I heard her

going to maintain my distance from her because enough

cry and then I started crying. I felt so happy it was over,

is enough.

but it wasn’t, now I had to push out the placenta and then get stitches. The stitches hurt a lot.

Undated

They cleaned the baby and put her on top of me.

The countdown to having my baby is over. It all started

She was so red. She looked nothing like me; I was happy

on December 23, 2009 around 2:00 p.m. I started get-

and it was amazing. Katelynn Victoria—8 pounds and 10

ting little contractions: But, it was because my mom

ounces, almost nine pounds. Born December 24 at 2:09

gave me a whole bottle of castor oil. The directions said

a.m. Wow! I pushed her out of my body. I was happy I

two teaspoons, but she gave me the whole bottle be-

didn’t get pain medication but my arms were sore, the

cause it was supposed to clean out your body and speed

veins in my eyes had popped, and I looked like I had two

up your pains. I was going to the bathroom all day. The

pink eyes—all from the pressure of pushing. I love my

pain got much worse and I kept telling my mom, “Mom,

daughter and am happy I get to spend Christmas and

I’m in pain. Can we please go to the hospital?” She kept

New Year’s with her.

telling me to wait; “Wait ’til I’m done painting the bath-

Undated—Sometime in December or early January

room.” I wanted to cry. I kept saying, “Hurry up, let’s go. It’s 10:00 p.m., can we go please?” She said, “OK, let me

Miguel

get ready,” but she was taking her time. I used the bathroom one last time and discharged

I got to know you, but not all of you. I got to see the

a lot of blood. I got scared, I told my mom, and that’s

good side of you and now that we have a child together

when she started speeding up and called a cab. We got

you feed me your lies and all your drama. You make

to the hospital around 11:00 p.m. and they gave me a

me think we have a future. You outsmart me. It makes

bed right away. They checked me, said that the baby

me feel ashamed to have you because you’re good for

was stressed and that they had to do an emergency C-

nothing. I know you came from Pennsylvania just to be

section. I told my mom to call Miguel.

with me and the baby, but I want you out of here. I don’t want to deal with these lies. Having a baby that wasn’t

Miguel came right away. The baby’s heart rate stopped dropping and began to improve; my mom

planned was supposed to bring us closer together, not

stood next to me and held my hands. She felt guilty for

make us feel farther apart. You can’t control me any-

giving me the oil because it could be dangerous for the

more; I’m just going to worry about me and my baby

baby. She was crying while I was having contractions—

and school—forget the rest. Everything and everyone

every time I had one I would sit up because that’s the

will not amount to the love I am experiencing with my

only way I felt better. The doctor came in and tried to

daughter. I will never pick you over her. SM

convince me to take pain medicine, I kept saying, “No,” they kept asking, “Why?” and finally I just said, “Give it to me,” because I was in so much pain but the other doctors said that I was too far along.

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rising voices

Good for Her Kadejatou Waggeh When my mom went to Saudi Arabia for a month, she left me in the care of my aunt. I stayed at my aunt’s house because my cousin and I went to the same school. At first I thought it was going to be the best sleepover I ever went to. But in my cousin’s house, everything went wrong. At that time I was in the third grade and my cousin Fatou was in the second grade. Fatou was a lot smaller than me, but we were friends. Since we were in the same school, we had the same color uniform. The first day I was staying with her was the day we had to take the New York State math exam. In the morning when I woke up I was excited and nervous at the same time. I took a shower, got dressed, and put on my head scarf like usual, but something in my clothes felt weird. But I couldn’t wait to get to school, so I just left. Finally I made it to school. I said good-bye to my cousin Fatou, and we went our separate ways. When I was hurrying to class I realized my pants felt really tight, and they started hurting me. I went to the bathroom to see what was wrong. That’s when I noticed I was wearing my cousin’s pants. When I got to the classroom, my teacher was passing out the test. I sat down. Suddenly, my pants ripped. I was so embarrassed tears went down my cheeks. I was crying in class. Finally school ended, and I went home to my cousin’s house. I told my aunt that I took her daughter’s pants and she laughed. Then the phone rang. It was my mom calling to say, “I’m coming home today.” I was elated. I told my aunt I was going home, and she started helping me pack my stuff. I felt so angry at my aunt because she didn’t take good care of me. I didn’t talk to her as we packed or as she walked me home. When I went to my house I saw my mom again. I was so excited I dropped my suitcase and ran to my mom. I gave her a big hug. The next morning my mom wanted to braid my hair. That’s when the light bulb in my head went off. What if I took scissors, cut my hair, and pretended my aunt did it? I felt a little afraid, but without thinking about it long, I just did it. I cut my own hair. I went down to see my mom without my head scarf, and she said, “What happened to your hair?” Let’s just say, it didn’t end well for my aunt. I felt that was good for her because that’s what she gets for not taking care of me. The best thing of all was I didn’t get caught for that lie.

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Not Breaking a Childâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Heart Victor Delarca

The time I lied was to stop sadness. What I said was that Santa Claus is real. I said it because if I said he wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t real, then I would make a little girl cry.

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rising voices

Lies Shantel Hernandez The biggest lie I have ever done in my life is when I told my sister that she was not my sister, and that she was adopted. I just wanted to make her cry. I don’t know, but I felt like making lies all day. So I said, “You know you’re not my sister, you’re adopted.” “No I’m not, and you shut up because you’re the one who is adopted,” said my sister. “Well whatever, you’re the one who was adopted so you should shut up,” I said. “You shut up, I’mma ask Mami if I’m adopted, she gonna say no,” she said, like she was going to scream at me. My sister went to my mom’s room and said, “Mami yo soy adoptada?” in Spanish (that means “Am I adopted?”). “No, sweetie, who said that?” said my mom. “Shantel told me that and, look, she almost made me cry,” said my sister. I was like damn, why would she say to that to my mom, that I told her she was adopted. “Shantel, come over here!” my mom shouted. “Yeah, mom, what happened?” I said like nothing had happened and I’d heard nothing. “Why are you telling your sister that she is adopted?” said my mom with a serious face. “I’m sorry, mom, I just wanted to make her cry. I just feel like making lies,” I said.

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Make Believe Ryan Brown

When I was two years old I loved to watch Sesame Street. My favorite character was Elmo. I tried to laugh like him. I wanted to be him in real life. But my mom and godmother told me I couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t be Elmo I got to be me. But I didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t believe them. But I have been myself for eleven years of my life.

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rising voices

The Lie That Saved My Life Steven Reid One day when I was at my mom’s house I was using her phone. I was texting my friend when my little brother tried to grab the phone away from me. I pulled it back and hit it. I thought the phone was fine, but it turned out it was as messed up as my room on Mondays. I tried to fix the phone, but when I tried to touch it, it went all weird like Dad’s tuna fish with noodles meal. Later when my mom saw the phone she asked me, “Did you do it?” I said, “No.” Three months passed, and I lived with that lie. Finally I couldn’t take it anymore. I ran into her bedroom and I tried to confess, but when I tried my mom interrupted me. She said, “Do you like my new phone?” It was a red touch screen phone with a bunch of new features. “How did you get that?” I asked, as surprised as my mom on Valentine’s Day when we cooked her dinner. “I got a refund off the old phone that didn’t work, and so I could get this new one!” My mom was pleased. I was so happy, I felt like a firework on the Fourth of July. As I walked to school that day, I thought to myself, Sometimes lies do solve your problems.

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Truth Ariana Pabon

In general, I lie at least two times a day. I could look you in the eye and tell you a lie. Sometimes I lie about finishing my homework. I don’t know why it’s easy for me to lie, it just is. When I lie, they’re little lies. Not the types of lies that get you in trouble. I really wish I could stop lying, but I guess it’s a habit. I just can’t help it. I hope I’ll still go to Heaven even if I lie. I’m going to try not to lie today.

Blinding Desert Cavenaugh Kelly

In the living room of a two-story log cabin, I

David’s side. “Whatever you say, dear.” “I tell you, chief, how more shrapnel’s rising to the

leaned on the couch and pushed into David’s blurry tattoo, feeling for the seedlike trigger on his warm and

surface? Like little splinters ready to come out?”

tightly bound skin. By nights, after long days of manual

I massaged his neck. “You’ve told me.”

therapy, my nails looked like I worked in a nursery, or

“Sorry to bore you with my stories, chief. What about

under the hood of a car. It was dead skin from all the

the desert at night? I tell you about that?”

rubbing.

“About a hundred times,” Theresa said, turning another page.

“You found the spot, chief,” David said. He wore pressed khakis and a tight Support the Troops T-shirt;

“No,” I lied, wanting to hear it again.

his blond buzz cut was streaked with gray.

“I’d come outside to get away from ol’ Bobby’s

“Feels like a big one,” I said.

snorin’ and there all those stars would be—prickin’ out of

“You got that right.”

the blackness. What’s that expression I heard . . . God’s

On the wall hung the infamous print of Custer’s Last

eyes. It was like He was looking down through those big

Fight, complete with the long-haired general, in red

stars and wide open sky and there was nowhere to hide.

scarf and brown uniform, raising a saber at circling In-

Made you feel naked somehow.”

dians and fallen soldiers. Beside the print was a framed

I ranged his shoulder into abduction. “And the sand

photograph of David, in desert fatigues and sunglasses,

and the wind.” “Turn it into a whiteout, chief. Worse than any of your

playing soccer on a dusty street with a group of laugh-

nor’easters. Get sand in your hair, in your socks, in your

ing, bare-chested boys. I pressed harder. “Let me know if it’s too much.”

mouth, shoot, even in the crack of your ass.”

“Believe me, I’ve felt worse,” David said.

“David,” Theresa said. “Why do you always have to

Theresa, David’s wife, sat beside us in the lounge chair,

be so graphic?”

dressed in black with a gold locket around her neck. She

“Why do you always have to be such a pain in the ass?”

looked up from her book, The Tibetan Book of the Dead,

“Sounds like you had a lot of fun over there,” I said.

and smirked. “You’re such a tough marine, hon.’’ “Go back to your liberal trash book, and leave

“Go back in a heartbeat if I could, chief,” David said.

me alone.”

“People can’t understand how close you get in that ER. Running day and night on pots of coffee, knowing one

Theresa leaned forward and the locket picture, of

another’s moves so well. Becomes like a single thing

a serious young man in uniform, dangled. She patted

illustration by nas chompas

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issue 8

“You mean as a hit man?”

fightin’ all that trauma. They’re like family. Left behind

“Exactly,” David said. “I could work for some New

in a burning house. I want to go back and get them out.

York Mafia guy.”

But I can’t. To them, I’m all used up.”

“What about Vegas? Aren’t there mobsters there? It

I lowered David’s shoulder and reached for my

could supplement your income as a dealer. Be your day

hand gel.

job.”

“Do you want some ice?” I asked.

“Now you’re thinking, chief. Knew there was a reason

“Not today,” David said, rolling his shoulder in slow

I kept you around.”

circles. “Doesn’t feel too bad.”

“David, be nice,” Theresa said.

The second part of our session focused on David’s

He tossed card after card, catching the nine of clubs.

brain. His goal with cognitive therapy was to become

“What was I talking about again?”

employed, knowing his twenty-year career as a trauma

“Being a hit man.”

nurse was over. My goal was for him to remember his

“Oh yeah, I’d be perfect at it. I have no memory. So

medications, his house keys, and to stop leaving the

I’d have no guilt and the FBI could never trace it to my

stove on. In other words, survive the day without help. I reviewed David’s notebook, which included memory

boss. And I’m real good with a scope. Top sharpshooter

strategies and a list of his daily activities. His ability to

in my company. Sarge wanted me to be a sniper. But

do anything was limited by killer migraines, shoulder

patching people up is my thing, not pluggin’ holes in

pain, bouts of stuttering, word-finding problems, ear

’em.” “You missed a six,” I said.

ringing, insomnia, and chronic fatigue.

David shook his head and furrowed his brow, his face

Our first cognitive exercise was called “High, Low,”

darkening.

and consisted of a series of numbers read out loud, with

Theresa placed her book in her lap, caressed the

David signaling whenever a number ran one more than

gold locket absently, and stared at the photo of David

the previous number.

and the bare-chested boys.

“Ready?”

“Know what I keep remembering, chief?”

David slid on his glasses and ran a hand through his

Yes, I wanted to say, and please don’t repeat it. What

bristly hair. “Whenever you are, chief.”

did Dr. Marks, his neuropsychologist, write in his notes?

“Six, nine, five, two, one . . .”

Loss of verbal inhibitions due to frontal lobe insult. “Taking a piss in their shit hole of a toilet when the

David struggled to keep up. His deficits in attention compounded his memory problems. He not only forgot

thing went off,” David said. “Knocked me right on my

appointments and lost everything, but also struggled

ass. My head throbbed and there was an awful ringing

with focusing long enough to read, watch a movie, or

in my ears, but I didn’t think it was bad. Just took some

orient himself when driving—consequently, he didn’t

Prednisone and started grabbing people. Not until after

drive.

did someone say my head was bleeding and my shoulder looked crooked.”

Finished with the exercise, I handed David a deck of

I reshuffled, new cards stiff and slick in my fingers.

cards and he deftly shuffled, joking about working in

David had volunteered with others to set up a makeshift

Vegas as a dealer.

hospital outside the Green Zone. The bomb, brought

He grinned. “I just might lose the house a little

in by an Iraqi dressed as a policeman, detonated in the

money.”

waiting room.

“Flip over every card with the letter I.”

“I remember this one man,” David said. “Face full

“Gotcha, chief.”

of blood and cuts. Screaming crazy about his boy. But

He flipped the nine of diamonds, missed the eight of

there was nuthin’ we could do about his boy. Couldn’t

spades, and turned the six of hearts.

tell by looking at him though. Hardly a mark on the kid.

“I tell you about my new career idea?”

blinding desert cavenaugh kelly

‘My beautiful boy. My beautiful boy,’ translator kept tell-

that shit. Knocked him on his ass once. Talking to his

ing me he was shouting. Shoot. Kid was gone before we

mother like that. Said he hated me. Said I was a cold-

even touched him. Too much hemorrhaging in his brain.”

hearted bastard, and I was never there for him. Shoot.

“Any more sleepwalking?” I asked, thankfully redi-

Kid believed all his problems were the fault of his old

recting.

man. But he wanted to be a marine in the end. Show his

He nodded. “Gotta get one of those alarms you told

old man he was tough enough.”

Theresa about. Ended up in the cellar other night, shout-

David shook his head. “Even the day he went for

ing at a cord of wood. All I remember is trying to find my

that burger we argued. About coming home drunk and

son in another sandstorm. Knew he was in there and he

showing his mother respect, or some stupid shit like

needed my help. But he wouldn’t answer. Son of a bitch

that.”

was pissin’ me off. Just like he always did. Then Theresa

“The second war with Iraq,” I asked. “Was your son’s

shook my sore shoulder. ‘Wake up, hon. Wake up. It’s

death the reason you volunteered?”

just a dream.’”

“The general asked me to is why I did it. It was in the

“You missed another one,” I said.

reserves and he said I was needed. Nobody else could

“Shoot,” David said, putting down the cards. “Think

triage an ER like me. Theresa and I weren’t exactly on

I’ve had enough for one day.”

friendly terms. Thought we were getting a divorce.

I agreed and made a note to call Marks.

Shoot. Didn’t feel like I had anything to lose. So I went back to the desert and she went to grad school.”

«.»

David trembled, like he was still sleepwalking in the woods, screaming at the sand.

