Title Author
Piece
the
wellesley review
[# ]
no.4, spring 2010
table of contents Pigs for Slaughter [Sarah Case] . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Beyond the Azure Fence [Jenny Peng]. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Reflection [Sonia Misra]. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Mrs. H端z端n [Duygu Ula] . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Winter Friends [Lena Mironciuc] . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Because when I say I love you, what I really mean is do you love me. [Hayley C. Merrill] . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Draught [Emily Hall] . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
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1 2 18 19 21 22 23
Piazza Novano [Sonia Misra]. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Produce Booth [Camila Connolly]. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Dancing Medea [Lena Mironciuc] . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Acknowledgements [Staff] . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
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Pigs for Slaughter Sarah Case
They hung your body high in the barn away from night’s cold scavengers, wolves and other beasts attracted to the smell of your death. In the warm kitchen they boiled your blood into sausages and dried them. You will feed them for seasons. At night, above the sleeping cows and sheep, the wind that winnows grain rocks you slowly. A cradling cold, it creaks the rope that suspends you.
[1]
Beyond the Azure Fence Jenny Peng
I had very few plans the summer after my freshman year of college. Having sent out perfunctory job applications to places like Marshall’s that never called me back, I spent my time lying in bed acquiring a vacation belly. One day in early June, my mother cornered me as I sat in my room, slumped over, with my chin resting against my left collarbone, and watching television. She looked at me from the doorway; her eyes slanted downward, one pouty lip away from a puppy-dog expression. The way her body seemed to deflate, I knew she wanted something. “The Chinese Community Center Chorus called me and asked me to sing in their twenty-fifth anniversary concert.” “That’s great, Mom.” My eyes stayed glued to the television. “The song I’m singing has a violin part,” she said. I jerked my head up, but resisted looking at her. My mother began to speak quickly, “You wouldn’t honestly ask me to find some stranger to play the part, would you? Not when I’ve paid for so many years of violin lessons for you.” I glanced at my mother from the corner of my eye. “You know, it’s always been my dream that you and I play together.” The CCC Chorus insisted that she make an appearance, needing her to round out what would be a humdrum concert. After receiving calls from multiple members, my mother agreed to do them the favor and decided on a Chinese art song called “Mei Gui San Yuan” or “Three Wishes of a Rose.” The arrangement required accompaniment by piano [2 ]
and violin. The piano part would be played by one of the CCC chorus members, a Mrs. Hu. I wrinkled my nose, but slowly rolled out of the me-sized dent that had formed in my mattress and said, “Fine.” My knees creaked as I hobbled down the stairs to look for my violin case. I found it accumulating dust underneath the French loveseat in our “music room” downstairs, along with the black baby-grand piano my mother hardly ever played. My parents kept photo albums piled in the study. When I was younger, I would flip through the pages, imagining the lives my parents led before I was born. I studied a black-andwhite picture of my mother from high school, face strained, dark mouth O-shaped in the middle of a loud difficult note. In another picture, black-and-white again, she’s dressed like Charlie Chaplin—blazer, top hat, and even a mustache drawn on with eyeliner. She’s leaning against the frame of a doorway, one leg loosely crossed over the other, her hand clutching the top of her hat. Even in the seventies, when artists were still recovering from the trauma of burning books and musical instruments during the Cultural Revolution, my mother was a performer. I thought of her as a child in Hunan, small with rosy cheeks in a pink taffeta dress. Standing in front of my grandparents, she grinned and belted out, “Shi shang zhi you Mama hao ”—mothers are the greatest in the world. I learned to sing the same song when I was younger. My grandmother clapped her hands together to the beat of the jingle. Afterward, my aunt stepped up and tried to whistle “Little Swallow,” but my grandfather told her that only my mother was exempt from doing chores. “That’s not fair,” my aunt said. “Life’s not fair. Your sister needs to practice,” my grandfather responded. At school, the teacher ran up to her as she sang the national [3 ]
