Slice: Issue 9

fall ’11/winter ’12 Issue 9

into the wild us $8.00

a room full of voices

slice Edmond, Sean Gordon,

PUBLISHERS

Slice, Issue 9 Copyright Š 2011, Slice Literary, Inc. Slice magazine is published by Slice Literary, Inc., a 501 (c) (3) nonprofit organization.

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Maria Gagliano

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Celia Blue Johnson

Ian F. King, Amelia

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Kreminski, Karen Maine,

contributors, submission guidelines, and subscription rates.

Amelia Kreminski

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org for information about upcoming issues,

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Please visit us online at www.slicemagazine.

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MANAGING EDITOR FICTION EDITORS

Slice is published semiannually.

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Karen Maine

ISSN 1938-6923

LITERARY EVENTS EDITOR

Cover and interior design by Amy Sly

Ian F. King

Illustration on previous page by Daniel Zender

Cover illustration by Jing Wei Photos at right by Amy Sly

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BLOG EDITORS

BOARD OF DIRECTORS

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celia maria

dear

Reader: It’s rare that anyone drifts into the wild. Most people hurtle toward the mysterious territories that lie beyond the borders of their respective norms.

Some are driven by curiosity and a sense of adventure, while others are dragged kicking and screaming into the overgrowth. They set out to embrace the unknown or are held captive by it. And that dynamic, between us and the wild, whatever the wild might be, fits the art of writing perfectly.

Issue 9 of Slice celebrates writers who have ventured into the wild—some literally and literarily. Each writer in this issue, the bright new stars and the established greats, took a chance, ventured into uncharted spaces (fictive or real), and recorded their journeys on the page.

The result is a collection of interviews, poetry, and prose that will rustle even the most stoic imagination. You’ll meet the original “wild things” that inspired Maurice Sendak’s beloved children’s book (hint: they’re from Brooklyn), discover breakout novelist Karen Russell’s alligator-wrestling family, and peek into the world of post-apocalyptic vampires created by bestselling author Justin Cronin. You’ll experience a glimpse of the wild life as told by middle school students in the Bronx, visit a house overrun by bats, and encounter some more unexpected elements of life outside our comfort zones.

Whether these writers dove into the unknown uninhibited or tiptoed in with caution and curiosity, these pages reveal what happens when we break away from everyday life and begin to explore.

Enjoy!

Celia Blue Johnson & Maria Gagliano Co-publishers Slice magazine

in this INTERVIEWS issue with justin cronin

david grann karen russell

spotlight

Her Own Special Touch

Jackie Shannon Hollis

maurice sendak Lord of the Flies

135

John F. Kersey Country Miles

Colin Fleming

Fiction

Nobody’s Making You Stay

Jackie Thomas Kennedy Condolences

Kathryn Ma

10

On Being Lonely and Other Theories

25

Like the Lizard

39 56 83

Carla Panciera Maya J. Gammon

103

Tourist Season

Courtney Maum Honey

Rachelle Bergstein Savage

Maggie Murray

108

Born of the Wild

Tim Mucci

114

Poetry 125

Winter Harbor 130

Elizabeth Bevilacqua

House Arrest

Sara Afshar Hitching

Josiah Bancroft A Garden in Olneyville

Interviews Justin Cronin

Paul Taunton David Grann

Tom Hardej Karen Russell

Maria Gagliano & Celia Blue Johnson Maurice Sendak

Celia Blue Johnson & Maria Gagliano

112

Andrew Sage

16 48 68

94

Sleepers Introductions to Botany

Gina Keicher Page of Water Starwheel

Rae Gouirand Bildungsroman Last Resort

Annie Binder

15 33 47 66 67 100 101 110 111

Tremor Cordis 122 the white dog 123

Matthew Daddona

Nonfiction

The Buddha Bird

Swaha Devi The Journey Home: A Brief Family History

22 34

Saba Afshar It’s A Jungle Out There

Aaron Bir & Andrew Goletz Mounted Memories: Can Taxidermy Bring Us Closer to Nature?