David slouched into the living room the fol‑

“I was the one who had to identify the body. Figured

lowing week, his clothes not in their usual pressed and

it be easier since I’d seen that sort of thing before.” He

perfect state, whiskers graying his strong chin.

shook his head. “Barely a mark on his face thanks to

“Doing okay?” I asked, remembering Marks’s words:

that helmet. Shoot, he was handsome. I threw up in the

Let the man talk and give regular updates.

parking lot after and cried like a baby. Didn’t say a word

David shook his head. “Haven’t slept for three days,

about it to Theresa.”

feels like a grenade went off inside my head, and the one

We tried a few number exercises at David’s insist-

night I sleep, I wake up in the woods. Unlocked three dif-

ence, but he struggled terribly.

ferent locks on the door without knowing it.”

“You need to call Dr. Marks about the headaches and

“What’s going on?”

insomnia,” I said. “You can’t go on without sleep.”

“Jack’s birthday.” He showed me a picture. It was the

“Already have,” David said. “Me and Theresa sup-

young man in Theresa’s locket, shirtless and grinning his

posed to pick up some new meds this afternoon.”

father’s grin, Semper Fidelis tattooed across his deltoid.

He forced a smile. “I ever tell you about getting sand

“He’d be twenty-five today.”

in the crack of my ass in a sandstorm?”

I looked down, unsure what to say.

“Not in the last twenty-four hours,” I said, reaching

“Just finished Parris Island,” David said. “Decided

for my bags.

to go out for a burger on his brand-new Indian. Even

“What about the mountain lion cubs?”

had his helmet on for Christ’s sake. Pickup truck ran a

“The what?”

red light and broadsided him. Never had a goddamned

David laughed. “That got your attention. Jimmy,

chance.”

a buddy of mine at the diner the other day, said he

I waited for the rest.

came across a whole litter of ’em while he was out bow

“Big tough kid. Loved to wrestle. Won all kinds of

hunting. Of course, he didn’t stick around too long for

championships. But he was always getting into fights

the mother, or take a picture to prove it.”

and smoking pot. Coming home drunk and stinking of

“Where did he see them?”

slice

issue 8

“Go back in a heartbeat if I could, chief,” David said. “People can’t understand how close you get in that ER. Running day and night on pots of coffee, knowing one another’s moves so well. Becomes like a single thing fightin’ all that trauma. They’re like family. Left behind in a burning house. I want to go back and get them out. But I can’t. To them, I’m all used up.”

“Rumford Point. Way out in the woods. Said they looked like a bunch of cute kittens hiding in a hole.” “You believe him?” David shook his head. “Jimmy’s full of crap. Wouldn’t believe a word that man says. Shoot. He’s what Marks would call a pathological bullshitter.” I reached for the door. “Try to get some rest.” “Thanks for listening, chief.”

«.»

At our next session I stretched David’s shoulder into rotation, pushing hard for more motion. “Feels like I’m on the rrr-rack.” “That’s because you are.” Theresa, dressed in a peasant skirt and a black blouse with A Thomas Merton Reader in hand, laughed. She was not wearing the locket today. “You’re enjoying thhh-this aren’t you,” David said. “Watching your poor hhh-husband suffer.” “I didn’t say that,” Theresa said, grinning and turning

Ice pack strapped to David’s shoulder, we worked

another page.

with cards and lists of numbers. If anything lately, he

I pushed his shoulder further. “Speaking for myself,

was losing ground. We finished by talking about strate-

can’t say that I mind it.”

gies to overcome daily problems, and then David told

David gritted his teeth. “Be lots of work in the d-d-d-

stories while flipping cards.

desert, for a mmm-man like you.”

“Ever tell you about the desert at nnn-night?”

I let up and ranged his shoulder slowly through all

“Yes.”

planes. “I’m sure there would. But I prefer not to get

“What about the time Jjj-jack defended his t-t-t-title

sand up my butt. And have somebody shooting at me.”

in the rrr-regionals?”

“You llll-liberals are all the same. Ready to tax the

“David, I don’t think he needs to hear about Jack’s

hhh-hell out of everybody. But never www-willing to put

big wrestling win,” Theresa said. “Maybe you should tell

your own ass on the line for your c-c-c-country.” “David, be nice.”

him how your son wrote poetry and volunteered with his

“Ever tell you the www-wife turned into a hhh-hippie

mother at the homeless shelter and how he sang in the church choir.”

social worker while I was overseas fighting for our beloved c-c-c-c-country? Humping those pa-pa-pa-packs

“It’s okay,” I said, reshuffling. “Just look for the letter E while you talk.”

through desert training in my fff-forties. Ssss-sweatin’

“He was ffff-flat on his ass more times than I can

my ass off. While she was studying how to hhh-help d-d-

rrr-remember,” David said. “Way behind in p-p-p-points.

d-dead people.” “Helping the sick and their families through the griev-

Bleacher crowd was going nnn-nuts. Pounding their feet so hhhh-hard whole bleachers was t-t-t-trembling. They

ing process,” Theresa corrected. “Www-whatever,” David said.

thought they hhhh-had him. But Jack never g-g-g-g-

“I’m going to get some ice,” I said. “You’re going to

gave in. Scored a rrr-reverse. Esss-scape. Other guy

need it today.”

started rrrr-reaching and getting www-weak. Jack just

blinding desert cavenaugh kelly

“Why does Marks think you’re stuttering so much?”

kept c-c-c-c-coming on. Took him d-d-d-down once.

David shrugged. “Says it might be because I’m having

Then again. P-p-p-pinned his shoulders and pushed him into the mmmm-mat.”

sss-seizures. Or it could be because I’m getting more

“You missed an eight and a nine,” I said.

sss-scarring in my b-b-b-brain. Man doesn’t have a lot of

“What?”

aaa-answers and all those MRIs never show nnn-nothing.” “Why don’t we skip your shoulder today,” I said, “and

“The cards.”

focus on the attention stuff. We’ll start with High, Low.”

“I sss-swear sometimes you’re a p-p-p-pain in the

David slid on his glasses. “Whatever you say, chief.”

ass. Where the hhh-hell was I anyway?”

Again he did worse. For the last few weeks his scores

“Easy, hon.” “Pinning him to the mat.”

on every test and exercise had declined. He’d also

“Right, but the b-b-b-best part was after, chief. Ref

shown signs of visual agnosia, or difficulty recognizing

hhhh-held up his arm and Jack lll-looked at mmm-me

familiar objects and numbers. More than once he’d mis-

and ssss-smiled. Had to lll-look away. Shhhh-shoot. Nnn-

taken a spoon for a fork, and he kept seeing the number

never felt anything like that b-b-b-before.”

six as the number nine. It was a sign, like everything else,

He finished the deck, missing more than ever.

of instability in his brain, which could continue for years

“Your stutter is getting worse.”

post–head injury. David ran his fingers through his bristly hairs. “It’s

David shook his head. “I keep telling you it’s www-

like I’m fff-fading away, chief. And I’m not getting annn-

worse when I get t-t-t-tired.”

swers from anybody.”

“And Marks knows this?”

Because there aren’t any, I wanted to say, or at least

“He’s nnn-never seen it thhh-this bad. But I’ve t-t-t-

not the kind he was looking for.

told him about it.”

“We’re always arrrrg-guing now. Says I yyy-yell at her

“It’s true,” Theresa said. “He knows all about it. It’s

every time she tries to hhh-help. She’s just about hhh-

been this bad for quite a while. But only when he’s tired.”

had it. And I can’t b-b-b-blame her.”

“I’m going to call today and send another update.”

“Didn’t you separate for a while after the first war?”

“You d-d-d-do that, because I sure as hell ain’t get-

David nodded. “C-c-c-counseling saved us that time.

ting any b-b-b-better.”

But I don’t www-want to go through that again. She just

“We’re kind of at the end of our rope,” Theresa

keeps saying she wants her husband b-b-b-back.”

added.

“You guys are such opposites.”

“We’ve done more than enough today,” I said. “Next

David rubbed his face. “Am I always going to be

time, I won’t push you so hard.” “Appreciate that, ch-ch-ch-chief.”

lll-like this, chief? Like a little b-b-b-baby that can’t get

I touched his shoulder. “Try to hang in there.”

along without his mmm-mommy?” “Not a baby,” I said. “But you can’t go it alone. You’re

«.»

probably never going to be the old David again. You need to accept that.”

A week later David sat under the Custer and

“Not like I have mmm-much choice, chief.” There was also the problem of reimbursement. His

soccer kids pictures. Theresa was in the other room. “I think I’m b-b-b-better mentally. But my shoulder hurts

shoulder had stopped improving, and we’d gone as far

like hhh-hell. And Theresa is ready to k-k-k-k-kill me.

as we could with the compensation strategies. I honestly

Know you see nothing but my ssss-sweet side here. But

wasn’t sure I was still helping. “Major Reynolds,” I said softly. “You know, your case

at home, I’m one moody sss-sonofabitch.” “Did he change your meds?”

manager, he’s giving me a hard time with approving

“Yes. Taking enough pills to kill an elephant. Even try-

more visits. He wants to see improvement. But he did give me enough for another month.”

ing sss-some of thhh-that crazy Hhh-haldol shit.”

slice

issue 8

“He’s a p-p-p-piece of shhh-shit,” David said. “Fff-

I suggested getting a personal care assistant through

fighting me every step of the way. Man has never done

David’s military benefits, so she could return to work.

nnn-nuthin’ but sit behind a c-c-c-computer all his life.

She liked that idea, and talked of life before the desert

But it d-d-d-doesn’t matter anyway.”

and how they’d met.

“What do you mean?”

“He was always so sure of himself,” she said. “I

“Thinking of mmm-moving out. Living on my own.”

wasn’t. He gave me a direction. And we always had so

“Why would you want to do that?”

much fun together, dancing and partying. We were both

He shrugged. “T-t-tired of b-b-b-being b-b-b-b-

big drinkers back then. And I came from a marine fam-

babysat.”

ily myself. Always had a thing about a man in uniform.

“I think moving out would be a big mistake. It

Don’t ask me why. Something about a Freudian complex

wouldn’t work. Where would you live?”

and wanting my dad’s attention, but him never being

“Got a b-b-brother down hhhh-home in T-t-t-t-Tusca-

around to give it.”

loosa. Said he’d t-t-t-take me in.”

I checked my watch. I was already late for my next

“Does he know about your condition?”

patient.

David laughed. “You mmm-mean, does he know I’m a rrr-retard now? Not exactly. But he’s a good shhh-shit.”

“Then we had Jack and everything changed. He was what drove us apart and kept us together. I have to

“When’s this going to happen?”

admit the marine thing helped at first. It was better with

“Ssss-soon, real soon,” he said, reaching out his hand.

David away. I could go to school and visit with friends.

I shook, not sure if this was good-bye. “Don’t do

Jack was doing okay. But it was always World War III

anything rash.”

when David came back, and then Jack enlisted and went

He laughed before I walked out. “Www-whatever you say, chief.”

for that ride. It was awful. I don’t know why we stayed together. We just did. It was Jack again, I think. He was what we had in common.”

«.»

On the way to my next patient I pulled over and called the cabin, wanting to talk to Theresa alone. She

At David’s next appointment nobody was home. I

didn’t sound surprised when I told her of David’s plans.

knocked and rang the bell and looked in all the windows.

She didn’t take it seriously, but said he had talked more

The cabin was dark and empty and both cars were gone.

lately of leaving. She wondered if it was due to the

I called on my cell and only a clear-voiced David an-

Haldol, but Marks said no.

swered on the machine. It was agency policy to call the

“He said we need to try it for a few weeks, to see if

police if a client wasn’t home for a scheduled appoint-

it’s going to make a difference,” Theresa said. “And re-

ment. I drove on, figuring to give it a little time.

ally, what choice do we have? I’m not sure we can keep

Theresa called back within the hour, apologized, and

going like this.” She paused. “Correction, I’m not sure I

said David was no longer home. It had all started, she

can keep going like this. I mean, is it ever not selfish to

said, after David found a six-pack hidden in the closet,

think of myself?”

got into another big argument with her, and left in his

Theresa talked of losing her one salvation—hospice

old pickup, saying he was, “G-g-g-going home to T-t-t-tTuscaloosa.”

work—and how she was now forced to wake up with David

Theresa chased after him in her car, tracking him

every two hours as if he was an infant, both of them always on edge, taking medication herself, and getting nothing but

down at a burger joint in Rumford.

anger and confusion from her husband in return. “How much can a person give before there’s nothing left?” she asked.

“I pulled in and he’s in the parking lot, screaming at the customers about hamburgers and wrestling meets and losing his family in the desert,” Theresa said. “Then

100

blinding desert cavenaugh kelly

“Whatever you say,” David said, winking at me.

the manager came out and shouted at David to leave.” I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear the rest.

“Learned the secret to a great marriage, chief. Never

“David punched the man right in the face. Knocked

think you’re right.” I reviewed his notebook and brought out the deck.

him right on his back with a bloody nose. The man

“Flip over every card with the letter E.”

screamed something about calling the cops and ran

David grinned as he shuffled. “Is this like old times,

back inside. David looked wild. I’d never seen such a

chief, or what?”

look on his face.”

He flipped through the deck, catching only the seven

“What did you do?”

of hearts. “I told you about my new job ideas, right?”

She hesitated. “I just told him, Jack was my son too,

“You mean as a Vegas dealer and Mafia hit man?”

and he needed to stop.”

“Exactly,” David said. “Mafia would be my day job. I

“And he did?” “Yes,” she said.

could work for some Italian guy from New Jersey. I’d be

He still had to leave in handcuffs with the police.

perfect at it. I have no memory. So I would have no guilt and the FBI could never trace it back to my boss. And

“But he wasn’t angry anymore. He wasn’t screaming

I’m real good with guns. One of the best sharpshooters

and looking so wild. He was okay.”

in my company. Sarge wanted me to be a sniper.”

Once the manager heard about David’s Purple Heart,

“You missed a nine.”

he dropped the charges, and David was sent to a psychi-

David flipped the cards faster. “I ever tell you about

atric hospital with a locked ward in Augusta. “But he’s going to be better now,” Theresa said. “I

the desert at night, chief?” Theresa sighed, but said nothing. She looked deeply

just know it. He has to.” Within a month Theresa called again and said David was better. He’d stabilized on his meds and was back

buried in another death book, gold locket again dangling off her neck. “Don’t think so.”

home. She also said they were getting along now. There

“Whole floor would start trembling ol’ Bobby’s snor-

were no more arguments or threats of leaving. Even the stuttering had stopped. He just slept a lot and couldn’t

ing was so loud. I’d keep pokin’ and pushin’ at him to

remember anything.

turn over, but he’d just mumble, ‘Leave me the Christ

Theresa said she’d hired a lawyer and threatened

alone, David,’ and start right in again. So I’d go outside

the military with a lawsuit if they didn’t approve more

to get some air, since I couldn’t sleep. And there all

therapy. She felt the occupational therapy was good for

those stars would be, prickin’ out of the blackness. Big

David. The military quickly agreed and sent an update

as God’s eyes staring back at me. Like He was watching

from Major Reynolds. In it, Reynolds stated there was

over all of it, and there was nowhere to hide.” I listened carefully until David finished.

no further need to document progress. David was now

“Think that’s enough for your first day back,” I said,

eligible for endless rehab.

«.»

picking up the cards. “Sounds good to me, chief.” CK

The day I came back to see David, he looked happy but aged, with a graying beard and his posture no longer so rigid and upright. He shook my hand vigorously, grinning like I was a long lost brother, and asked if I wanted to hear about his son’s wrestling victory in the regional. “Not today, hon,” Theresa said. “He needs to catch up first.”