anthem and pulled her aside. “You have a great voice. You should perform in the concert next month! I’ll set you up with the music teacher.” My mother smiled, and later, when asked to recite multiplication tables, batted her lashes, saying, “I’m sorry. I have to save my voice for rehearsal.” “Oh, of course,” the teacher said. While I practiced my part for the concert, I wondered why she had agreed to sing for the CCC Chorus. My mother had rejected them as amateurs after a few years of membership in the early nineties. Back then she’d descend the stairs to the basement of the church where they rehearsed. Her heels clicked, announcing her arrival. The other women, who my mother called nu qiang ren, directly translated as “female strong people,” glared. In the fluorescent lighting, their shadows advanced toward her across the floor. “Hello, Duan Xia,” one of them said, sneering. My mother stood on the side, waiting for rehearsal to start, one leg crossed in front of another, like the picture in the photo album. Only the men in the Chorus approached her. My mother looked like the innocent peasant girls who left home for the city and became famous actresses, sweet faces projected on large screens, feminine figures reproduced in calendars. When she smiled, my mother’s eyes gleamed; you could see it from a distance, even in the dim lighting, and the men seemed to be drawn to her. The other immigrant women, not educated but rather brought to the U.S. by their accomplished husbands to be housewives, were afraid that she’d steal away their men. “Very good,” the male conductor told her. “Ladies, please try to sing with Duan Xia: in tune.” Then he said to the female soloist, “I’m sorry, Cao Wei, I know you’ve been singing the solos these past few years, but let’s give Duan Xia a try.” As my [4 ]
mother sang, he commented, “Beautiful. Just beautiful. You’ll sing the solo at our next concert.” “Good job, Duan Xia,” the women told her afterward. “Where’d you learn to sing like that? Must be formal training.” My mother did receive formal training at Hunan Normal University, not in Chinese opera—a shrill, whiny sound bearable only to practiced ears—but in the style of Chinese art songs, requiring the same type of vocal training needed for Western opera. Like the German and Austrian art songs of Mahler or Schubert, Chinese art songs are short, individual pieces that frequently include similar folk themes: love, loss, beauty. They have nostalgic titles like those of Tang dynasty poems: “In that remote place” or “Jasmine” or “In the silver moonlight.” They’re called zhong guo ming ge or “famous Chinese songs.” Responding to the women in the Chorus, my mother smiled and said, “Yes, I did. Perhaps with a little training, you could sing just as well.” After a few years, she quit the Chorus. However, the CCC Chorus was only a small branch off of the Chinese Community Center, an organization first founded to support the influx of Chinese immigrants to the area, and then to educate the community about Chinese culture. It was the CCC, not the CCC Chorus, who provided for her a different opportunity to perform. Before a performance for the CCC, usually for their annual Chinese New Year celebration, my mother looked like everyone else, drab without makeup, normal in jeans and a sweater. I followed her into the bathroom as she got ready. Sitting at the edge of my parents’ bathtub, my eyes watered from hair-spray mist settling on my lashes. The light bulbs on the vanity mirror gave my mother’s pale skin a warm glow. Armed with “charcoal” or “cocoa” pencils and “rose” or “brick” lipsticks, she made her features more distinct. I often thought she looked clownish close up, but my mother told me that the makeup was an important [5 ]