Liz Wyckoff

Rising Voices The Wild

Khady Gueye Into the Wild

54 92

Lesley Ramos The Wild Things

Jaslynn Salado

74 78 80

Into the Wild 81

Fabiola Cruz

An Interview with

Justin cronin paul taunton Justin Cronin was best known as the author of literary works like Mary & O’Neil and The Summer Guest when he made a surprising mid-career leap to an epic speculative trilogy beginning with The Passage. Now, he’s gone from writing about the human condition to writing a story in which human survival is . . . conditional. But his creative shift didn’t merely come from an author’s decision to play with fantastic elements—it came from the kind of imaginative vision that has given us The Stand and other classics to which The Passage has been compared. What followed were frenzied publishing auctions around the world, a major film deal, and an extensive publicity tour that included a stop at the twenty-first century entertainment mecca of Comic-Con. Slice caught up with Justin to find out what has changed along with his new narrative territory, and discovered that the seeds for The Passage and its upcoming sequel, The Twelve, had been planted long before.

16

photograph © Gasper Tringale

To many the acts of writing and publicizing a book

for publicity, you go out into the world, and it’s airports

are diametrically opposed. Were you prepared for the

and hotels and talking to people. I was actually pre-

extent of publicity you’ve done for The Passage?

pared for it in some ways by having a day job that required me to be a performer. I’ve been a teacher of

It’s true that writing and publicizing are

one kind or another for twenty-five years, and a lot of

fundamentally unlike each other. Writing is

teaching is showmanship. You have to know what you’re

very contemplative: I rarely leave my house. I don’t have

doing, but you have to make people pay attention, too.

to talk to people—I don’t get to talk to people. I work

Speaking in public, going on radio, doing television,

alone for long stretches of time, and time moves in a

doing interviews—I was pretty well-prepared for it by

different manner when you live like that, actually. Then

my other career. And it’s a nice break in some ways.

END OF WEB EXCERPT The full interview appears in the print 17 edition of Slice. http://slicemagazine.org/subscribe.html

The Journey Home A Brief Family History Saba Afshar

This is a piece of my family history. One day it

think. From there they will be able to find a hospital, a

will be lore among many other colorful stories that dot

room, someone who could at least speak a common

the Afshar family history—a grandfather’s tale about his

language—English, Farsi, Urdu; it doesn’t matter at this

great-grandfather. But today it is my tale, about my par-

point. Like the moth to the flame, they are drawn to the

ents, and it is as factual as their memory and my retelling

Hamburg Hauptbahnhof, one of the busiest transporta-

allow.

tion hubs in Europe. They pause on the curb outside the station. Hunger pangs. Hooshmand, the father, sets

It’s 1983 and an airplane lands in Hamburg, West Germany. A young family deplanes. The father, from Iran

in alone to better navigate the crowds in the search for

and just under thirty, presses on through the terminal.

food. The mother, Zarrin, is left alone with the luggage

He moves with purpose, following German signage he

and kids. She doesn’t give fear and anxiety a chance to

doesn’t understand, masking any jet lag, confusion, and

wrap their heavy fingers around her mind, for the sake

fear that should be overwhelming. His eyes do wince

of her children. She keeps those thoughts at bay even

in pain occasionally as he does his best to hold his left

while they wait and wait and wait for Hooshi to return.

wrist steady while he gently guides his rambunctious

«.»

two-year-old son with his curled fingers. He can feel the shrapnel press against nerve endings in his wrist and hand, curling his fingers tighter. A suitcase is in his

Return. Two months earlier, that was all Zarrin

useful hand. He looks back. His wife, from India and not

could think about in that walk home after it all happened

quite twenty-three, is two steps behind, carrying not

in Nigeria. I want my baby to return. I want my baby in

only a suitcase but their six-month-old son, whose skin

my arms.