101

Surrounded by Teacups Matt Whelihan

I’m walking a plank. Coarse rope makes my

my left is the living room area and our large front win-

wrists itch. The sun is doing its usual trick with the

dow that reaches from floor to ceiling. To my right is the

water. Quick flashes coming off the surface make me

small kitchen, our closet-sized bathroom, and the door

squint. They yell behind me. Not really “Arghs” or

that leads to the outdoor stairs. We are in the converted

“Arrrs,” but more “Fucking move!” Everything sways

attic of an old house and need to walk down three

slightly. I can hear the sails shift. It sounds like large

flights to hit the ground.

American flags in a strong wind. A sort of snapping

I hear a noise outside. I can’t describe it because I

sound that’s not as sharp as a whip crack. The wood un-

don’t really remember it. It was a noise. It could be my

der me looks like plywood, but feels like a diving board.

car, or someone near my car.

A small one, like from a backyard pool. There is more

We have hillbillies for neighbors. College kids live

yelling. More squinting. Something pokes my back, and

below us, but hillbillies live in the house next door. They

I stumble. I fall off the side of the plank. My legs kick

always seem to be home, and always seem to be awake.

in the air. The panic is insane. I am going to die. Then, I

I think they are keeping track of when Jacqueline and

feel water.

I are home by watching for our cars to come and go. I

It’s pitch black. I surface in the pool. Someone turned

think they are memorizing our schedules so they can

the pool light off. It is large and green and embedded in

plan the right time to break into our apartment. I think

the deep-end wall. But now it is dead. The air outside is

right now they might be trying to break into my car.

only slightly warmer than the pool water. I hear cicadas.

I am up and out of bed, and Jacqueline is still not

They are intense in August. It is always August when

awake. I must be doing this a lot. When we moved in

we come to the house on the Chesapeake. I’ve thought

together eight months ago, she used to wake up if I

about swimming in the bay at night. Without the light

rolled over. She used to ask me what happened. She

on, the pool is nearly the same as the bay would be. I

was concerned and maternal. She would want to talk

think. Why is the house dark too?

about my dreams and see if she could apply some of the

I wake up and sit up at the same time. It was another

knowledge she had gained in grad school. But it was just

one of my pseudo-nightmares—a name we’ve given to

knowledge, just talk, not preventative measures. Now

my forceful dreams. I’ve been having so many lately that

she sleeps soundly. She has adjusted to my changes. I

Jacqueline doesn’t even stir this time.

have not adjusted to this apartment. I am at the front window. We should really get

I look around our loft apartment. The bed is in the middle of the room, its head pressed against a wall. To

curtains for it, but it’s hard to find them that long. So

102

illustration by alex woodhead

slice

issue 8

at night a green glow comes in from a street light. It doesn’t reach the bed, so it doesn’t bother Jacqueline,

We coined that phrase too. I’ve been having those off and on for about three months. I will wake up, well, sort

but I stare at it while I try to fall asleep. I wait for shad-

of wake up, or think I have woken up, and I will see some-

ows to cross it. Can something cross in front of it at that

thing in our apartment. I react to what I see and then,

height? I think I’ve seen it happen.

after about ten seconds, realize it’s not actually there. One time I woke up and thought there was water

I’m looking outside at my car. It is parked across the street. I started parking there so I could see it from this

pouring from the light fixture over our bed. I jumped out

window. If I park on our side of the street, the porch-

of bed to avoid it, said, “Oh shit!” and woke Jacqueline

overhang below blocks my view. I want to make sure I

up in the process. This was back when she still woke up.

can see when the hillbillies go for it.

Of course, there was no water. Another time I woke up and saw a light coming from

There is no one near my car. I cannot see anyone on the street. Maybe they are on the porch below.

my unpowered laptop. As I approached I saw the light

Maybe they are on their own porch. The one Jac-

shifting like an eyeball. I was positive I was being filmed.

queline and I call Grandpa seems to always be on

I was convinced someone had tapped into my computer.

the porch. He is a cliché. At the first sign of spring

So I proceeded to pull the plug from the wall and close

he stops wearing a shirt. His bottom half is covered

the laptop. It wasn’t until I got back into bed that this

by pants that can only be described as “worn out”

started to seem a little ridiculous. But last night was just a pseudo-nightmare. There

because it is impossible to tell what material they were originally. He has a large stomach he wears with

are no killers, no chases, no monsters in these dreams—

pride. It is covered with sparse gray hair just like his

hence the pseudo. In fact, the unseen pirates and the

head. The sun always seems too bright for him, and I

plank had been about as scary as the dreams had

swear some of his teeth are black. I’ve just never got-

gotten. It was the way all my senses were stimulated,

ten close enough, nor had courage enough, to stare

the way everything felt so real, that freaked me out.

and confirm this.

The way the dreams seemed to really force me to wake

I watch my car for five minutes. I am walking back to

up rather than gently release me. Like the boundaries

the bed. I hear a voice shout and another laugh. I walk

between awake and asleep were blurring. Like I had no

back to the front window and look at my car again. I still

decision in the matter and no clear signs to differentiate

can’t see anyone, but they’ve got to be close if I heard

the two.

their voices. I’ll watch some more.

«.»

I am awake. I can see the green glow of the

I am at work. I am an administrative assistant.

streetlight to my left. I have not woken up Jacqueline

When I want to sound like my college degree has done

because she is not in bed. I sit up and see her walking at

more for me, I tell people I am an office manager. I

the foot of the bed. She is placing miniature teacups and

answer phones, transfer calls, mail out correspondence,

miniature saucers on the bed around me. To my right

order supplies, and browse the same six websites in

there are already five or six. She has also laid a few out

consecutive order.

in front of my feet and is now coming around to my left

I did not tell Jacqueline about the pseudo-nightmare

to place more. Her eyes are directed downward.

or looking out the window. The simple reason is that

“What are you doing?” I say.

she worries. The more complicated reason is that she

Jacqueline rolls over and mutters, “What?”

is working on her master’s in psychology, and I often

She is in bed next to me. My words have woken her.

become a case study. Besides, it was only a pseudo-

There are no teacups or saucers on the bed. It was an-

nightmare, not one of my “night-visions.”

other night-vision.

104

surrounded by teacups matt whelihan

«.»

your subconscious projects images normally contained to the dream state into reality.”

I am at work. The phone has been quiet today.

I’m confused. We just finished dinner. I was looking

The supplies are full. No one has emerged from an office

for a record to put on. We were talking about Black-

to ask me to mail anything out. I am looking at a website

beard’s appearance today and what his beard might

that sells rare records. It is number four on my rotation

feel like. I had suggested tugged-apart steel wool and,

of websites. It comes after a word-of-the-day site and

instead of laughing, Jacqueline has dumped this on me. “Okay,” I’m saying. “Is it a common thing?”

before a weird-news site. I am looking at a British import

“It’s not common, but here’s the thing about hypna-

of which only five hundred copies were pressed. I realize we still don’t know how many hillbillies live next door. It was a game Jacqueline and I played for the first

gogia,” she says. “It has a cause. It’s not just some random reaction on the mind’s part, but a reaction to stress

couple of months in the new apartment. We would try

or worry or some factor that is plaguing the uncon-

to figure out how many people actually lived in the

scious. At first I had no idea what could be at the root of

run-down house next to our abode. We would create

your manifestations, but then I thought about the most

names to help us keep track. There was Grandpa—the

recent one. The one with the teacups.” I wish she would stop. This already sounds ridiculous

most visible of the clan—but we had also tagged Twigs, Blackbeard, Perm, and Six-Pack. The names were based

to me, just another time for her to spew some jargon,

on distinguishing physical features or, in the case of Six-

for me to smirk, and for her to get mad at me for belit-

Pack, the one thing he was never seen without.

tling her studies. But there is no good reason for me to

We never came up with any names for the hillbilly kids because they were impossible to count, let alone

cut her off, nothing I can think of to say to interrupt her. Nothing that seems logical. “The things you see during moments of hypnagogia

differentiate. It seemed like one or two new ones would pop up each week. We would refer to them as a collec-

are released from the unconscious. So in the case of me

tive, and each month or so the title would shift. Back in

placing the teacups around you it seems pretty obvious

January they were the lemmings, then it was the Pied

what is bothering you. You are feeling trapped by the

Piper’s rats. More recently they were the village idiots.

idea of domesticity. I think . . .” “Jesus Christ! You’ve got to be joking!” It pours from

Now I’m thinking about the hillbillies at work, and that’s never good. Now I’m wondering if they’re break-

my lips quickly. Maybe too quickly, but I knew this was

ing into our apartment as I look at rare records. Jac-

where things were going, and I just want my beer. I just

queline is at class and I am at work and I’m pretty sure

want my record. I don’t want psych-for-dummies. I don’t

they’ve been monitoring our schedules and waiting for

want to be ridiculed for my inability to face some deeply

this chance. Maybe they’re grabbing some of my DVDs

buried bullshit that isn’t really there in the first place. “Yeah, Jacqueline,” I am saying in a mocking tone.

right now. Maybe they’re disconnecting wires before moving the TV. Maybe they’re just taking all my beer

“That’s it! And I’m also bothered by the fact that you

and getting confused by the bottle caps that aren’t

don’t understand your role as the woman in this relation-

twist-offs.

ship. In fact, I’m going to need you to start washing my

«.»

clothes, cooking all the meals, and dusting this place at least once a week. Think you can handle that?” A silence cuts in. It’s not really awkward. We’ve been

“It’s called hypnagogia,” Jacqueline says. “What is?” I ask after taking a swig from a bottle of my so far un-stolen beer. “Your night-visions. They are a condition called hypnagogia. It’s a state between sleeping and waking when

dating for too long for it to be awkward. I think it is more of a shocked silence. I am shocked by everything I said, not sure what turned a slowly dripping faucet of contempt into a full-on gushing tap. And Jacqueline seems shocked too. She was trying to help. I gave no

105

slice

issue 8

warning I was about to explode. Normally our argu-

one is near my car, but I watch for another five minutes

ments build before breaking. She finally responds in a

or so.

slow, hushed voice.

Another hour has passed, and I hear someone on

“I’ve tried to talk to you about marriage. I’ve tried to

the steps. I know it is Jacqueline. I know two things can

talk to you about where we are going to be next year, or

happen when she comes in. She can enter and try to talk

when I finish my degree. I’ve tried to talk to you about

some more. She can play her usual role of healer and

finding a career with some kind of upward mobility,

explain what she is worried about and what we can do.

and every time you make witty little jokes, or give half

Or she can come in and stay silent. She can continue to

answers, and I wait patiently. You really have become a

act unaffected. She is not a screamer. When something

master at deflecting me. But think about it . . . these . . .

has really pissed her off, I am more likely to get the silent

these things freak you out so much that they are now

treatment. She told me once that she does this when

buried in your head, and because you refuse to talk to

she knows her opinions are sound. She figures there is

me when I ask, they are forcing their way out as cases

no point in arguing with someone like me, someone who

of hypnagogia. And if you can’t recognize that, if you

cannot process what is abundantly clear. Jacqueline is opening the door. She says nothing as

want to call it my psych bullshit or tell me I sound like some guide-to-dreams book, go ahead. But I just want

she comes in. I put down my book. I am afraid I may lash

an answer. Are you willing to let me surround you with

out again. I feel my body tense a bit like a threat has

teacups or not?”

emerged. “Did I ever tell you about the place on the Chesa-

There is another moment of silence. I am trying to figure out if she is really waiting for an answer or not. She

peake Bay where my family used to go when I was a

is walking to the door, opening it, and slamming it shut. I

kid?” I am saying, not sure why. I hadn’t thought about

can hear her going down the stairs outside. I don’t know

saying it. I hadn’t even thought about the house on the

where she is going. I don’t know whether I care. Is she

Chesapeake. I just said it. It has nothing to do with our

expecting me to open the door and try to stop her? Is

argument, but it must have been tucked away some-

that what happens here? Her demeanor was so calm, but

where.

she walked out. She just walked out. And she slammed

“No,” she says.

the door. That’s got to mean something, right?

“It was this huge house with a long gravel drive. It even had columns on the front, and a barn. It was like

I am still considering putting on a record and having another beer. Will she be gone long enough for me to

some kind of Southern plantation. There was a dock,

do this? Or will she come back while I am in the middle

and we would rent this motor boat. We didn’t really fish,

of this and be offended? Would I just be fulfilling her de-

but we would go crabbing off the dock. We would use

scription of me? Would I be ignoring the issue? Is there

chicken necks as bait . . . You know, I don’t even know

an issue? I just wanted to have another beer and hear a

where I would go to get chicken necks if I really wanted

record. I didn’t need this.

them . . .”

I go to the front window. I can see her car starting off down the street. I can see my car sitting safely on

She is changing into pajamas. She is taking her hair out of a ponytail.

the opposite side of the street. I can hear the voices

“So even though the bay was right there—about

of children. I’m not sure if it’s the hillbilly kids or some

a hundred yards from the house—there was also this

other ones.

inground pool. I guess you didn’t have to worry about

«.»

jellyfish in there or anything. But I remember I loved swimming in the pool at night. There was this light in the wall of the deep end. You could turn it on from inside

An hour has passed. I am in bed reading a book.

the house, and it gave off this weird, green light. It made

I hear people outside. I look out the front window. No

the bottom of the pool seem like some other planet.”

106

surrounded by teacups matt whelihan

She is brushing her teeth, but doing it in the doorway

be fine. It’s not that far to my parents’ house.”

of the bathroom so she can listen to me. I’m hoping she

“Well,” she says.

isn’t running this story through the psychology part of her brain. I don’t want it analyzed. “Sometimes my brothers would wait for me to jump

I debated with myself about closing remarks. I de‑ bated about one last try at a kill-shot. Maybe I’d tell her it was the psych bullshit that ended this. Or maybe I’d

in the pool at night. They would wait for me to go under,

find an articulate and scathing way to tell her I would

and then they would shut off the light. It always scared

keep having night-visions even without her in my life.

the shit out of me. Not only could I not see anything—I

I debated apologizing, or at least recalling the good

mean not even my hands or arms or legs—but it was like

times. Maybe even let her know that there was some-

suddenly I was surrounded by nothing but water. I had

thing she said or did that I would carry with me. Some-

no idea how far it extended, how deep down I was. My

thing that would linger in my core, shaping the person I

dad would try and stop them, but he couldn’t always

am. I debated and came to no conclusions. Nothing felt

catch them.”

entirely true, and I felt stymied by the process. There

She is turning off the light in the kitchen. She is getting in bed next to me.

was too much to consider behind a single phrase, let alone an entire farewell speech. So I don’t say anything.

“Good night,” she says. “Good night,” I say.

I walk toward her, and she hugs me. I have another moving-out moment. This is the last time she will hug

«.»

me. I am still trying to think of something to say, something that will be consequential or enduring, but she goes first.

I am looking out the front window at my car. It is

“I know you care. I know . . . Since we talked about

across the street. It is full of boxes and random pieces

the teacups, I swear I haven’t seen any change in you at

of clothing. My books are in there. My records and CDs

all, but . . . I know you care.”

are in there. My shoes, my DVDs, my clock, my acoustic guitar, my speakers, my fan, my computer, my TV are in

The hug ends, and we are looking at each other now. She goes on.

there. My life is in there. I am watching to make sure no

“I can’t explain it. I just . . . I know.”

one tries to steal it as I wait for Jacqueline to get home.

There is no psychology hidden in her comments. I am

She is running late. I am wondering if it is on purpose.

grateful for that, but I can’t respond. I can’t confirm her

She knows I’m leaving today.

speculation, I can’t craft closure for the sake of closure,

I hear her on the steps, and I am having one of those

and I can’t wait for further explanation.