weapon against the effects of stage-light washout. After makeup, a flutter of qipaos or Western-style evening gowns emerged out of her closet for her to try on—the black one with cream-colored flowers chasing the dramatic side-slit, the royal-blue one with tiny pink flowers sprinkled diagonally across the front, the glittering purple one with velvet trimming edging her slim but curvaceous contours. Then there were the red and silk qipaos in every cut and design imaginable. She threw all of them into a pile in the middle of her bed, hypnotizing me with sequins, silk, velvet, bright colors and intricate threading. Still in elementary school, I jumped into the heap and buried myself in the middle of the dresses where I imagined they smelled like mother. When my mother finished getting ready, we arrived at Shaker High School auditorium where the celebration was held. She rushed backstage with the other performers as my father and I found seats near the middle. The red curtains stayed open, so we could see the Chinese words for “Happy New Year,” Xin Nian Kuai Le, pasted onto the back of the stage. We sat down, waving at the familiar faces around us. I frequently saw these people at what I like to call “Asian gatherings,” dinners with other Chinese families where the adults divided into men drinking and discussing politics and women cracking sunflower seeds as they gossiped about so-and-so and so-and-so’s lack of parenting skills. After eating, I hid in the basement with the other elementary school-aged children. With bed-sheets tied around our necks, we pretended to be superheroes. We built forts out of sofa cushions, which collapsed in a soft heap when one of us swung an arm or twitched a leg. Through the ceiling, we could tell when the parents got tired of chatting. They’d put on karaoke with VCDs smuggled in from China. Sometimes we ran back upstairs to watch. A few adults bravely took the microphone. My mother sat on the couch, [6 ]
waiting modestly and demurely, until the other singers gave up and pressed her to take the microphone. “No, no, you sing. I’m fine. I’m tired,” she’d say, smiling, knowing they’d continue to insist. The anticipation made her voice sound even better in contrast to theirs. Sometimes we didn’t go upstairs to watch, but we stopped the moment my mother’s voice rang clear through the ceiling. “There’s your mom again,” one of the kids would say. “Yeah,” I’d respond, puffing out my chest, claiming her as my mother, the singer. As we sat in the auditorium, we watched men in billowy kung-fu pants twirling and leaping in the lion-and-dragon dance, and young girls in pink ribbons tipping their heads back and forth, pretending to light paper lanterns. I got bored by the time the matrons came on, slashing wooden fans to the theme song of Once Upon a Time in China. Usually I went off with my friends, running down aisles between acts, and playing hide-and-seek in the rows of seats, only to have one parent or another grab me by the collar and tell me to “Shh.” Even if I was running, I stopped mid-step when my mother came on. She was the grand finale, sweeping on stage in a beautiful dress, sometimes blue or red, her hair carefully piled on top of her head, a smile radiating off her face. The audience let out a collective “ahh.” Behind her background dancers, girls or women in pastel costumes, swayed like stalks of wheat weaving in the wind. All attention stayed on my mother, as if the air she sucked in before her note was the breath of the audience watching her. Then she’d begin to sing in her passionate, quivering soprano voice. Her eyes almost completely closed, her clearly defined eyebrows lifted, and she held out her arms to the audience. The CCC counted on her for years to anchor their Chinese New Year celebrations or other performances they had in the area to promote the Chinese culture, such as when the Chinese [7 ]
ambassador visited Albany for a Chinese heritage exhibition opening or when the CCC held a fundraising event for the community center they wanted to construct. When I started high school, my mother began coordinating, in addition to performing in, the New Year celebrations. I imagined the CCC executive board sitting around a table, trying to decide who should direct. “Couldn’t Tang Jin do it?” “Moved away,” the president said. “Li Bai?” “Doesn’t want to.” “Well, Song Ling volunteered, so did He Gong.” The president shook his head. “Scientist. Professor. Let’s ask Duan Xia. She’s an artist.” To bring off the pageantry required, my mother began months in advance, choosing and lining up performances. I could hear her calling people at all hours of the night. “Hi, I know you teach traditional dance at Chinese school. Do you think...?” “I went to the concert the other day, and you play erhu so beautifully. Perhaps you could…” “No, we can’t afford silk. Could nylon work? No, not green. Pink’s better for the girls.” “We need the auditorium. Please ask them to reconsider.” “The westerners will like General Tso’s Chicken more. No Mooshoo Pork. I hate that.” “Did the congressman get back to you? We’re short over a thousand-dollars.” I still attended the Chinese New Year celebrations— especially the ones my mother organized. Too old to run down the aisles, I sat in the audience with arms folded across my chest, scoffing internally at every note out of tune, at the nauseatingly cute children in their flashy outfits, at the broken English of the emcees. Around me weren’t just people I saw at Asian gatherings, but the adults I now knew to be the nagging, competitive ah-yi s and shu-shu s that made up the CCC—people who acted as stand-ins for my extended family in China. I called [8 ]