The Afshars had just come off a different plane, this

looks even paler in the lighting of the airport than it did on the plane, only a faint smear of blood on his lips as he

time in the northern Nigerian city of Kano. They arrived

quietly sleeps, as if he weren’t throwing up blood just an

in the hot, dusty, old city that had been their home for

hour ago. The mother’s eyes are fixated on the two-year-

the past year. For Hooshmand this was a long time com-

old, watching him walk with all the energy one would

ing. Zarrin had been with the toddler, Suraj, back in her

expect from a toddler, despite the fact that he clearly

homeland of Kashmir, India, to give birth to their second

favors his right side. She begins to guide him with her

son, Saba. She had needed to be somewhere comfort-

voice, protecting him from more danger in yet another

able, somewhere where she was not lonely. Understand-

foreign land. Protecting her husband from having to suf-

ably, the twenty-two-year-old woman wanted to be

fer through any more pain.

with her mother. Hooshmand had remained in Kano as

There is no real plan once the Afshar family has

the engineer overseeing the completion of a bridge. He

landed in Hamburg. They only knew that they had to

missed the first three months of his son’s life. The bridge

get there. It was their only salvation. They immediately

complete, he finally was able to go to India, meet his

go downtown; from there they will have options, they

second child, and bring his family back with him.

34

the journey home

saba afshar

They landed in the middle of the night and took a

danger around her. She saw more strange men carrying

taxi home. No one noticed a beat-up car carrying two

weapons. She saw them in the dark, on the back of her

desperate, reckless men, but the two men noticed this

eyelids, lurking in windows. She saw them everywhere

foreign family and the large amount of luggage they had

until she left Nigeria.

loaded into the cab.

As is the nature of so many violent crimes, the car-

When the short, futile chase for their baby ended, when the dust and noise settled back into a quiet mid-

jacking came out of nowhere. This began with a bullet,

night, the couple with a still-sleeping child found that

shot toward the cabdriver to get his attention. The cab-

they stood only five blocks away from their home. They

bie left the keys and fled. Hooshi, who had his toddler

jogged home quietly in silence. Shock clears your mind.

son sleeping in his arms, was simultaneously removed

Hooshmand and Zarrin only focused on the task at hand,

from the backseat by a second carjacker. Zarrin was

not allowing grief or panic to waste any crucial time. As

then pulled out of the car as she was reaching for her

they approached their home, a floodlight switched on.

baby son, only months old. In the pitch dark, the thugs

Zarrin’s eyes went to her child in her husband’s arms.

assumed it was a valuable she was protecting (not an

There was blood everywhere. For a moment she thought

invaluable child!). Hooshmand then made the bold but

the blood was all coming from Hooshi’s lacerated arms.

rash move to rescue his youngest in the face of drawn

She stepped in closer to them. Suraj’s shirt was shredded,

guns. This was more than the instinct of a father protect-

and what remained of it was soaked in blood; seeping out

ing his family. This was a result of training while serving

of little holes that lined the side of the toddler’s torso and

in the Iranian military under the Shah. This was strength

left arm. She fell to her knees and shrieked, grabbed the

gained from a life of poverty, from leaving his homeland

collar of her white blouse and tore her shirt in half.

and never returning. This was the action of a man whose faith in God superseded all else.

His lunge toward the backseat of the car was cur-

This is how they arrived at the city hospital: a young, short woman half-naked, with the remains of her blouse dangling from her shoulders and no expression in her

tailed by a volley of lead. If there was good fortune to

eyes; a man carrying a breathing but motionless child,

be had during the events in Kano, the first of two such

desperate to hold him despite the pain registering on

fortuitous incidents occurred here. The ammunition used

the father’s face. There was blood caking both father

was not bullet rounds. Instead, the gunman who opened

and son. A nurse rushed in and covered Zarrin, surpris-

fire on Hooshi and the sleeping Suraj was carrying

ing the couple. They had forgotten about her exposed

birdshot. The spray of lead balls ripped through Hooshi’s

chest, or the social importance of covering it up.