“moving-out moments,” a phrase I’ve coined myself. It’s

“Okay,” I say.

the type of moment I’ve been having the past couple of

“Okay,” she says.

days. One of those moments when you think, This is the

I think I try to smile, but without a mirror I can’t tell. I

last time I will ever hear this, see this, smell this, experi-

walk to the door. She hasn’t even taken her coat off yet.

ence this. This is the last time I will hear Jacqueline walk

I wonder if that means she is planning to walk me to the

up those stairs. This is the last time I will look out this

car. I don’t want her to. I don’t want to put on a show for

window, stare at my car, and wonder if someone will try

the hillbillies.

to steal it.

I am at the door.

“Hey,” she says when she comes in. “Hey,” I say back.

“I’ll talk to you soon,” I say, unsure why or what it means.

I feel strange, like we’ve only met once or twice

“Okay,” she says again.

before. “Wow, you really fit everything in your car, huh?”

I walk out and start down the stairs. She is looking at me from the doorway. She is closing the door. MW

“Yeah. I can’t see out the back window, but I should

107

A TOUR OF THE WORLD;

WITH SPECIAL ATTENTION PAID TO REMOTE AND HARD-TO-FIND LOCALES Tim Mucci

While browsing some of the less picked-through used

Why was this entry so strange? Something in the deep

bookstores in the city, I found myself holding a beauti-

recesses of my brain lit up when I read it—with talk of

ful little travel book. The words stamped in fading gold

“things best not described,” it’s not your run-of the-mill

letters upon the front read: “DuLac’s Pocket Journal

travel piece—but I couldn’t quite place the feeling of

of a Tour of the World; With Special Attention Paid to

recognition I was experiencing. I flipped around some

Remote and Hard-to-Find Locales.” The tome was writ-

more, and eventually happened upon the following en-

ten by C. E. DuLac and published in 1976 by G.G. Press.

try, which came after a helpful travel tip detailing which

It was a smallish hardcover just bigger than the palm of

areas of the continental United States include gratuity

my hand; it had a worn red cover, cloth binding, gilded

in the check after a meal. The entry read:

page ends, and a deep-red silk bookmark sewn into the Mr. DuLac—who is indeed quite the traveler, which is

Brobdingnag: Disc. 1703 by Capt. Lemuel Gulliver

evidenced by the hundreds of entries in the pocket book.

A secluded country attached to a peninsula off the

While thumbing through I found a peculiar entry. It sat

coast of California, although some sources place it

just above an informative section about Boston, Massa-

within the sub-region of Micronesia. Brobdingnag

chusetts. Faithfully replicated here, it read as follows:

is populated by persons of very large stature, some

binding. It contained short travel entries compiled by

Arkham, Mass.: Est. Early 17th Century

measuring in excess of sixty feet tall. Brobdingnagians are a logical and precise people, favoring mathematics over flowery literature and poetry. Laws are clear and

American city split through by the hoary Miskatonic

concise, as one may not use more words than there are

River. Contains the venerable Miskatonic University. Do

letters in the alphabet to express them. Adventurous

make time to visit MU’s library with the hopes of gain-

travelers will relish climbing the steep volcanic peaks

ing entrance to its expansive antique and occult refer-

to the northeast.

ence section. Be warned to keep off the streets at night

Helpful Hint: Pack a weapon, for the fauna are pro-

however; Arkham is possibly the strangest and most

portionate in size to the inhabitants, and one does not

haunted American city one can encounter. Those night-

want to face a six-foot rodent or splacknuck alone and

darkened streets become cluttered with things best not

unarmed.

described.

Helpful Hint: Catch the bus at Aylesbury Street for a

I realized then that DuLac was providing travel tips for

day trip to historic Innsmouth. Be sure to catch an early

worlds and lands that exist solely in fiction. I picked

bus; one does not want to spend the night in that near-

out a few of the more intriguing entries. Bear in mind

abandoned fishing community.

that each entry was listed just underneath or above a

108

description of a real-world locale or a prosaic travel tip,

controlled by the pervasive state. War is peace, freedom

which made for an interesting hunt.

is slavery, ignorance is strength, and—if the state wills it—two plus two equals five. Fortunately, arriving in Air-

The Shire: Est. 1601 in the Third Age (Year 1 in Shire Reckoning)

strip One can be avoided by staying informed, staying aware, and questioning authority.

Perhaps the most peaceful and fertile land in all of Eri-

Helpful Hint: As drab as Airstrip One may be, intellec-

ador, with ghostly Rivendell a close second. The Shire is

tual solace can be found in the Chestnut Tree Cafe. The

preferred on the merits of its inhabitants: the hobbits.

author would suggest travelers try the Victory Gin, but

Hobbits are a small people, roughly three feet or so in

there really isn’t much choice in the matter.

height, who subsist largely on farming and have a fondness for food, festivities, brewing, and tobacco (pipe-

Xanadu: Est. 1271

weed). Do remember to be polite and friendly, for while

Kingdom constructed by Kubla Khan on the coast of

the Shire-folk are patient, they rarely tolerate eccentrics,

Asia; contains a stately pleasure dome built upon hyp-

especially those who come bearing fireworks and tales

notic caves of ice. Some remark that the palace appears

of dragon-slaying. You’ll likely not find more pleasant

incomplete. Legend has it that a traveler from Porlock

weather in all of Middle-earth, and it is suggested you

somehow prevented its completion. Visitors must take

spend an entire day smoking the local tobacco while sit-

the time to stroll the ten miles of walled-off gardens,

ting on the banks of the Brandywine River.

marvel at the blossoms on the incense-bearing trees,

Helpful Hint: The Shire boasts the most diverse cuisine

and bask beneath the sun-covered greenery.

in Eriador. Arrive hungry and don’t skip a meal, which is

Helpful Hint: Be wary of the geyser spurt from the

a challenge for there are six in a single day.

deep caverns below the palace, for it comes up from the sacred river Alph. Be doubly wary of the ancient woods

Gotham City, Gotham: Est. 1666

nearby, where it’s said that demons abandon their lovers.

American city located on the Eastern Seaboard. A cluttered mass of skyscrapers and back alleyways, Gotham

There are many more entries in this imaginative little

City’s claim to fame is an unfortunate crime rate and

book, which is no doubt long out of print. It gives me

myriad disasters. As the city is wracked by plagues,

pause to think how a book such as this was ever pub-

earthquakes, and crimes both petty and horrific, it’s a

lished in the first place. It’s obviously a mixture of the

wonder that the inhabitants haven’t all fled. Gotham

real and the fantastic. Could DuLac have been play-

boasts an impressive array of fine art museums and

ing a joke on his editors and his readers? Did he really

cultural institutions, all funded by the altruistic Wayne

believe that he was visiting these places? Did he truly

Industries, as well as the finest Gothic, Art Deco, and

think that he spent lazy afternoons with hobbits and

Art Nouveau architecture in all of the continental United

gazed out upon the cluttered cityscape of Gotham?

States.

But perhaps he did actually visit these worlds within

Helpful Hint: Travelers should be wary of breaking any

his own mind, transported there just as we are, by the

of the local laws, for legend has it that a bat-like creature

power of good literature. I suppose, also, that a book

patrols the shadows and physically assaults those with

such as this, packed with so much information about

ill intent.

the fantastic, must surely reside somewhere in the

Airstrip One, Oceania: Est. 1984

fantasy realm as well. So when next you’re browsing in your local bookstore, arm your mind with equal parts

Oceanic province which includes the city of London.

suspension of disbelief, outright lies, and the raw power

If editorializing is permitted, a dreadful place, to be

of make-believe, and you might just find entry into

avoided at all costs. In Airstrip One war is constant, gov-

some remote and hard-to-find locales of your own. tm

ernment surveillance is ubiquitous, and the populace is

109

An Interview with

lev Grossman sean f. jones Lev Grossman talks avidly about his process of finding a voice as a writer. The key to this quixotic literary task, according to the forty-one-year-old novelist and Time magazine editor, is to embrace your authentic formative influences, however unwanted they may be. Grossman’s literary roots were planted firmly in fantasy—his childhood was filled with Dungeons & Dragons, Narnia, and video games—and his enthusiasm for fantasy literature has only grown since then. Still, it took two novels and a bit of outside inspiration for Grossman to accept the inevitability of his fantasy writing career. The product of his eventual epiphany, The Magicians, turned out to be worth the wait for both Grossman and his readers: the story of the magical education of high school senior Quentin Coldwater became a New York Times bestseller and one of the New Yorker’s “Reviewer’s favorites from 2009.” Grossman’s knowledge of fantasy literature comes through in his conversation and the near-constant allusions and inside jokes in his books. He is as much a fellow fantasy reader as a writer, and as a result has a refreshingly unguarded approach to talking about his process and career. Slice caught Grossman at a crucial point in any writer’s process: deadline day. The deadline at hand was, in fact, for the sequel to The Magicians—the manuscript was 102,000 words deep but not quite done yet.

110

You took book leave from Time to finish this sequel.

slightly less than a year. I’m not going to go back to

How hard is it to get book leave these days?

work until this book is done. That could be weeks or months from now.

[Time has] never turned me down for book leave, partly because Time has a very

Writing The Magicians came more easily to you, right?

powerful guild and they have trouble laying people off. I think their head count is a little high now, and

It did come comparatively easy, and its arrival

any time they can avoid paying an employee they are

came with a feeling of pleasure instead of my

more or less happy to not pay them. I’m in a bit of

typical feelings of self-loathing and loathing of the book

trouble with this book. I’ve never written a book in

itself. I really liked The Magicians as I was writing it—that

under four years, and I tried to write this one in

was a different experience for me.

photograph by Amy Sly

111

slice

issue 8

I thought this feeling was unique for me, but I had a conversation with Victor LaValle [the author of Big Machine] and he said, “Listen, I’ve written two books and they were both literary books, and I was just hating it. I hated the process; I didn’t feel happy. ‘Victor,’ I said to myself, ‘what will it take for you to enjoy writing your next book?’ The answer was there had to be a monster. Not a metaphorical monster, or a monster of psychology, but an actual monster. That’s what I needed.” I think I said something very similar to myself: The Magicians [isn’t] going to be a story about hanging around and having conversations in rooms. It will be about casting spells, and someone may go to another world. That’s what it is going to take to enjoy this. It turned out I was right—that’s what it took. You were also inspired by your brother Austin Grossman’s draft of Soon I Will Be Invincible, right? Yeah. I hate that story because it involves giving him credit, but I can’t deny that I was working on a completely different book, and he sent me the beginning of the book that became Soon I Will Be Invincible—which is a great book. It was better than the book I was writing at the time, and it also did something that made me realize the cultural capital I had to work with—my ethnic heritage, for lack of a better way to describe it. It was comic books and science fiction and fantasy and video games. Some people have a cultural heritage that comes

I don’t think it is a new thing. It’s a twentieth century thing. It’s newish, historically. I think it

from their religion or a country they were born in. I grew up in suburban Massachusetts, and my parents were

is something we owe to the invention of the Modernists.

borderline antireligious people. That was the soil I was

The Modernists were very interested in genre hygiene—

planted in. I didn’t understand that you could work with

in separating literary fiction from everything else. Then

that stuff and make it into art, but Austin had. He had

you had the development of a marketplace that was

done something incredible with it. I realized that was

stratified in that way, so we also owe it to booksellers

how you make art.

and pulp publishers and those things—they created genres so readers knew what they were going to get.

Because The Magicians blends fantasy and literary

I think the new thing is the dissolving of those genre

elements, it is often described as a “crossover” genre

tensions, and crossover books like The Magicians and

book. What’s your opinion about pinning books to

any number of others. I think we are becoming more

genres? Do you think this genre-fication of books is a

aware of genres because they are breaking down. We

new trend? A bad trend?

didn’t realize everything was cut up until we started putting it back together.

112

an interview with lev grossman

sean f. jones

When you pitched the book to your agent, did you

by Donna Tartt had a similar feel to it. I had also been

pitch it as a “crossover genre book”? What was the

working at the Beinecke rare books library at Yale for

dialogue about how to “position” your book among

a while, so I thought that since I had all this experience

you, your agent, and editors?

with rare books, I needed to write a book in that vein. It was all a little bit more calculated, and as a result

It was an awkward dialogue. It contained many

I think the book was not as good. But it was good

pauses, ums, and uhs. What happens is, I pitch

enough.

the book to my agent and my agent goes around and pitches it to publishers. God only knows what she said.

So do you have a theory now that a when a book

That’s her business. I pay her so I don’t have to think

happens quickly—when you get a fire lit in you and

about that. But it was hard to explain to her what I

you write something because you need to write

wanted to do—I didn’t understand it that well myself. I

it—it will inevitably be better? Because there are of

don’t think I was thinking tactically to get both fantasy

course famous authors out there who were known for

and literary fiction audiences. I basically was in a state of

struggling and being calculating as they wrote their

unselfconsciousness. I told my agent: “I want to write a

novels.

book about a guy who is a magician and he goes to a school for magic but he is not Harry Potter and he goes

It ought to be. If you look at Franzen, another author who is very open and articulate about

to another world that is not Narnia. What do you think?”

his process, he does seven or eight years of pre-work

It wasn’t the pitch of the century. Somehow, from that, my agent intuited that she was going to be able

where he writes crap that he hates. This happened with

to sell what I was going to write, but I don’t know how.

The Corrections and with Freedom. But then he actually

Of course, since then I’ve evolved an elaborate cultural

wrote the book in a little over a year flat. So there is that

theory about genres and crossovers and stuff like that,

thing where he catches fire. But theories about writing always break down—you

but I retrofitted the book with that theoretical appara-

can always find counterexamples. I can’t stand writ-

tus after I wrote it.

ers who go around giving theories. Like Murakami is Did Codex happen in that same organic way?

always going around saying, “Run! Run like the wind! And then sit down and write.” Or maybe write and then

No, I wasn’t as confident then. I overthought

run around. It’s like, “Listen, dude, that works for you,

the process. I was really high on Possession at

but it’s probably not right for anybody else.” I try not to

that time [the A. S. Byatt novel]—

generalize.

I was reading that recently, but I have to admit I

You had struggled for a long time to get yourself

couldn’t finish it.

published. What were those years bouncing from job to job like? How did the ebb and flow of your desire to be a writer work during that time?