them ah-yi or aunt and shu-shu or uncle because in the Chinese culture it is the respectful way to address someone at least twenty years older than you. They separated themselves into cliques. I could pinpoint the successful second-generation Taiwanese who ironically headed the board for the Chinese Community Center. The self-conscious housewives who bragged about how much their husbands earned and how much their children would eventually earn. The politically-minded, embittered Chinese school-board. The westerners who came out of respect for their adopted children’s heritage. By the time my mother came on stage, I’d slunk into the crevice of my seat. Her microphone was too loud. Now having musical experience of my own, I could tell when she sang a note out of tune. I cringed and wished she would stop embarrassing me. When she practiced at home, kerplunking something on the baby-grand piano, I covered my ears or plugged my iPod in, desperately trying to drown out her voice, which distracted me from studying. I was especially aggravated when she tried to sing American songs, the solos from Phantom of the Opera or Cats. She’d hit the notes precisely, but she sang the show-tunes with her operatic voice, trying to transform Broadway into art song. It didn’t work, and she couldn’t pronounce the words clearly. “Moon-ligh-T! Enunciate!” I wanted to shout downstairs, but I never did. My mother was better off sticking to zhong guo ming ge. At least then when she sang, she didn’t have an accent. *** Like my mother, I, too, began performing at a young age, enthralled by lipstick and tutus in my ballet years—which were short-lived, my flexibility not enough to compensate for my short, stocky stature. At the age of thirteen, I was engrossed by my costume choices as the lead in the school musical, but I stopped singing after. I didn’t get my mother’s soprano voice—I [9 ]
was an alto, and not a very good one at that. From second grade to twelfth grade, my real performance experience came from playing violin in the Empire State Youth Orchestra, school orchestra, suburban council orchestra, chamber orchestra, pit orchestra, quartets, duets. In high school, it seemed like I was performing every week. My mother found my first violin teacher when I was seven-years old while rehearsing with the CCC Chorus. At the church, she met Miss Ray, an upright old nun, who taught violin lessons every Sunday. My mother accompanied me to my lessons. In the dark basement, a floor lamp lit up my stand, Miss Ray at my side, and me. She put stickers on my violin strings, first animal stickers, then yellow tape. “Each day, make sure to write in this agenda how long you practice, and if you practice enough, you get a piece of candy.” I always got a piece of candy. Miss Ray showed me how to tuck the violin between my chin and my shoulder, slowly letting my left hand drop. “When you can walk across the room like that, you’ll have learned the right way to hold a violin.” She placed yellow tape a third and two-thirds of the way down on my bow. “Play between the yellow lines, and you’ll get the best sound out of the violin.” Sometimes she lifted her own violin and demonstrated. “Can you play like that?” I watched her fingers roll with vibrato and tried to imitate her, shaking my fingers out of position and playing out of tune. “No, no. You’re not ready for that.” My mother always sat a few feet away from me. She cleared her throat when I played a note out of tune or tapped her foot gently on the tile when I rushed through a passage. At home she sat by me as I practiced, clapping the beat so I could get the rhythm of a melodic line. “Like this!” Clap, clap, clap. “You’re playing it too fast.” “You’re not clapping in time!” I complained. She bought me a metronome. I couldn’t argue with the [ 10 ]