arms, with a heavy concentration on his left wrist and

For the first time since getting out of the cab, Suraj was

hand. He was brought to his knees. As he bled, feeling

removed from his father’s grasp as they were led to sepa-

his son still breathing in his arms even though Suraj had

rate rooms. Zarrin followed her son. The room was dirty;

not made a sound—had not risen from sleep—the same

the nurses and doctors were hesitant to act. A Swedish

gunman emptied Hooshi’s pockets, taking his wallet,

friend, Mr. Widegren, arrived, a fellow Baha’i they had met

keys.

in the religion’s local community. He found Zarrin and Suraj

Zarrin watched in abject terror as one of the carjack-

in the hospital room. No word on Saba yet. Zarrin left the

ers sped away in the taxi with her baby. Hooshmand,

room to check on her husband. His room was just as dingy

with a child held even tighter in his arms, chased after

as Suraj’s. The doctors told them that they didn’t have the

the car. Zarrin, begging her husband to stop, ran after

facilities, technology, or ability to perform the fine surgery

him. She was scared of further damage. She was scared

necessary for his arms, to give Hooshi the use of his left

of being raped. Foreign women were targeted in the

wrist and hand back, to alleviate any of the pain. Zarrin left

violent nation. In the increasingly oppressive dark, even

as they began to dress his wounds.

as she watched the second thug run off in the dilapidated car that crashed the Afshars’ homecoming, she felt

When she returned to Suraj’s room there was commotion: Mr. Widegren was assisting a nurse washing out

END OF WEB EXCERPT The full interview appears in the print 35 edition of Slice. http://slicemagazine.org/subscribe.html

Country Miles COLIN FLEMING

PAINTING by Ryan McLennan

slice

issue 9

I think that out of all the ways of saving some-

and that got me pretty upset, but I took out a book

one, pushing them out of the way of something is prob-

from the library on architecture and, sure as shit, it’s a

ably the best way to go. It’s the easiest, I reckon, and

Cracker House, technically. When my mother’s students

you get the same amount of credit for it.

come over there’s hardly anywhere for me to be except in the kitchen where the class can look in and see me,

It’s probably even better if there’s snow on the ground, which isn’t very realistic where we live. What

or with my dad in my room. He works in there with all of

worries me is how a girl might take it, if things ever got

his video machines that get kept under my bed. So that

to the point where you had to prevent her from getting

doesn’t really leave anywhere for me to be.

My dad’s a film editor for the local TV station. “The

run down. A guy would probably understand and thank you and you’d hang out a lot after you had saved him.

only one who gets to work from home,” as he’ll tell you.

He’d probably say that he would have done the same for

I’m not allowed in my parents’ room—my older brother

you. I guess he’d have to. But you might be stuck with a

Billy went in there once before he left home with his

friend you don’t really like, depending on what he’s into

girlfriend. They snuck in when our parents were out and

and if his parents have a furnished basement or not with

when I asked him what all the big deal was, he told me

a high-def TV and an Xbox.

to mind my business, and he left not long after that. Ever since they’ve had it locked, which my mother explains

My parents would probably try to get us to enact plays. My mother teaches drama classes to rich kids.

by saying I’m at that age where I start trying to extend

We are not rich, but I think she likes to pretend we are

my boundaries. She is always saying things like that that

when she makes me and a couple other kids—the kids

ought to embarrass me, but no kid would understand

who have nowhere else to be—hop around with wooden

her anyway, so you learn not to draw any attention to

sticks between our legs while my dad works at his video

her remarks.

Summer pushes her feet back under her desk a lot,

business in the back of the house.

but not today. She has her bag stuffed under her desk

The teacher of this class where I am currently being held hostage is from England. Maybe that’s why she

instead of on the side. We touch shoes sometimes. Soon

gives us ten minutes of work to do and then we just sit

she won’t be wearing shoes because all the girls wear

here until the bell rings. Are they lazy over there? My

sandals when it’s hot. She takes her feet all the way out

dad said they’re a bunch of hooligans, but it “ain’t never

then. I’ve touched her that way too.