I think the key with that book is you have to not read the poetry. I think it is okay. You just have to have a big cry and tell yourself, “It’s okay, I will

That desire was the only constant during an

forgive you for not reading the poetry.” Byatt does a

otherwise really chaotic period of my life. But

good job of making fake B-list Victorian poetry, and it’s

despite its intensity and constant-ness, it did not result

great that she did that—but I don’t think that I have to

in my getting published at all. I wrote all the time. For

read it.

the first few years, I wrote mostly short stories. Either

But anyway, I thought that the idea of a mystery with literary stuff in it was a good idea. The Secret History

my short stories are crap or I was never able to understand how the market worked, but I never sold one. I

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think I would get discouraged too easily—I’d get one

It was those guys who were not walking around all full

rejection and think, “This story is crap,” and throw it

of themselves, excited about their great futures—those

away and never send it out again. That is probably not

were the guys who stuck with it and sucked up the fail-

the way to do it. I’m sure I’ve written over one hundred

ure and eventually got published.

short stories, not one of which was ever published. That I like how fantasy literature is itself a big part of the

sounds pretty sad when I say it . . . I turned to novels mainly because agents handle

story world of The Magicians. What were you trying to

them. I realized I was not a good agent for myself with

do with that? Was that an intentional choice from the

my short stories, but thought an agent could do a good

beginning?

job. This is while I was temping, and was a grad student, and was just being a slacker. It was not a great time. But

I didn’t do it on purpose at first. I wanted to

then I had a massive stroke of luck. I went to graduate

set the book in the real world, and the real

school with my agent, Tina Bennett. She was not an

world could not be in any way different from our world,

agent yet, but we both dropped out of graduate school

even if it was inconvenient that cell phones existed and

and she became an agent and as a result I knew an

so on. So of course, any protagonist of any decent fanta-

agent! And she agreed to take me on.

sy novel is going to be some sort of nerdy, introverted

She turned out to be a really good, successful agent.

human being, and as a result they would have spent all

Whenever I feel like I didn’t get a fair shake in my writ-

their lives reading fantasy novels. It seemed correct—a

ing career, I remind myself I did get one good, massive

naturalistic treatment of that subject.

piece of luck and that was it. But even then it took years

Once I realized that was going to happen, I found it

for success to come. I wrote a novel which Tina sold for

very useful as a tool for making fantasy look at itself,

a tiny amount, and it flopped. It wasn’t until 2004—ap-

and examining some of the assumptions that under-

proximately thirteen years into my attempts to be a

lie the genre. I felt as if fantasy wasn’t self-conscious

published writer—that I actually sold anything that

enough as a genre. You look at what happened with

made any money at all.

superhero stories when Watchmen and Miracleman arrived. Alan Moore stopped and looked at the basic

Does that make victory sweeter?

assumptions that underlie the superhero genre: What kind of person would beat up muggers? What kind of

Yes. Getting a book published is the greatest

history would make a person do that? What would be

feeling in the world. Well, except for having

the psychological consequences for them after they’ve

kids, I should say. Still, I wish I had known at some point

done it? How would it change them?

along the way that it was going to work out. I felt like I

I felt like that had been done in fantasy, but not

was wasting my life for a lot of the way. It doesn’t

enough. I wanted to have somebody who was really

happen like that for everybody—my brother wrote his

steeped in fantasy actually go through it, and compare

first novel and walked right into a seven-way auction [of

what he read to what he was actually going through.

editors vying to buy the rights to publish him].

Quentin can do that. He read the literary version of the

I do feel like, of the people I knew in college who wanted to be writers, the thing that separated those

world, then he entered it, and it turned out they were very different.

who are published now from those who aren’t has nothing to do with talent. It had to do with a willingness to

Did you find yourself getting addicted to literary

fail and fail and fail repeatedly. There were guys who

fantasy references after a while?

could do amazing things. Guys you knew were good. Their future was assured. They were the great writers

Yes, there was a lot more in early drafts. It was

of tomorrow. Most of those guys never got published.

very easy, and I found it very amusing. I

114

a bookshelf in lev grossman’s home office in brooklyn, new york.

remember showing it to my brother, and he was like, “Ha

I liked how you treated that transformation with the

ha, that’s hilarious. Now cut it out.” It just turned out to

goose scene.

be too cute. I had pages and pages of people talking That was taken from, and will hopefully be

about Harry Potter—about how Quidditch wouldn’t really work. And there was so much D&D [Dungeons &

seen as an homage to, the greatest book

Dragons] stuff. But it’s like, “Who is that funny for?” My

about people turning into animals ever, which is The

editor didn’t play D&D, and he had no idea what I was

Once and Future King by T. H. White. There’s a scene in

talking about.

that book where they turn into beasts, but I was thinking about a scene where Merlin turns Arthur into an animal

So the whole human-animal fox sex scene . . . where

so he can learn important lessons about life. He turns

did that come from?

him into an owl and he swoops out into the night and he’s hungry, so he thinks, “All right, I’m going to go catch

Well, I maintain that it had its origins in what

a mouse and eat it.” He does without thinking about it,

was merely a psychologically correct treat-

and White writes that it’s like biting into a peach—furry

ment of the subject. If you turn a teenager into an

on the outside but delicious on the inside. Suddenly,

animal, it would start to rot. It’s all fun with Harry Potter

without him having said it, you realize that Arthur has

characters turning into animals, but I don’t think that’s

become an owl and he’s thinking like an owl. It’s so

what would happen if you turned into an animal. Your

great, the way he did it. I’ve never seen it done like that

mental software would be running on animal hardware,

again, so I was trying to write it that way. Plus, I thought

and it would just kind of take over.

it would be funny if foxes had sex.

photograph by Amy Sly

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I was interested in Richard as a character. He was a

people like characters who I hated, like Penny. They are

Christian, an outsider. He reminded me of a C. S. Lewis

like, “What’s Penny doing next?” and I’m like, “That

type. What was his role to you?

guy?” I can’t get rid of him. But really, most people who bother to talk to you do

I thought all the characters in the book were too nice; they were too sort of Breakfast Club.

it because they really liked the book. There’s a guy who makes Brakebills T-shirts that are really great. I started

They were funny and cool. I thought there should be a

a reading in Georgia, and a girl walked in dressed as

guy who is sort of stodgy and crazy, and Quentin

Brakebills student. She made the uniform and every-

wouldn’t understand why people like him. And then his

thing. That was great.

Christianity. I tried not to lean too hard on it because I am not myself a Christian and I don’t know very much

Do you ever think, “What have I created?”

about Christianity, but I thought it was weird that there are no Christians in Harry Potter. In fantasy, either

No. It’s a funny thing about fiction now, and

nobody is a Christian or everyone is a Christian. I

especially fantasy—people feel ownership of

thought, “If you really were a Christian, what would you

it. They don’t feel as though it belongs to the author—

think about magic? Where would you think it came

they feel as if it belongs to them. I embrace that.

from? Where would it fit into the Christian cosmology?” Richard has wrestled with that a bit. In the end, I was

So would you be happy with, say, a Fillory video game?

fond of Richard; more than anyone else, he seemed like he would do the right thing. And he does.

That would be so awful. All those games suck. I’m an ardent gamer, but I’ve never played a

I felt like The Magicians had an interesting blend of

decent game off of a licensed property. It tends to only

college nostalgia and fantasy. Do you have college

be original IP that becomes good games. I’m not saying

nostalgia that you connected with in this book?

that I won’t take their money, but unless they have a strong vision for a Fillory game, it isn’t going to work.

It’s funny, I have no college nostalgia at all. Brakebills is what I thought college was supposed to be like. It was the college I thought I was

Do you have any sense of what’s in store for us in the next book?

going to go to, and the reality of it turned out to be very different. It was sort of mundane. Brakebills is also, of

Considering that the book is due today . . . I

course, a part of a grand tradition of schools in fantasy

should. I’ve written 102,000 words—I keep

books that have nothing to do with reality, starting with

track. So I know most of what’s going to happen.

Merlin educating Arthur in The Once and Future King, and in particular the magic school in the Earthsea books

Will Penny be back?

[by Ursula K. Le Guin], and then of course Hogwarts. I hit on the idea of Brakebills before Harry Potter came

He will be back, that bastard. I couldn’t keep

out, though! I swear, I can prove it. The file creation date is 1996.

him away. Julia is also a major character in the new book. I personally was very interested in her. I wondered what happened to her while all the others

So do you get “fanboy” responses to The Magicians

were having a good time. And the answer is: really awful

now? People needling you about the rules of Fillory?

things happened to her. We will see it in gory detail in the next book.

Yeah. People mostly respond to the characters—they either like or hate them. Some

116

Signal Light on the Horizon

Some nights, we chase sleep across the earth, a swift tilt slippery beneath our feet, racing against fixed defeat and the clenched fist fall, stockpiling loss to forestall the inevitable. Tally the cost of the small crimes; glances, blood heat innuendo weighed against our conceit. We chance diminishing merit to the dross moments of possible. It doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t signify,

Roxanna Bennett

our actions before the event. Sometimes there is unrelated catastrophe, signal light on the horizon, without a warning cry to go below. We lie. Awake, dreading time in the half-empty bed. Moth-eaten nights.

117

Night Dogs Sharon Erby

“Don’t you hear it?” Martin asked, his eyes on

smell the cigarette smoke from Evie’s Place on his

the Timmons. The light from atop the barn shadowed

clothes. It was down in his clothes, deep as the ashes

his face, showed Grace only his unruly hair, the upturned

smoldering at the bottom of their woodstove. She had

collar on his Carhartt jacket. “The dogs—somebody’s

never been inside the tavern, but she’d heard the old

huntin’ coons up there. They always hunt ’em at night,”

lady who ran the place kept it clean, from the floors to

he said, spending white air on each word. Stars dotted

the language. Evie might have kept out the troublemak-

the black sky, and a November wind tore through the

ers, but she couldn’t keep out the smoke. Mountain men

bare branches of the oak trees that lined the lane. When

worried more about who shot the biggest buck than

she’d heard the old truck coming, Grace grabbed a coat

the Surgeon General’s warnings. Medical research was

and dashed out into the darkness. Martin might need

for city folks. The men in these parts smoked so much

help getting into the house. It was late, and she knew

it looked as if the white sticks were extensions of their

what to expect.

fingers.

She listened for the dogs then, the wind a cold co-

Evie’s burgers and homemade chicken corn soup

coon wrapping around her. She wished she had put the

were well-known among the locals. And the talk at the

lining in her barn jacket and pulled a hat over her long

Place flowed as easily as the beer from the tap. Mar-

hair that was still damp at the ends.

tin was the youngest regular, and he was fifty-six now.

“Just come in, Martin.” She’d no sooner said the

Folks said Evie never served a man more drinks than he

words than a blast of air hit her and pushed her into

could handle. That night, though, Grace guessed, Evie

her husband. He put his arm around her, ignoring her

wasn’t working. Martin leaned into her, and she could barely hold

request. “This night reminds me of when I was a kid,” he said,

him up. “Let’s go! Let’s get out of this,” she said. Even

never taking his eyes off the mountain, not noticing the

though he was a big man, he couldn’t deflect the wind

intermittent flashing of headlights making their way

from her. It was hitting from all sides, and Grace felt like

down the valley at the mountain’s lower end, which, in

a punch-shocked boxer. But Martin just kept on talking

more temperate weather, could have been mistaken for

like it was a lazy summer night and they were sitting on

lightning bugs. Martin focused instead on the black face

the porch swing watching for a car or one of the Stoltz-

of the side of the mountain that was right across from

fus’s buggies to go down the road. “You’d have to be tough to go out on a night like

them—where the dogs were. Now that they were standing so close, Grace could

illustration by tracy timmins

this,” he said. “Dad and John and Harold would’ve

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thrived. They’d have loved to go out huntin’ in weather like this. They’d be wired all right. They’d be wired. It’d take them a good hour or two just to calm down and warm up when they came back.” “Didn’t you go along?” Grace asked him. He reached into his pocket and handed her an old yellow-and-blackstriped knit cap. She pulled its warmth down over her frozen ears, over her hair that was now stiff. Martin shook his head. “Oh, no, I never went. That was strictly for the men.” “But I thought your friend Harold was the same age as you. And his dad took him along,” Grace said, putting her hand on Martin’s elbow, trying to get him to take a few steps toward the house. He was never steady on that leg. She had to push hard against him to straighten him, keep him from falling over. “He’d go with them after he’d tell me it was better for a man to hunt alone,” Martin said wryly. “Can’t you hear that, baby? They’re howlin’ tonight!” Grace couldn’t hear anything. She could barely see Martin’s face. She could only feel his weight. “Yep, that’s how I learned to hunt. I’d wait ’til they came back and they’d sit and talk about it. And I lis-

Grace liked to take the children out into the wind that, with all the surrounding ridges, swirled in and around as it tried to get out of the narrow valley. They would join in, pretend to fly as high as the Timmons and over the fields of buckwheat below. In the spring, they’d take kites up into the fields above the house and let them rip and watch the silent surfers ride the crests of invisible waves until they collapsed onto green.

tened. The guns, the dogs . . . and them coons. Man, it was somethin’. If you can hunt at night, huntin’ in

in the living room. But on this night, even before the

the daytime’s easy.” He reached into the pocket of his

movie was over, Brenda was snoring, her curly dark hair

coat and pulled out the Marlboros. His hand brushed

framing her pale face and rosy lips. Davey’s long legs

Grace’s fingers. It was warm—even though he’d been

already stuck out from the bottom of the sleeping bag

out in the cold as long as she. Grace wished the wind

they’d bought him just last year. He’d grown so much he

wouldn’t have died down long enough for him to light

couldn’t zip himself into it anymore. His skin was as dark

the cigarette, wished they’d never moved to this wilder-

as Brenda’s was fair.

ness, wished they’d instead stayed in either one of the

A few forgotten leaves whirled in front of Martin

millions-of-miles-away towns where their families lived.

and Grace. In the country, in the daylight, it was easy to

Then Martin wouldn’t be smoking Marlboros, trying to fit

see the weather coming at you. Grace liked to take the

in with the locals. They watched the cigarette smoke curl

children out into the wind that, with all the surrounding

into the night sky.

ridges, swirled in and around as it tried to get out of the narrow valley. They would join in, pretend to fly as high

At least the children had fallen asleep early. Brenda would be pulling the curtains back from the kitchen

as the Timmons and over the fields of buckwheat below.

window so she could watch them, would even put on her

In the spring, they’d take kites up into the fields above

red corduroy jacket and join them if they didn’t come in

the house and let them rip and watch the silent surfers

soon from the cold. Both Brenda and Davey asked where

ride the crests of invisible waves until they collapsed

their daddy was when they got home from school. Every

onto green. “Watch out,” Grace would tell the children. “Better

Friday night the kids made homemade pizza together, watched a movie, and camped out in front of the TV

not open your mouths or the wind will come right in and

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“I’m goin’ up,” he said randomly, pushing away from

steal your breath.” Davey would tighten his lips into a

Grace to open the door of the old truck. “This time I’m

line, puff his cheeks like a chipmunk’s.

goin’!”

But Brenda would aim herself right at it, laugh with

“What the hell are you talking about?” But Grace

her arms wide open—even if it pushed her backward.

knew what he was talking about. He was going to take

“Let it try,” she’d say. “Let it just try.”

off into the mountain. She knew he’d do it, even though

In this darkness, though, the wind threatened to knock the foundations out from under Martin and Grace.

he wasn’t fit to do anything now except sleep it off.

Martin dug his boots into the gravel. “He was gonna let

Grace almost hoped he’d fall flat on his face and knock

me go one time,” he said. Grace wondered why Martin

himself out. She’d figure out a way, then, to drag him

was lighting up another cigarette already. “In ’69—after

into the house. “There they are again—Jesus, I wish I knew who was

I got back. Harold was in college then, and John said to bring me along. But Dad said he didn’t want me to get

up there. It’s probably Roy and Pete. I can find them,”

hurt. They went on ahead without me. Dad and John had

Martin said. Grace looked toward the Timmons. The stars and

the best guns—top-of-the-line stuff. The old man caught me handlin’ his Purdey when they got back, and he got

sporadic car headlights descending the mountain were

pissed off and told me to leave his stuff alone.”

the only lights. She pulled the knit cap farther down over her ears, pushed her stiff hair up under it.