methodical tick of the metal and weight. Still by my side, my mother told me, “It doesn’t sound like the recording. You should play it like this.” She’d sing the piece. “Mom, singing and playing violin are different. Can’t you just leave me alone?” It must have been painful for my mother, listening to me saw away at the strings every day. Instead of being dismayed, she pushed me to continue playing. My mother said that, one day, if I got lonely in college, then the violin could be my friend. “That doesn’t make any sense, Mom. The violin isn’t a person.” “But it’s alive. You’ll see.” I pressed my ear to the violin’s f-holes. “Well, it’s not breathing.” At ten-years old, I transferred to Dr. Lombardi from Miss Ray. A retired professor of music, he was my teacher for five years. Only a few months after switching to him, Dr. Lombardi took me to his living room and library, which showcased all the exotic gifts he’d gotten from his students—miniature terracotta soldiers, glazed pottery, intricate tapestries, as well as books containing everything you’d want to know about music. He picked up an article from the coffee table. “Now, I tell almost all of my students this, so don’t feel bad. But let me tell you why it’s a bad idea to go into music.” He read me an article about how Jascha Heifetz was performing the Mendelssohn concerto at the age of seven, how many classical musicians found themselves without work after graduating from the conservatory. “And that’s after getting into the conservatory. Are you willing to practice six-hours a day? Because that’s what it’ll take to become a musician.” “Six-hours?” I asked, my whole face expanding with surprise. “Even the kids?” “Even kids younger than you,” he said. [ 11 ]
“What about school, though?” “If you’re serious about music, then your parents should home-school you so you can practice.” “Dr. Lombardi, I like school.” He grinned and patted me on the top of the head. “That’s good. Kids who like school will do well in the future.” “Just not in violin.” “It takes more than liking it.” Grabbing my hand, Dr. Lombardi led me to his studio and pointed to a framed quote on the wall: Music, not for a living, but for a lifetime. “Do you know what that means?” I shrugged. “It means that, even if you don’t become a professional musician, you can still love music your entire life.” “Yeah, I can do that.” “Okay, then. Time to pick up your violin. Let’s hear your scales.” “Wait. Even though I’m not going to be a violinist, I still have to play scales?” “Oh, yes.” When I told my mother what happened, she said that Dr. Lombardi was a wise man. By the time I went off to college, my mother stopped performing and stopped organizing the Chinese New Year celebration. I think she grew tired of the handshaking, the strategic smiling, the constant comparisons between various individuals and their families. The new, younger members of the CCC were eager to jump in to play a bigger role within the community. Together with her close friends, my mother soon stopped attending the celebrations. When I came home from my first year at college to visit, I no longer recognized the faces in the CCC. I’d gone back, nostalgic for the places in upstate New [ 12 ]
York that made up “home,” with my father who still played ping-pong with other Chinese men and my brother who still took Chinese language classes at the community center. The familiar faces were aging and graying; the new ones reminded me of my parents and their friends ten-years before, when they sang along to VCDs, when they had the energy for it. Instead the people I knew from the Asian gatherings went straight home after the drinks and sunflower seeds and chatting. In college, I no longer played as regularly as I did in high school. I took part in one or two chamber groups each semester. The members barely practiced, our rehearsals consisting of us stopping every rehearsal number. “Did you get to 61? You were a measure ahead? Did I do something wrong or did you?” “You’re holding the dotted quarter-note too long. It’s throwing me off.” At the end of the semester, we performed to a small audience at a small venue. Only other musicians and our friends attended these concerts. As I stepped on stage, I heard my friends yelling, “Woo! Go, Jenny,” and I reminded myself to tell them not to scream out during classical music concerts, and to not clap between movements. Yet I kept playing because by now I couldn’t imagine not playing. Sometimes at school, when stressed from my workload or frustrated about my friend situation or depressed over a professor’s disapproval, the only thing that made me feel better was playing violin in my dorm room or in the isolated practice rooms in the basement of the music building. With neither of us performing frequently anymore, I think both my mother and I were grateful that the CCC was providing for us an audience. The weekends leading up to the performance, my mother dragged me to the house of the pianist, a Taiwanese architect who had sang in the CCC chorus even before my parents had immigrated to the States. That Mrs. Hu had no [ 13 ]