We’ve never really talked much to each other,

no mind” because the Poles (that’s a funny name for a Polish person) there are some of his best customers.

though. Just some little stuff. It’s never my intention just

“The sick fucks.” Quite a thing to say when you’re having

to talk about little stuff, but when I do, I end up feeling

meat loaf and Tater Tots at supper. “Your daddy has his

better that I didn’t try and say more. I don’t really know

pressures,” as my mother puts it, and then he sort of

any of her friends, and that’s what girls like to talk about.

waves at me and everyone goes back to their meat loaf

They all sit at the same table at lunch, and it reminds

or reaches for more Fanta.

me of the times I’ve seen C-SPAN when we had cable, and I remember watching all of these important-looking

Anyway, if I was going to save someone, the person I’d like to save most is Summer. She sits in front of me

people being so serious at their tables together. There’s

in a bunch of classes because we practically have the

a few guys there too. I’m sort of friends with some of

same last name and it goes alphabetical. Hers is Hutch-

them from Little League, but maybe “former teammate”

ens and mine is Hutches. It’s kind of my first name too

would be a better way of putting it.

The ones that are in this class are drawing things

since everyone calls me Hutch. Summer gets called Summer, as you’d expect. She comes over to the house

now. Mostly sports stuff—the majority of the kids root

after school three days a week, which is embarrassing.

for Duke so they draw the little blue devil guy with his

And not just because of how dirty everything is and how

pitchfork and some of the more famous players like

small our house is. The kids call it the Cracker House,

Grant Hill and Christian Laettner and Bobby Hurley. The

58

COUNTRY MILES

Colin fleming

more old players you know the cooler you are, but there

man’s gotta kill his own snakes.” Now, I know he wasn’t

are some Tar Heels fans too because one kid’s older

talking about something like that copperhead nest I

brother walked on there, wasn’t even recruited, and

found last summer, or the black racer that bit our dog

he made the team. That’s usually how the teams break

Kylie. But I’ll be damned if I knew what he was on about,

down on the basketball court after school too, pretend

to put it like Mrs. G. would. I wonder if she’s partial to the

Dukies versus pretend Heels.

Blue Devils or the Tar Heels.

I’m not good at drawing so I don’t bother. The one time I tried I was stupid enough to use the back of a

«.»

quiz. Mrs. Gallagher had everyone send them down the row facedown so no one could see the answers, and this

My dad is the biggest Atlanta Braves fan you can

kid that everyone calls Souza—his real name is Arthur

find. Or he was, before their announcer Skip Caray died.

Peetes, so don’t ask me where Souza comes from—said,

It’s like he didn’t care after that, which I didn’t under-

“Did Cauley the retard draw that?” Cauley is regularly

stand at all. They were about as good a team as usual,

considered to be the retard in our class. He’s not really

fighting it out for the wild card or the division. One night

retarded but he is kind of like an animal. My dad had a

after Summer and the rest of my mom’s class of as-

retarded brother, but I never met him. He climbed out

sorted wankers—another Mrs. G. word—left, my dad was

on the roof of their house when my dad was a kid and

slouched down in the La-Z-Boy really tucking into some

fell off and broke his neck. That was hard on my grand-

wings and washing them down with his beer. He’d been

mother, but to hear my dad tell it, it was even harder

off with Summer for a couple hours, doing whatever it

on him, because she gave him hell about everything he

is they did. “Special lessons, Pistil,” as my mom puts it,

did after that, even when he got good marks in school.

never mind that I would prefer to be called Ass Master,

When she died a while back—after giving my dad five

Blow King, or Lord Stool before being called Pistil, which

or six stepfathers and me a bunch of different people to

is the thin part of a flower that comes out of the top. I’m

call grandpa for a spell—I heard him tell my mom that

thin. I’m her flower. Get it? Bitch be killing me. So that’s

it was good and that the old slag deserved it. That kind

why I listen to rap—the ’rents can’t stand it. Anyway,

of sounds like a word Mrs. Gallagher would use, but you

Summer had been off with my father and now she was

could tell from the way my mom reacted that I probably

gone and he was right knackered in G-speak—that’s how

shouldn’t ask Mrs. G. what it means.