Even in the shadow, Grace could see deep lines in Martin’s face. “They call me the workin’ man / I guess

«.»

that’s what I am.” He would imitate Geddy Lee when he was ‘up.’ “You either work or you die,” he told Davey. Grace suspected he was doing a little of both. Mar-

“Better just stay down there, Gracie,” her mama

tin was always outside—off on his own, cutting wood,

told her as she reached around to stroke the five-year-

stacking wood. “Getting ready,” he’d tell Grace.

old’s still wet hair. “’Til we get out of here, at least. You

“Ready for what?” she’d asked him once, in frustra-

pull that quilt up over you.” Grace was on the floor

tion. He’d just told her he didn’t have time when she’d

of the car, looking up through eyes that should have

asked him to sit with her awhile on the swing. “Come

been closed, in bed, and dreaming of Thanksgiving

on,” she’d cajoled. “And have a glass of Lambrusco. Slow

dinner. The darkness gulped at the streetlights until it

down.” That had been right after Brenda had started

ate them all. The car picked up speed then, and Grace

school; the wide open spaces had suffocated Grace for

knew they were outside of town. The voices of her

a while.

mama and her sister, Maryann, who was driving, were

“I can’t wait until it’s already cold and the wind’s howlin’ to start cuttin’ wood for the stove,” he’d told her. Later when he’d found her crying, he’d tried to ex-

held low by the engine’s alternating acceleration and deceleration as the old car wended the curves of the country road.

plain: “Listen, baby. I can’t slow down. It’s because I’m

“You got to teach me to drive,” her mama’s voice

slowin’ down that I can’t slow down. What used to only

filtered back to Grace. It was the voice she used after

take me a few weeks to do now takes me months. And

the plates flew, the voice she used just before she pulled

along with gettin’ the wood ready for the stove, I gotta

Grace onto her lap and told her everything would be

mow, and trim, and plow, and plant.” He looked at her

fine. Just fine, you’ll see. Just fine.

long. “Now I’m not sayin’ you don’t help me. For sure

“You got to teach me to drive. If you teach me to

you do. You know you do. It’s just there’s a lot of work I

drive, then I can take care of myself. Won’t have to

have to do. Just a few more years of it, though, and then

bother anybody when I got to get out.”

I’ll sit with you so much you’ll get sick of me. Promise.” Grace would hear him tell people from his old life, I retired to a new job.

“But you don’t have a car, Mom. How you gonna drive without a car? You think Dad’s gonna toss you the keys and say, ‘Have fun!’”

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“No, I’m tired. Carry me, please.”

“Maybe not. I suppose not. But come next fall,

Maryann’s hands touched Grace first, but their

Gracie’ll be in school, and if you’d get me on over at Magnetics, I could make enough money to get my

mother intervened. “I got her. You just go make sure the

own car.”

door’s unlocked.” “She’s too heavy.”

It was a long time before Maryann spoke. “They don’t

“She’s a feather.” And Grace pressed against her

hire people without diplomas, Mom.”

mama’s coat to keep the night cold off her face.

Grace had been in the tub when the war had raged

“All right, but I’m walking right beside you. Hand her

downstairs. But the door was closed and the water was

over if she’s too much.”

a warm blanket, so Grace laid back and let it lap the

Moments later, Maryann was turning the doorknob,

noise out of her ears.

opening the door slow and smooth so it wouldn’t

A slamming door downstairs soon brought her back up, though, and the silence after was so loud Grace had

squeak. Grace first heard her daddy’s snores, then his

already started to get out of the tub by the time she’d

muttering as they quietly entered the house that stayed

heard footsteps.

dark. “We’ll just sleep down here tonight,” Mama said,

“Time to get you out, honey. We got to go.”

laying Grace on the couch, tucking the quilt she’d made

Grace’s teeth were chattering just as much from

for her under her chin. Two days later, Grace wakened to yipping, ran past

not knowing what was going on as they were from the nip in the air as she shuffled behind her mama and

her mama and daddy’s room with its bed that hadn’t

older sister on their way to the old car, which Mary-

been slept in, and outside to find a box with a copper-

ann would wreck just a few months later after hitting

colored, long-eared puppy inside. And Daddy’s “No dogs in THIS house” changed to

an ice patch late at night coming home from working overtime. And Grace’s daddy would be hauled out of

“He’s for you, honey. Go on. Bring him in.” But it was

bed when the cops knocked on the door. Don’t worry,

just for that day. The following day, the “mangy mutt”

they told him, she’ll be all right. Not as if she broke her

was moved to a box in the garage until he graduated to

neck. One of those braces will fix her up. Grace would

a flipped-over wooden ammo box with one of the ends

be wakened by the wild knocking, wouldn’t sleep a

knocked off.

wink. Instead, she’d imagine herself back to July—the

«.»

sound of water running at the kitchen sink, the snap of green beans fresh from the garden, and the pot of boiling water on the stove ready to cook the life out

The only dog Grace heard right then was Cookie,

of them.

the old collie who lived at the next farm over. “Honey,

The rug on the floor of the car was scratchy. Maryann had stopped talking. “Hail Mary, full of grace, hail Mary,

I’m cold.” She tried again to coax Martin toward the house. “Let’s go and have some coffee.”

full of grace.” Her mama’s litany and the car’s drone

“You go,” Martin said. “Once I find them it won’t take

meshed, and Grace climbed off the floor of the car and

long.” He started to get into the truck, then turned to

onto the backseat. The cold vinyl startled her for only

Grace for the first time. His wild eyes belied his sullen

an instant. She wrapped the quilt under her, then over

face. His words were as cold as the air around them.

her. She pretended she was sitting on the sofa at home,

“You know, that night when the old man told me he

her mama beside her, reading her a book. But this time,

didn’t have enough money to pay for me to go to the

Grace didn’t sneak a look when her mama lifted the

hospital, it was like this—bitter . . . and the wind . . .” His

page as she prepared to turn it.

voice blew away. He grabbed it back with a chuckle.

Grace didn’t know what time it was when her mama

“He called me a damned worthless drunk. By then the

plucked her from the backseat. “Baby, can you walk?”

gangrene had set in and my leg hurt so goddamn bad

The voice was soft against her ear.

I couldn’t take it anymore. It was bad enough they

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Grace’s teeth were chattering just as much from not knowing what was going on as they were from the nip in the air as she shuffled behind her mama and older sister on their way to the old car, which Maryann would wreck just a few months later after hitting an ice patch late at night coming home from working overtime.

old truck up there fast enough to catch them. Maybe tomorrow night.” Only the neighbor’s old dog could be heard, barking at a horse that pulled Levi Stoltzfus’s buggy down the road into the darkness. Martin turned away from the Timmons. Another gust hit, and he bent at the waist like a letter going into an envelope. He caught his hat just in time. “Put your arm around my shoulder, Mr. Martin,” Grace told him. “It’s raw. And you need a cup of coffee.” They started the short trip into the house, Martin leaning into Grace while she took deep breaths of frozen air. The only sounds were the clicking of his wooden leg, and the tumbling of the gravel being dragged along with each step he took. Grace concentrated on the rhythm instead of Martin’s weight. When they got into the house, the warmth shocked her, made her eyeballs float. Just a few more steps. Grace wouldn’t let Martin fall. She eased him onto the couch; Brenda and Davey stirred on the floor. “We made it, baby,” Martin said. He reached for her, caught only her eyes before his closed.

didn’t fix it right when it happened. Too busy fixin’ the

“Yes. Yes, we did,” she replied. Grace pulled the boot

busted-up officers so they could go back for another

off the oak leg first. The other boot came off easily. She

tour, I guess. Didn’t have insurance. Or I was too dumb

pushed a pillow under his gray head. Even though Martin

to know how to use what I had.”

was sleeping, his eyebrows were still tight. Grace took

Grace thought Martin was going to crash right down

her index finger and gently stroked between his gray

on top of her—a tree being felled. The words spilled out

brows. She kissed his forehead, then went upstairs to

of him—water from the spring after the thaw. “I wasn’t

the blanket chest. She got the old quilt her mother had

worthless. And I was no drunk, either. I drank whiskey to

made for her, brought it down, and covered him. SE

kill the pain, was all. I drove myself to the hospital that night. Threw myself on the mercy. Didn’t have enough money, he said. Had it for himself, though. Enough to buy that fancy house. Enough to buy that brand-new Lincoln that was parked in their two-car garage. The son of a bitch. I’m glad I came up here and got the hell away from him.” She tried to imagine her husband back then. Grace had seen pictures of Martin as a lean soldier, trying to look tough, standing bare-chested, holding a gun. The man in front of her now was still lean, but he had only one good leg to stand on—the other one was made from oak, the kind of wood he cut for the stove. Grace stepped closer and touched his rough cheek with her fingertips. “You know Martin, I hear them now. The dogs. But they’re too far away. You’d never get that

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An Interview with

dan chaon paul taunton Dan Chaon is the author of the New York Times bestselling novel Await Your Reply, the National Book Award finalist You Remind Me of Me, and two short story collections. Long known for his fidelity to such influences as classic horror, science fiction—and anything creepy, really—the current era of genre-bending literary fiction arrived as a natural landscape for his work. Some of his best-known stories, including “The Bees,” are soon to be published in a collection for the first time. Chaon spoke with Slice over the phone in late 2010.

You’re an interesting case because for a writer of your

Smetanka and Anika Streitfeld. Dan took me all the way

stature, you’ve had a lot of editors. Is it difficult to

through Among the Missing and pretty much all the way

switch from one to the next and reorient yourself?

to the end of You Remind Me of Me. Elisabeth Dyssegaard did the final passes, but Dan had really walked

It’s always difficult because as a writer I tend

me through the whole draft. Then Anika walked me all

to work really closely with my editors. I

the way through Await Your Reply, and left when the

develop a tight relationship with them, and really a lot of

book was in production. I was in an almost collabora-

trust. As it turned out, everybody I worked with ended

tive relationship with both of them. They really read the

up being terrific in that way. You’re kind of losing a

books chapter-by-chapter and gave me feedback as I

parent and being taken into foster care—at least that’s

was writing, and from what I’ve heard from other writ-

the way it feels for a while—and then if it turns out that

ers, that’s a really rare experience.

the stepmother/stepfather is actually a nice substitute, I Were you the one pushing for that sort of continuous

guess you’re really lucky. That’s been my experience. The two people I worked most closely with were Dan

124

collaboration?

I was. I think that’s the way I work best: here’s

a sense of how novels are built on scene. It’s one of

a little chunk, I get some feedback, then I go

those weird things that you’d think short story writers

back and work some more. Because I was coming from

would be really good with, scene—but I don’t think we

the position of being a short story writer, learning how

are. Not in a novelistic way. It was really about learning

to write a novel was really difficult for me. I think I

to understand a different way of thinking. I feel pretty

tended to treat the chapter units as individual stories—

good about the way Await Your Reply turned out. I think

so in some ways I’d finish a story, have somebody look

I finally figured out what a novel feels like. But at the

at it, and then go back and work on the next story.

same time, I also think the short story as a form is more

The person who really taught me to write a novel

hardwired into my brain than the novel.

was Dan Smetanka. I did originally start out with a big chunk, and I still remember waiting to hear back, then

Recently you made a deal to release another collection

finally calling him to ask him what he thought. There

of short stories, after which you’ll return to novels.

was this long intake of breath and then he proceeded to

What led to this change in pace?

very gently tell me that it was a complete disaster. But he began to give me advice about how to break it apart

Besides my editors, I relied heavily on my

and think about it as individual units: to take stuff out

wife for feedback and guidance, and when

of summary and put it into scene. Really, the struc-

she passed away it really threw me for a loop. A lot of

ture of You Remind Me of Me is a collaborative thing

what I was working on when she was alive was stuff

that came with his help, because originally it just was

that I had expected to become the next novel, and

a big amorphous mass of melodramatic emotion. Not

now in some ways I feel like I’m not the same person

to say that it’s not still that way. But I had to develop

that I was when I was writing it. I went back over the

photograph by Philip Chaon

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issue 8

summer to try to revivify some of it, and it seemed

it. It’s interesting to me that for some reason, the

increasingly like I wasn’t going to be able to enter

Midwestern world I grew up in—that didn’t necessarily

back into it naturally. I was going to have to seriously

play a really large part in my adult life—still plays such

rethink it in some major way. Realizing that, I came

a huge role in my imaginative life. And it’s interesting

back to the idea that I have a lot of stories that are

that I haven’t had much luck translating a lot of my

already published, and I’ve been working on some

adult experiences into fiction. As an example, I don’t

new stories, so another collection might be the way to

think I’ll ever write anything about a college professor,

go. It kind of feels right to me—especially as a lot of

though I’ve been one for quite a long time. I am aware

those stories are getting older. They’ve been antholo-

of the intertextuality in my writing and I’ve tried to

gized, and it’s like, “Okay, it’s gotta happen now or

play with that a little bit, not in some sort of Faulkne-

maybe it never will.”

rian way, but in a way that acknowledges to the handful of people that might have read all my books

You make an interesting point about the stories

that I kind of know what I’m doing—it’s not just that I’m

themselves aging. A reader doesn’t deal with that:

repeating myself, but that I’m working something out

they’re happy to come to the stories whenever they

over a long period of time. And hopefully there’s a

find them. As a writer, is publishing them “now” the

difference between the way that things get worked out

best time, because you want to move on creatively?

in “Big Me”, for instance, and the way that they get worked out in Await Your Reply. At least that’s what I

That’s a big part of it. They’re conceptually

keep my fingers crossed for—that there’s some kind of

of a piece in some way. They represent a

development of an idea, even though some of the

certain period of my creative life, and, also, a couple

themes are similar.

of them have come to represent me in a lot of venues. There’s a story called “The Bees” that was in Best

There’s definitely an evolution when it comes to

American Short Stories, it’s been on NPR, it’s been

brother relationships, especially when comparing

anthologized all over the place—and yet it’s not in a

Andy and Mark in “Big Me” to Miles and Hayden in

book. It’s literally my most well-known story, so I feel

Await Your Reply. Miles still embodies a lot of Andy,

like that’s something that I need to have out there.

but Hayden is something new.

Going back to your earlier collection, Among the

In some ways, the DNA of Hayden is most

Missing, you can see some of the themes being

closely related to Jonah in You Remind Me of

developed in the stories that appear in later novels.

Me, and in those ways Hayden is like an alpha version.

Are you purposefully intertextual in your writing?

Jonah is a liar and kind of a deceitful character, but in a more pathetic way. Hayden takes that DNA and makes

I think the real answer is that I’m interested

it into something that’s a little more sinister—though

in a limited number of things, and I’m

Jonah is sinister in his own way. I think that the middle

obsessively interested in a few particular ideas.

portion of You Remind Me of Me, where Jonah has

Identity. Brother relationships. Mental illness. Violent

insinuated himself into Troy’s life, is where the little

death and dismemberment [laughs]. Car accidents.

seed of Await Your Reply started. That was the most

Those are tropes that I return to, and they appear

fun for me, writing about someone who’s insinuated

regularly because they’re on my mind, and they have a

themselves into a life by pretending to be someone

kind of power for me that I can’t get away from. If I

they’re not.

were to try to write a story about, say, a senator’s wife, I just don’t think I could do it. I’m just not really

Is there anything in Await Your Reply that seems like

attracted to that world. I don’t think I could enter into

the seed for your work going forward?

