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.
Luke Hoorelbeke,
Maria Gagliano
Meredith Kaffel,
Celia Blue Johnson
Ian F. King, Amelia
ART DIRECTOR/DESIGNER Amy Sly
Kreminski, Karen Maine,
contributors, submission guidelines, and subscription rates.
Amelia Kreminski
COPY EDITORS/ PROOFREADERS Joseph Benincase, Elizabeth Blachman,
Tricia Callahan
Amanda Bullock, Tricia Callahan, Tom
POETRY EDITOR
Hardej, Angie Hughes,
Tom Haushalter
ASSOCIATE EDITOR Ian Ruder
art/design assistants Tess Evans Samuel ferri
org for information about upcoming issues,
Reitzes, Ian Ruder, Iris Roberts, Paul Taunton
Sarah Bowlin
Please visit us online at www.slicemagazine.
Liz Mathews, Jackie
MANAGING EDITOR FICTION EDITORS
Slice is published semiannually.
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.
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
ASSISTANT LITERARY EVENTS EDITOR Maggie Beauvais
BLOG EDITORS
BOARD OF DIRECTORS
Saba Afshar
Matthew Lansburgh
C.A.B. Fredericks
David Liatti Susan Richman
READERS Saba Afshar, Maggie Beauvais, Sarah Bowlin, Amanda Bullock, Lissa
Kimberly Thompson Shane Welch Adrian Zackheim
Very special thanks to the following supporters of Slice: lifetime subscribers Lori Bongiorno Walter & Kathy Callahan Antonio DiCaro Carmine & Rosalia Gagliano Joe & Katherine Gagliano
Grand Central Publishing
CJ Johnson Colin Johnson
Sal Gagliano & Linda Lagos
Heidi Lange
Scott LeBouef
Charlotte Sheedy
Carl & Patricia Johnson
Mark & Laura Feld
Christian Johnson
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 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