a bunch of us describe how Mrs. Gallagher talks—but

My dad slapped my mom’s ass and came out into the

I thought, okay, we can bond a bit and maybe he can

hall and saw me standing there after I’d retreated a little

give me the d-low on Summer and I can make my play.

bit and asked me if I was in the mood for ice cream. We

Like, maybe she’s a massive Blue Devils fan, and my dad

normally don’t go out together to get ice cream, but

would know because he’s with her so much and I can use

that day we went all the way to Raleigh where there’s

that to my advantage. Dads dig this kind of bonding shit.

the state’s biggest Dairy Queen. I asked my dad why we

But I barely got to open my mouth before he started

went so far just so I could get ice cream and he could

ranting. You would have thought he was comatose

get some beer, but he just said that he had something

slouched there, but when the Mets hit into a double play

to think on, now that grandma was dead, and now

and the Braves announcer got all excited my dad went

that she didn’t have anything to leave us, after all. My

nuts, raving with a lot of thong words, which I looked

mother would call this way of talking my father’s “mode

up later. “You’re blurring your diphthongs! Stop running

of expression,” but I just found it confusing. I guess he

those syllables together! Skip Caray never would have

thought we had something coming that we didn’t.

talked this way. Blue-blooded murder of the English

“That’s not your concern anyway, little man,” he said

language! Oh good. At least you got that monophthong

to me as we pulled up into our driveway, and he looked

right, you lazy-ass motherfucking joke of an announcer.

in the backseat to see if there were any beers left. “A

How the hell is the youth of today supposed to learn

END OF WEB EXCERPT The full interview appears in the print 59 edition of Slice. http://slicemagazine.org/subscribe.html

An Interview with

maurice sendak celia blue johnson & maria gagliano Many of us remember crawling into bed, blankets tucked in firmly, and looking up as someone’s hand slowly turned the pages of a picture book. In that magical moment our bedroom would transform, the images on those pages eclipsing the walls, the floor, the ceiling. Maurice Sendak captured the power of a child’s imagination, to transport them into the wild recesses of dreams, in his most famous book, Where the Wild Things Are. And so he was a natural fit for this issue of Slice. We had the opportunity to chat on the phone with Maurice, who lives in Connecticut, a week before his eightythird birthday. He took us back to the wildest place he ever went to, the place that inspired the adventures of his mischievous character named Max. It was his childhood home, located in Brooklyn, the same borough as Slice’s headquarters. So it turns out that the wild can take root in your backyard, or if you don’t have one—as is the case for many city kids—in the nooks and crannies of your apartment.

94

Photograph ©John Dugdale

This is the Brooklyn magazine, right?

Let’s see if I have any. I guess there were my friends, the kids I knew. It was a good time for me. The trees were healthy and shady. I guess I say

Yes. This is Celia Johnson and Maria Gagliano, from

that because there was an article in the paper today

Slice.

about how all the trees in this poor little town, all the trees were blown away. It made me think of Brooklyn Good, okay.

where all the trees were wonderful, so thick, heavy. I know there are trees elsewhere than Brooklyn, but I only knew the Brooklyn trees. And the stoop where every-

Maria is actually from Bensonhurst.

body sat and chatted and talked and hollered, yelled and threatened. Skating with my brother.

Oh my God. Well, she lived through it.

These are ordinary childhood memories, nothing special. There were mysteries that we hid from our parents, but that’s what all children do. We only told

Our first question is actually about Brooklyn. You were

them a little bit about life. We didn’t want them to get

born in Brooklyn, which is where we are based, and we

nervous. So we kept things from them. But that’s not

were wondering what some of your favorite childhood

Brooklyn, that’s just childhood. All I can really tell you

memories are.

is, I had a good time.