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an interview with dan chaon paul taunton

I don’t know exactly, although I know I want

thought-provoking. There are a lot of writers doing that

to spend more time with adults, and espe-

now, whereas ten years ago, people were more cau-

cially with adults who have older children. In that way, it

tious. There was a point where I felt that, as somebody

could be the relationship between Jay and Ryan.

who was interested in genre, if I had any genre elements it would immediately ghettoize me. I feel as though

You’ve talked about being influenced by other kinds of

that’s less true now, and increasingly less true. I don’t

media, television in particular. Is there anything you’re

know where I’d locate that sea change exactly, but I

watching now that’s really inspiring you?

think it’s a good one. I admire Jonathan Franzen a lot, but I’m not necessarily in the camp that says domestic

I think Mad Men is about as good as TV gets,

realism is the height of art in the novel either. I’m just

and I also really like Breaking Bad, which is

not so interested in the way that we live now.

quite beautifully done. If I’ve been influenced by anything recently, though, it’s the more corny stuff that

One way you’ve described your own writing process is

takes risks with tone, and doesn’t always succeed. I was

“by instinct.” Can you expand on this?

interested in True Blood even though about fifty percent For me, when you’ve done a full outline or

of the time it was completely camp and ridiculous. There was something going on there that I thought was really

when you know the ending, there’s almost a

fascinating. Also, the Starz series Spartacus, which was

kind of predeterminism for the characters. If you know

absolute high camp and totally ridiculous, but did some

where they’re going to end up, it’s almost hard to let

really strange, brave things with plot risks—like killing off

them grow. They don’t develop organically towards an

characters in really shocking and unexpected ways, and

understanding of their motivations, what they will do,

really pushing the limits of audience sympathy. It got me

and why they will do it. In Await Your Reply, there are

stirred up. I was pretty excited by that show, even

actually a lot of static chapters where people are frozen

though I’m also a bit ashamed to say that I liked it,

with indecision, and though obviously that mirrors my

because it’s kind of bad. But there were some brilliant

own process, it was necessary, too. It was essential for

things going on. I like the idea of pushing the limits of

them to have that moment where they’re just circling and

what you can get away with in terms of tone, and in

circling in their heads because that’s what leads them to

terms of surprising the reader. I’m hoping I can incorpo-

the next step in some way, and since they were taking

rate that aspect into my writing, while at the same time

such radical plunges, it was important for me to figure

not being quite as ridiculous.

out how they got there before I could move them

Something I’m really aware of is that when you take

forward. Otherwise they would have just been socio-

these big risks, you can often fall flat on your face. But

paths, and I think they all have very good reasons for

that’s also the excitement of taking a big risk, and if

making the decisions that they ultimately make. In the

there’s one thing about contemporary literature that I’m

beginning, I knew that Await Your Reply was going to be

glad to see changing, it’s that there are more risks being

about some kind of identity theft, and I knew it was going

taken. When I was coming up as a writer, particularly

to be about people engaged in some kind of move from

in the ’90s and early 2000s, it seemed like there were

one life to another in a secretive way—but I had to figure

just a lot of novels that were beautifully written, and

out why they were there in the first place before I could

thoughtful, and also just . . . boring. One of my favorite

move into an understanding of what they would do.

authors right now is Jennifer Egan, who takes crazy risks in everything that she does. I love Look at Me, I

You’ve been interviewed many times. What is the

love The Keep, and I particularly love A Visit from the

interview process like for you, and does it affect the

Goon Squad—which I thought was this incredible stunt

way you think about what you’re going to work on

that she not only pulled off, but made moving and really

next? Do you find yourself talking about something

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issue 8

too much and then worrying that it’s too present in your writing, or do you just go back to your writing and leave the conversation behind? I leave the conversation behind. During interviews I have a few talking points that I get back to because people tend to ask a lot of the same questions. Sometimes I’m parroting those answers, and I think, “Oh, that’s really not that true anymore,” but I don’t think talking about Await Your Reply, for example, is going to necessarily help or hurt me as I’m writing the next book, because the engineering of that next book is not going to be the same at all. In fact, the person that I am is not going to be the same at all. The interview process is interesting enough, and it’s flattering to talk about yourself in this way that makes you seem like you’ve thought all these things through really carefully, but it’s kind of a pose. Maybe I shouldn’t say that. But I don’t think I would necessarily claim, “Read Dan Chaon’s interviews and then you can re-create a novel that maybe Dan Chaon wrote.” Probably not.The truth is that I don’t really have a good grasp of process as it’s happening. I have a good grasp once it’s over, but if you ask an artist how they did something, and they try to backtrack, I don’t know whether they’re necessarily able to honestly recreate that process. It’s like if you had a really great moment in basketball, and people asked you how you did it, and you tried to explain: “Oh, I moved my body in this particular way,” but you were doing it without really thinking those movements through. There was a point at

answer. There are a lot of places that I’d like to visit, but

which some lower part of your brain took over, instead of

I’m actually pretty satisfied just because I’ve collected

some calculating part of your brain. I know that there are

all my stuff in one place. For me, as long as I have a

writers who use a lot of their higher functions when

place that I can cram all my crap without it being too

they’re writing, but I feel that my lizard brain is at work

cluttered, I’m happy. Living in Cleveland suits me

more frequently than I’d almost like to admit.

because there’s something about the constant failure and the constant salt being rubbed into wounds that

Slice magazine is focused not only on writers, but on

appeals to me [laughs].

community. You’ve been in Cleveland for over twenty years now. How do you feel about the city?

Where else could Harvey Pekar have lived?

Since my kids are in college, I’m pretty much

Harvey was my neighbor, actually, so we used

free to go wherever I want if I want. Some-

to see him in the grocery store a lot. And I’d

body was asking me where I’d like to live if I could live

see him at parent-teacher meetings, too—him and Joyce.

anywhere, and I couldn’t really come up with a good

He really did have that expression on his face all the time.

128

That Was Over a Long Time Ago Summer Pierre

Laura was thin and boyish. That was how he liked

called my dad to check in. He was weeping when he

them: skinny as a boy, with short haircuts. He would say,

answered the phone. “Laura!” he gasped. “She broke up

athletic. I would say, boyish.

with me!”

Laura had her own accounting business and she

“I’m so sorry dad,” I said, but inside I was thinking,

lived in a condominium on Channing Avenue. I only went

That’s not what you’re crying about. “We were so in love and then she just broke it off,” he

there once, and she showed it to me with proud formality. She stood in her shorts and oversized T-shirt and

says, looking over his shoulder to see if the lane is clear.

talked about the blond carpet, the leather and metal

“I think she was a lesbian.”

furniture, and the palm tree by the TV. The palm tree was her housemate, Cindy’s. It all seemed as exciting as

“Really?” Now I am interested. Suddenly Laura is very interesting to me. “Did she come out?” “I don’t know, but I remember her mom kind of hint-

a dentist’s lobby. I should have asked where the crappy magazines were. I didn’t like Laura that much. She seemed smug

ing at it, which I thought was strange at the time.” This makes me laugh and then my dad laughs too.

and cold. I tell my dad this. “Out of all your girlfriends,

“What about Alice?” I ask.

I didn’t like Laura.” It’s years later, and we are driving

“What about her?”

down El Camino in his wife’s periwinkle Volkswagen. It’s

“I thought she broke your heart.”

December, and there is tinsel lining the wires of all the

“She did, but you know, she moved to Switzerland

car dealerships we pass. My dad shakes his head and

first.”

says with a half smile, “Nobody did. Nana said she was

“So, it wasn’t so bad?”

arrogant.”

“Well, it was expected.” “I don’t remember it that way.”

“She just seemed really cold to me,” I shrug as I look out on to traffic. My dad considers this and nods.

“What do you mean?”

“Well,” he says, “she sure broke my heart.” “I know,” I say. “I was there to get the call.” I was on

“I mean you convinced her to stay together before she left, didn’t you?” Before he can answer, I plow on.

a layover at the Chicago airport, on my way back East.

“And I remember you being very shocked when she

I stood on the blue-and-gray carpet of the terminal and

broke it off.”

129

He shakes his bald head, which has a gleam to it like

crazy,” my dad says. “Every one of them. I always

that of an oiled table. “It had to happen,” he says. “She

attract the crazy ones. I should have gone for some‑

moved to Switzerland.”

one more arty.”

My dad met Alice at the pool where he used to swim

“What about Jan?” I ask. “She was arty. She took

laps with his girlfriend Sheila. Alice was taller than his

drawing classes and was a dancer, and you guys used to

usual women, but flat-chested like the rest. She had

sing together.”

premature gray hair, but it suited her. I didn’t want to

“Yeah, I guesso. Maybe that’s why I married her.”

like Alice because I loved Sheila; Alice was the Other

I loved Jan. She smelled of perfume and ashtrays and

Woman. But the first time I met her she made me a

spearmint gum. She sang, “Every Little Thing She Does

chocolate torte, and then my dad was staying with her

is Magic” while driving in the cab of her truck through

five nights a week. What else was there to do?

town.

We turn right down a wide suburban street,

“She was the original Raspberry Beret girl,” I say. My

lined with pepper trees and bougainvillea. I look at

dad laughs weakly at the Prince reference. Then I add,

the cracked driveways leading up to squat houses

“Remember when you and Jan took me to see Purple

with lawns shorn like crew cuts. “All those girls were

Rain for my eleventh birthday?”

130

that was over a long time ago

summer pierre

“Sure. I’m not surprised. All that cocaine will do that

“We did? No. When?”

eventually.”

“Remember? Jan had already seen it and said it was

“I didn’t know she did cocaine. I thought she just

okay for me to see, and then during the sex scene you

smoked pot. Is that why she was always so skinny?”

were giving her the evil eye because it was totally inap-

“I think she was skinny anyways. But whenever we

propriate?” “God, your memory.”

broke up, she always went and slept with the same guy

The last time I saw Jan, I was sitting in her backyard

and went back on coke. I think that kid of hers is that guy’s. I don’t think it was her husband’s.”

watching her one-year-old son dig at the gravel with a

“Yeah, I haven’t seen her since he was born, but I

yellow plastic shovel. I remember watching her run her

figured she wasn’t still with her husband.”

hand through his dark hair with so much tenderness

“I talked with her a couple of years ago, when me and

it made my mouth water. Later I said to her, “You’re a

Leanne were getting married. I needed the proof that

good mother.”

we were divorced, and I thought she’d have it. We hadn’t

“You don’t know what that means to me,” she said

spoken in maybe five years, but the call seemed to hit

and started to cry.

her hard.”

I look behind me to the backseat, where my younger

“I can understand that.”

brother by twenty-five years is asleep in his car seat.

My dad and I are quiet a moment, something buzz-

Max’s little cheek is pushed against the side of the quilted lining. His mouth is open and is soft and pink

ing between us in the car. I think of my mother, the only

like the inside of an apricot. The sunlight is hitting his

woman neither of us want to talk about. “He is the love

blond curls and I feel as if my heart could burst into

of my life,” she said to me once, in another car ride some

flames just by looking at him. As I turn back around my

time ago, and started to cry. “No he isn’t,” I hissed at her.

dad says, “Did I tell you I saw Jefferson Washington?”

“Maybe not, maybe so,” she said and sniffed. She

I can’t believe it. I haven’t heard that name since I was twelve, back when my dad was still getting stoned

has two channels, my mother. Crazy or crying. Take

with him in the backyard. Jefferson Washington isn’t his

your pick. We turn onto another street. I watch my dad scan the

real name, but I don’t know what is.

road and then I turn my head to see where we are. It’s

“Is he still living at that place on Alma?” I ask, picturing the place perfectly—an old blanket covering the front windows, and the lawn looking like it had mange. “No,” my dad says. “He got kicked out of there years

just another suburban street in his new neighborhood, where he and his wife bought a townhouse, the color of oatmeal, the color of dull, winter light. Then my dad says

ago. He’s living up near Chico now. He looks exactly the

something, almost out of the blue, as if it was separate

same—still wearing a white jacket and a black beard.

from anything we’ve been talking about, or anything

Leanne and I took Max to the beach in Santa Cruz, and

that is sitting in the car. He says, “Where does all the

we stopped to have a burrito and he walked in with his

love go?” He shakes his head once and says, “I think

wife. It was wild.”

back on Jan and all the years we were together and now

“How was it to see him?”

I think of her and . . . nothing. Where does all that go in

“It was good, but then we were catching up and he

the end?” We pull into the gated area, where the pathways are

asks, ‘Have you seen Jan?’ And there I am sitting with my wife and kid. I’m like, ‘No man, I haven’t seen her!’

lined with identical townhouses and the roads are flat

Geez.”

and black like a chalkboard wiped of its lessons. “You don’t feel anything?” I ask. He shakes his head

“Had he seen her?” “Yeah. He says, ‘Man, she looks awful! She’s fat and

and raises his eyebrows as we pull into his driveway. “No,” he says, “that was over a long time ago.” SP

has teeth missing!’” “She has teeth missing?”

illustration by stephanie brown

131

collected shorts Lou Beach

Some people offer witty quotes as their Facebook status updates. Others post pithy insights into their daily lives. And the rest of us are voyeurs: we prefer to scroll through the news feed, rarely posting anything of our own. The rest of us, that is, except for Lou Beach. If you happen to be one of Beach’s many friends on Facebook, then you know that most of his updates are pure fiction. Each post is a complete story confined to the 420-character limit. These short shorts, which appear on the website www.420characters.com, received high acclaim nationwide and led to a deal for Beach’s debut book with Houghton Mifflin Harcourt. The untitled stories here are a selection from his 420 Characters project—they all comply with the status update space limitations—and they are followed by slightly longer pieces.

132

FROM THE RIDGE,

the stand of trees in the

ANOTHER PARCEL

arrived, wrapped in

valley below looks like a hairbrush, left behind, perhaps,

brown paper, secured with waxy twine. The dog sniffed

by an itinerant giant on his way to Delaware or Pennsyl-

it, growled and backed away, snapped his teeth. Mitchell

vania or one of those eastern states, where he’ll crush

left the package on the sofa for three days, then cut the

hamlets and scare the populace. Here in the West the

twine, removed the paper and opened the box, sighed.

only giants are the mountains and the spaces between,

Inside, a fuzzy hand knit sweater vest. In those colors.

enormities that can crush a man who merely beholds

He put it on, reluctantly stood in front of the hall mirror.

them. “Be humble,” they moan, “beware, be humble.”

“I look like a goddam pot holder,” he said.

illustrations by lou beach

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issue 8

THE STORM

AFTER SHE FLED

came over the ridge, a rocket,

he became his own wife,

dropped rain like bees, filled the corral with water and

ironing in his underwear, dusting the shelves, moving the

noise. I watched lightning hit the apple tree and thought,

figurines to the dining room table then replacing them

“Fritters!” as we packed sandbags against the flood.

carefully when he’d finished waxing the cabinet. Wear-

There was nowhere to go that wasn’t wet, the squall’d

ing her apron, he often made casseroles. Sometimes

punched a hole in the roof of the cabin and the barn was

he’d sit on her closet floor and move his face through

knee-high in mud. We’ll bury Jess later, when the river

her dresses, like a dog searching in a field of high grass.

recedes, before the ground turns hard again.

DANNY AND I

I WAS DRIVING stand outside the church,

down Jackson. Up ahead

read a sign: “Haircuts $15.” I pulled over, went in. It was

fidget in our muted plaid sport coats. Maybe not muted

an African-American barbershop. I’m white, pointed out

enough. An old guy in a tuxedo walks up to Danny and

to the barber that my style was not displayed on the wall

hands him some car keys. “What’s this?” says Danny.

with the fades, dreads, and Jheri curls. I said, “Is cutting

“Aren’t you the parking valet?” says the guy. “No, I’m

a white dude’s hair weird? Are you okay with this?” He

the best man.” The guy walks away and we see him later

spun the chair around so I was facing him. “You want a

inside. He’s the father of the bride. “Oh, it’s going to be a

haircut or are you just gonna talk shit?”

fun reception,” Danny says, taking out the flask.