END OF WEB EXCERPT The full interview appears in the print 95 edition of Slice. http://slicemagazine.org/subscribe.html

Winter Harbor Elizabeth Bevilacqua

Pop gives me a salute and puts a cigar in his

I give Ginger the eye and shake my head to let her

mouth before closing the kitchen door. He’s headed to

know Pop’s not here and never will be for her, but she

Jack’s for shotgun shells. Pop’s teaching me to shoot. Got

hollers his name a couple times up the staircase. She is

me an air rifle. Don’t matter that I’m a girl, he says. Says

dressed like a truck driver except that under her open

I got a better shot than him when he was twelve. I watch

flannel she’s got on a tank with a deep vee charging

him from the sink window as he gets in the Jeep. We’ve

down her bread dough boobs. Looks like someone

got time on our hands since it’s summer for me and Pop

cut her dough chest in half with a butter knife and

says it’s perpetual Saturday for him since the fire.

the crooked line jiggles side to side when she clomps

Soon enough, Ginger comes in and she’s on the hunt for Pop. I don’t know why she’s friends with Pop now,

around calling for Pop. I’ve known Ginger my whole life. She runs the Gener-

except maybe that she feels bad because it was her ex-

al Store in town. It’s penny candy and milk and eggs and

husband that laid the finish that set our house afire. A

soda and beer and there’s some crap for tourists, too.

whole house, just like that. And Mum and the boys, too.

Lobster-shaped maple candy and buckwheat pancake

Bad product. Wasn’t the first time, either. That’s how we

mix with a moose on the package. Me and Reedy and

got the lawyer from Portland. Should have been discon-

Todd would ride our bikes down and get Slush Puppies

tinued years ago, he said.

and salt-and-vinegar chips.

Mum and Pop had a new kitchen put on our old

Reedy and Todd were two years younger than me—

house. It was just about done—walls up, windows in,

twins. I was eight when the fire happened. It was the

floor down—and Ginger’s ex-husband laid this high-

smoke that got them. Mum, too. Funny how the body

gloss sealant to protect the hardwood. He was the

is. You breathe too much smoke, you die. You lose too

contractor. At the end of the day, he threw the rags in

much blood, you die. Your heart doesn’t thump enough,

the trash under the sink and overnight they sparked. It

you die. Simple as that. Could happen anytime.

might have been an electrical spark or just the pressure

Ginger looks at me again.

and heat built up under the sink, but the rags and the

“Not here, Ginger,” I say. “He went out.”

barrel went up and the whole place caught fast. It was

“You tell him I came by,” she says.

an old wood house and all that new sealant on the floors

I don’t want to tell her I won’t, but I won’t. And I don’t

made the smoke bad.

want to say I will because I have a thing now about not

END OF WEB EXCERPT The full interview appears in the print 130 edition of Slice. http://slicemagazine.org/subscribe.html

illustration by Julie Morstad

Her Own Special Touch Jackie Shannon Hollis

All the towns we lived in were small ones but the

this town. Still, it was good to have some sun, even if the

one we moved to when I was nine was smaller than any

farmers would have problems.

of them. Papa was sticking with small towns because

The street was quiet because all the kids were in

they were the best place to raise a son, even if people

school. I didn’t know any of the kids yet because Papa

tended to snoop into each other’s business. He was sure

decided I could wait until next year to start school. “It’s

Springs would have some boys my age to play with even

almost summer,” he said. “Anyway, you’ve got enough

if it was small.

smart in you for the year.” He cupped his big hand over

The yard around our new house was just a patchy

the stubble on my head. “It’ll be good for your Mama to

square of grass. It was springtime and there had been

have you with her for now.” I made a sour face and Papa

rain, but most of the grass was brown. There were

made a frown.

no flowers or shrubs or much of anything in our yard,

Papa was at work at the Highway the day Mama and

except for a bendy low-to-the-ground tree in the front

I were in the yard. He’d worked all over Oregon for the

corner.

Highway. It was a good place to work, because it was

A few weeks after we moved in, Mama and I were

easy to get transfers and they had a pension. I hoped we

on the porch. We were taking some sun after the rain.

wouldn’t get a transfer from Springs because I’d seen

The people at Little’s grocery said the rain was good for

some boys at the park when he took us on a car tour of

farmers. Papa said the wheat farmers were the heart of

the town. Those boys looked like they were my age.

135

photograph by erin hanson

slice

issue 9

I got up off the porch and walked over to the little red tree. I tipped my cowboy hat back off my head and squinted at Mama. “It looks awful scrawny,” I said. The

Mama’s face was turned away from him. She was looking at the blue house.

Papa said, “We have enough on our own.” He looked

leaves were soft. I rolled one between my thumb and

back at me and winked. But there was a wrinkle between

fingers.

his eyes and it made the wink look sad.

Mama came over and bent down to the hunched tree.

The blue house had a big tree and lots of pink and

“That’s a maple tree, Little Cowboy.” There was a sigh in

purple flowers. Mama turned her whole body to keep

her voice. Mama wore herself out in Milton and Papa told

looking at that house. The side of her face went soft and

her she needed a good long rest and should take her

the little lines she called crow feet almost disappeared.

time to get to know people in this new town. She was

“Oh,” she said, “that’s a pretty garden.” She ran her fin-

doing that, getting a good long rest in our new yard.

ger on the window and it left a smear. She perked up in

The red leaf between my fingers turned into red dots

her seat. “Well, sure.” She wrapped her arms like a hug

and goo. I wiped it off on my jeans and tugged the string

for herself. “This will be a fine town for a boy to grow up

catch that kept my hat tight on my head. I made a line of

in.” Her voice had a singing sound in it.

heel marks with my cowboy boots, in the dirt. The dirt was damp from the rain and my boot marks looked like

Papa had both hands on the steering wheel, tight, like he was wringing a washrag.

some kind of hoof animal had been there.

«.»

Mama made a sigh again and straightened back up.

She looked around the rest of the bare yard. “This yard is one big patch of nothing.” She put her hands on her

Right before we left Milton, our last town, Papa

hips so her arms made triangles.

got mad at Mama. I was supposed to be sleeping but

I heeled my way over to the cement porch and sat

they were making noise. “This has got to stop, Mary

on the second step. Mama turned away from the yard,

Anna.” He was trying to whisper and yell at the same

toward the street. Her shoulders and elbows were sharp

time. “This thing, it just takes you over. You disappear.”

points and she was still. When Mama was like that,

I didn’t know what he meant by that. I never saw her

still and pointy, it got inside me and made me still and

disappear.

pointy too.

«.»

The day we took that car tour of Springs, the day

«.»

In the yard, when Mama was still and pointy, she didn’t see the yellow-stripe cat peeing in the opposite

I saw those boys who might be my age climbing on the

corner. He scratched dirt back with his front paws and

monkey bars at the park, I’d counted that there were

looked over his shoulder at Mama. I pulled my pistols

eight blocks on either side of Main Street and twelve

from my holsters and pointed them at the cat. “Bang,

blocks going out either way. I’m pretty sure that was the

bang.” If I’d had a real gun he would’ve dropped dead

least blocks of any town we’d been in.

sideways. That cat scratched one last time over the wet

Mama was quiet that day. She was in the front seat

he’d left in our yard. He went on across the driveway

but she was clear over by her door, not next to Papa like

into the neighbor’s yard where there was a good long

she sometimes was.

stretch of green grass.

Papa said, “This town is a good one for a boy to grow up in, Mary Anna.” That was when we drove by the blue

«.»

house that was four blocks down from us. “We don’t need to worry about what other people in this town

The next day, I was in the front room playing G.I.

have,” he said.

Joe when Mama came out of her bedroom. She had

END OF WEB EXCERPT The full interview appears in the print 138 edition of Slice. http://slicemagazine.org/subscribe.html