THE LIGHTS

THE DEPARTMENT OF LOOPS are hotter than I thought they’d

called earlier. They wanted to know if I had gotten the

be. I sit in the guest chair. Someone adjusts my micro-

big fat check. “Oh yes, thank you,” I said, “but it wasn’t

phone, pats the sweat on my forehead, asks if I’d like a

as big and fat as I’d expected.” There was a pause on the

glass of water. “Two minutes,” says the floor manager.

other end of the line, the sound of clacking computer

My heart is pounding. I run from the stage to the bath-

keys, a shuffling of papers. “We could cancel that check

room and vomit. I find an exit, leave the building. I’m on

and send you a fruit basket if you prefer.” “No, that’s

a street, a plaza. There is a statue, and I go to it, press

okay,” I said.

my face against its cool bronze leg.

I’M SCRUNCHED UP

THE SKY OPENED under the table,

and rocks fell out. Cars

slowed, stopped, melted into the ground, and rivers ran

knees on the dirty restaurant linoleum. I have an urge to

away with the spoons. Seeds of doubt were blowing

draw a happy face on my wife’s knee, then stab her boy-

in the wind, feathered and spinning, whirled by whis-

friend in the foot and pin it to the floor; but all I have is

pers toward the huge mouth of the brown, brown earth

a dropped butter knife. On all fours, I press my back up

where gossip teeth churned and paper was hard. The

against the underside of the table and rise, the under-

phone rang. I answered. I was needed downtown.

cover buffalo.

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collected shorts lou beach

FEENEY

Rick.” The scissors were on the counter and Feeney took a little off the top and sides, trimmed the eyebrows and nose hairs.

J. L. FEENEY had very large hands. He was using them

He stood back to appraise his work. Satisfied, he

to hold Brother Rick’s head underwater in the bathroom

took Rick’s arms and placed them along the sides of his

sink. He wondered if Rick had his eyes open, counting

torso, palms up. The legs were bent, the bathtub being

the little balls on the chain that held the rubber stop-

too short to accommodate the full length of Rick’s body.

per. Or if he was wishing he was tiny enough to fit inside

This annoyed Feeney. He thought about a hacksaw but

one of the bubbles that were percolating from his nose

decided it was too messy and would take too long and

and able to float out of the water and past Feeney’s ear,

he needed to be done in time for dinner, didn’t want to

whispering to him on the way to the ceiling that he was

face May’s wrath if he were late. He changed the attitude

a big bag of shit.

of the legs so they were in a lotus. He remembered the

Feeney shook the thought from his head. He knew

position from a yoga class he and May had tried. All that

May and John Jr. would think it queer if he told them

bending hurt too much and he never went back, but May

about it over dinner. And he knew Rick’s eyes would be

loved it and went every week. She was limber as an eel.

closed. So he shook his head until the thoughts settled

Feeney removed Rick’s shoes and placed them side

into normal patterns. Rick had gone limp and Feeney

by side, toes facing into the room, on the turquoise

held him down another minute before dragging him by

oval rug that lay in front of the tub. He thought he was

his belt and laying him in the bathtub. He closed the

done, ready to go, until he saw himself in the mirror

shower curtain, changed his mind, pushed it open. He

and decided to shave, be smooth for May. He found the

left the bathroom, remembering to turn off the light.

shaving cream and replaced the blade with a fresh one.

On his way to the stairs he stopped and turned to

He hated shaving with a blade that held another man’s

Rick’s bedroom, went in and took a pillow from the bed.

skin fragments, hair. The basin was already full of water

It was dark blue. Feeney was opposed to bed linens

and he lathered and shaved quickly, but with care. He

that weren’t white but resisted the urge to judge Rick

ran his big hand over his jaw then covered his eyes and

harshly. With the pillow under his arm he returned to the

scissored his fingers to peek out at himself. “Boo.” He

bathroom and placed it under Rick’s head. He found a

laughed, ran the comb through his hair, and left the

comb in the cabinet above the sink and began combing

bathroom after turning off the light.

Brother Rick’s thin brown hair. “You could use a haircut,

135

collected shorts lou beach

MAISY

Doc’s name was something-something Krasniewicz, a glum, big-hearted Pole from Buffalo who frosted his disappointments with laudanum and drink. He filled his

IT WAS A BARELY MOON, reluctant against the pitch.

office with paper roses and sketches of children clipped

The travois held Maisy and her fever as it scribbled

from picture papers. Doc loved his gazettes and anx-

across the cracked and rutted prairie. The hole that

iously awaited their monthly arrival on the dusty railroad

grabbed the horse’s foot was barely the size of a soup

platform. Sometimes he’d be there, hair combed and

bowl but brought the mare down with a crack and a

wearing a cravat as if meeting a favorite niece. “Doc! My girl’s on fire.”

scream, tossing Maisy into the dust. I shot the horse and

He looked up at us and shuddered, stood quickly and

picked up my daughter, started toward Trask six miles away. There was a stone in my boot. Wincing over rocks and gulleys, Maisy’s heated

shook himself like a wet dog. He put his face into a bowl of water on the sideboard, unbent and shook himself

weight soaking my shirt

again. Taking Maisy out of my

despite the predawn numb, I

arms, he laid her carefully on

kept going by singing “When

a table in the next room. He

Johnny Comes Marching

pushed back her lids to peer

Home Again” again and again

at her unseeing eyes, laid his

and again (“Hurrah! Hurrah!”)

head on her chest to listen and

until the light broke behind us

felt the heat rising from her

and cast our shadows forward

skull. “She has very bad fever.

to warn the skittering lizards and ants. Trask lay just ahead,

Forgive me Travis, I must

about four choruses.

do this.” With a scissor he cut her

Trask. The buildings clustered and leaning like Eng-

once-white nightdress from

lish teeth on the gray jaw of

hem to neck and carefully ex-

the plains. Named after two

amined her. Maisy was barely

brothers—one Union, the other

eleven and seeing her pale

Reb—who came west after the

naked body on the dark table

War to mend their bond but

made me feel helpless and dull.

ended up shooting each other

Doc gently turned her over.

in a drunken reenactment of

He raised her arm. There was

the Battle of Antietam. One

a bulging tick the size of my

bleeder crawled off to die in

thumb hanging from her side, a

the little churchyard while

horrid jewel. He heated a knife

the other made it to the saloon and collapsed on the

blade over a candle flame and touched it to the back of

roulette wheel.

the parasite. It loosed its grip on my girl and dropped to

Town was bleached and barren when we finally stumbled in, Maisy laid over my shoulder like a shot

the floor. I ground it under the heel of my boot and wept at the starburst it left. Doc applied a poultice to the red and swollen area

deer, burning inside like a sun. I headed to the doc’s office next to the dry goods place. There was a bay tied

on Maisy’s side and made her drink a tonic. After a while

up in front. I pushed open the door with my boot, and

she stirred under the blanket that covered her in Doc’s

when my eyes adjusted to the gloom, saw him sitting

bed and said she was thirsty. I brought her a cup of wa-

there, one sleeve rolled up past the elbow, eyes gone

ter. She wanted to know what we were doing in Trask. “Sleepin’. We’re here to sleep.”

funny and yellow.

137

slice

issue 8

DINNER AT CHANG’S I FOUND YOUR EARRING. The one you were searching

discreet, neat. There was a length of dental floss in the bathroom wastebasket, and since I usually throw mine away in the toilet, I assumed it was yours. I wrapped it around the earring and tied the ends together.

for while getting dressed this morning before leaving,

I went to the river, stood on the bank and thought

the Moroccan one that looks like a filigreed silver wafer.

about you while looking at the thing in my hand, this fe‑

I found it in my slipper. I noticed it there when the post

tish, this juju, then threw it in. It bobbed on the surface,

pierced my big toe and I let out a scream. I thought a

glittered like the surrounding water, trailing your hair

wasp or a scorpion had stung me. I sat on the edge of

behind, a tail. A fish thrust its head up and swallowed

the bed, removed the slipper from my foot, let it drop

your leave-behinds, darted back to the boulevards of

to the floor. The earring stuck out of the toe, and when

the river bottom, left a few bubbles. I went home.

I pulled it free, a drop of blood pearled at the puncture. I squeezed the toe. More blood came out, dripped into the slipper, was absorbed by the yellow sheepskin. I found some strands of your hair on the pillow, long

I go to the river often, sit at the spot where I threw in the last signs of you I was ever to see. There were no more visits, no calls, no letters after you left that morning, and I wonder if my little ceremony sealed your

and brown. I laid them across the earring, then using my

disappearance. I imagine sometimes that I’ll order a

thumb and forefinger, bent the earring, folded it like a

whole fried fish at Chang’s and in the stomach of the

tortilla, trapped the hair in the silver pocket. I looked for

catch there will be the tangle of you and you’ll suddenly

more of your detritus, stains on the bedding, a tooth-

pull up the chair across from me and ask if I’d seen an

brush, an article of clothing, but you have always been

earring you had misplaced.

138

collected shorts lou beach

DARTS AND SCARVES

for someone who wore so many rings. Only the bedroom had a show of color and decoration. Scarves of silk and organza, satin and lace were tied to the tops of

THAT FIRST NIGHT, the night at the Wooster when

the bedposts. She undressed me and secured my hands

Jerome introduced me to her with “Larry, this is Helen,”

and feet to the corners of the bed with the scarves and

I felt squeezed, found it hard to breathe. She held my

stood above me, still clothed. She lit a cigarette, blew on

gaze until I looked away, heat rising in my face. She took

the ember and brought it down to my chest, burning the

my hand and led me near the dartboard, went around

hairs there without touching the skin. She laughed when

the bar to retrieve the darts from their wooden box. We

I wrinkled my nose at the smell. In the morning I awoke,

stood eight feet from the board, our toes touching

found myself freed of the

the worn oche on the floor.

bonds, but with a terrible

I grimaced when I looked

headache. An odd odor

down at my scuffed driving

hung in the air. I called her

loafers next to her highly

name, went from room to

polished Manolos.

room looking for her, but I

Her dart style, if one

was alone. I looked in the

could call it that, was effec-

refrigerator for something

tive, if not particularly or-

to drink, found it empty.

thodox. She would hold the

I went in the bathroom

dart level with her shoulder

and drank from the sink,

and propel it forward with

looked in the medicine

no arc, as if she were deliv-

cabinet. It too was empty,

ering a straight jab. While

as were the closets when

I was known as a pretty

I opened them. It’s then I

fair player, had a medallion

noticed that the scarves

on the wall, she beat me.

were gone as well. I

I bought her a drink, the

dressed and left the apart-

agreed-upon wager, and

ment. I asked the doorman

it was then I noticed how

about Helen, was told no

she clutched her glass, the

one by that name or de-

fingers wrapped around the

scription lived there. I called Jerome. He told

tumbler that said: “I own

me that he had met Helen

this, don’t mess.” She used the same grip when she drew me into the cloakroom and seized me, made me shudder. She was not delicate. She took me home after the bar closed. We were the

only an hour before I arrived at the Wooster. I went there every night for months, but she never showed. I drank and played darts. After a time I began going to Bonwits

last ones in the place, Jerome having abandoned us for

and Nordstroms, Macy’s, always going straight to the

one of his undergrads. Helen’s apartment overlooked

scarves counter, lingering until closing time. I realized I’d

the river from the twentieth floor and standing on her

have to buy something to keep the salesgirls from get-

balcony, taking deep breaths to sober up, I felt that a

ting nervous. I have thirty-two scarves in many fabrics

new phase of my life was about to begin.

and colors. I keep them tied to my bedposts. They look

The rooms inside were unadorned, almost spartan

like wilted flowers. LB

139

Elegy for a Dog

And not just any dog, but red Dixie with the bad back legs, Dixie since before-you-can-remember, who in summer licked blueberries from the bush (she’s helping, Mom said), who couldn’t carry a tune (not her fault, named for all that South’n Civil War mess), but man,

Katy Gunn

she barked just fine at strangers, at Robbie’s guys working the shingles, and ghosts. Dixie, the kitchen is falling without you: burnt bacon, Brussels sprouts, end-of-cucumber, all hitting linoleum fine, too free. Dixie, the other dogs don’t like your joint-ease soft food in the little cat cans. Dad told me this when he made the call, when he told me I know you’re a grown-up now and no fuss, when he said, oh your mom and that dog to say his CSI is no fun anymore, with no one to watch him figure the killer before the good guys make a guess. The kitchen is falling, Dixie, bringing the roof, and even Robbie misses something: where is my level? where are those three chalky teeth in my heel?

illustration by sarah mcneil

141

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slice literary writers’ conference Meet New York City’s leading literary agents Network with like-minded writers and editors Stay to celebrate the borough’s literary legends at the Brooklyn Book Festival Slice Literary, Inc. is thrilled to be launching our first annual writers conference in celebration of the Brooklyn Book Festival. There are surprisingly no major writers conferences in Brooklyn, a borough with a rich literary history. And yet some of the world’s most renowned authors, editors, and agents call Brooklyn home, making it the perfect place for writers to meet with many of the publishing industry’s top professionals. Our conference offers a behind-the-scenes look at the publishing industry and the opportunity to work directly with agents, editors, and authors to develop your writing skills.

When September 16 and 17, 2011; 9 a.m. to 5:30 p.m. each day (lunch is included) Where Brooklyn, New York (look for location details on our website) Cost $350 for both days, $200 for one day Visit www.slicemagazine.org/conferences for full details and to apply.

Participating Literary Agents include Kate McKean, The Howard Morhaim Literary Agency;

Lucy Carson, The Friedrich Agency; Melissa Flashman,

Michelle Brower, Folio Literary Management; Elizabeth

Trident Media Group; Andrea Somberg, Harvey

Evans, The Jean V. Naggar Literary Agency; Brandi

Klinger Inc.; David Forrer, Inkwell Management;

Bowles, Foundry Literary + Media; Caren Johnson,

Matthew Carnicelli, Carnicelli Literary Management;

Caren Johnson Literary Agency; Alison Schwartz, ICM;

Larry Weissman, Larry Weissman Literary; Jennifer

Seth Fishman, The Gernert Company; Ryan Fischer-

Griffin, The Miller Literary Agency; Terra Chalberg,

Harbage, The Fischer-Harbage Agency; Elisabeth

The Susan Golomb Literary Agency; Ian King, The

Weed, Weed Literary; Anna Stein, Aitken Alexander

Robbins Office; Hannah Gordon, Foundry Literary +

Associates; Vicky Bijur, Vicky Bijur Literary Agency;

Media; Lorin Rees, Rees Literary Agency

Literary tour of Brooklyn Paragraphs in Prospect Park, red pens in Red Hook, folios in Fort Greene: this is our Brooklyn, from the staff of Slice

1 Favorite quiet spot to read Prospect Park

Favorite bar with a library Pacific Standard

2 Favorite place to find used books

Neighborhood most in need of a bookstore Bushwick

3 . . . to find used & free books

Favorite literary spot for kids

Best spot to see famous literary 4 figures

Favorite Brooklyn book publisher

Favorite place to find a book-loving 5 date

Favorite spot in a Brooklyn-based novel Ziadâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s bodega on 143 Smith St.

BookThugNation

Park Slope stoops

Brooklyn Flea

WORD bookstore

Brooklyn Library

powerHouse Books

(in Motherless Brooklyn).

6 Favorite place to see a reading

Coolest bookstore owners

7 Best place to CoverSpy

Favorite literary outreach

Favorite bookstore for graphic 8 novels

The Tree that Grows In Brooklyn

9 Favorite writing spot

Oldest bookstore in Brooklyn

Greenlight Bookstore

F & G trains (it was a tie)

Desert Island

Tea Lounge (Union St, Park Slope).

Mos Def & Talib Kweli of Nkiru books

Superhero SupplyCo.

Somewhere near Grand and Manhattan

Community Bookstore