professional training was clear to me on the very first day. When I complained to my mother about the matron’s playing, she reprimanded me, saying that, “just because the violin part comes easily to you and the performance means nothing to you doesn’t mean that you can mock the efforts of others.” I kept silent from then on, even as I inwardly shuddered when Mrs. Hu rushed a section or hit a wrong note. However, at the first practice session, I was embarrassed to hear myself play—the bow unsteady, the notes slightly flat or sharp from my awkward fingers, now stiff from lack of use. At the rehearsals, I recalled tricks I’d used in the past. Through wide vibrato, faster bow strokes, sliding into then cutting-short certain notes, I was able to mask the flaws I’d developed from not regularly practicing. Neither Mrs. Hu nor my mother said anything, whether they noticed or not. I think my mother was the only one truly at ease with the music. She warmed up with scales, and after the piano and violin introduction, she began to sing in Chinese: Rose, oh rose
blossomed in full under the azure fence. Rose, oh rose blossomed in full under the azure fence.
I wish the envious and heartless storm would leave me alone. I wish the affectionate visitors would refrain from picking me. I wish all the beauty wouldn’t fade away.
I couldn’t understand all the words, but my mother’s voice, clear and musical, soared through Mrs. Hu’s spacious house, and that made sense to me. The moment she began singing, the pianist and I relaxed. We knew that we were in good hands. [ 14 ]
*** The day of the performance my mother chose a yellow qipao, one borrowed from a friend who’d recently bought the dress in China. Red was too festive for the occasion, black too subdued. The performance meant a lot to the CCC Chorus, but was supposed to be tamer than the pageantry of the Chinese New Year celebrations. Yellow was the color reserved for Chinese royalty, the color that, way back in the day, evoked bowed heads and the chant, “Huang shang, wan sui, wan, wan sui ,” something to the effect of “Long live the king.” I was dressed entirely in black, as a good accompanist should be dressed. Backstage, teen girls helped fix up each other’s makeup and re-braided each other’s pigtails; CCC Chorus members warmed up in their usual getup: silk shirts with traditional qipao collars and black bottoms. My mother sat alone in front of a mirror, applying a granite-black pencil to her eyebrows and eyes, pasting on fake lashes, carefully smoothing a burgundy lipstick across her lips. She took a sip of water as I sat down next to her. I helped her rub off the little bit of lipstick that smudged. “Mama, are you nervous?” I asked. “No, are you?” she responded. I nodded. I had looked around the audience after dropping off my bag with my father and brother. Seated were mostly old faces, the hypercritical, sneering Chinese parents I recognized from my childhood. They were the ones who pitted me against their own children in an endless cycle of competition, the ones who whined about my mother after she stopped participating in their CCC events. If I played badly, I could just hear the things they’d say. All those years of violin lessons. Such a waste of money.
Too bad she doesn’t have her mother’s talent. What’s she learning at that college of hers? Where’d she go again? Oh, that school. Well, my son went to…
“What are you nervous for?” she continued. “Those people [ 15 ]
won’t know if you mess up anyway.” I shrugged. “It won’t be a big deal. This concert isn’t anything.” Stepping on stage, it still felt like something. My eyes began to water, and I could feel the shaking cold, sweaty unraveling of stage fright. I refrained from looking down to check whether my shirt was see-through under the penetrating, white-hot glare of the stage-lights. The Steinway piano was positioned offcenter, my music stand right next to it. My mother stood slightly forward. As Mrs. Hu began the introduction, I looked out into the audience before I played, something I did during orchestra and chamber concerts to pick out a familiar face that I could play for, but this was different—most of the faces were familiar. And yet when I looked out, all I saw was a queer, silent blackness. From the stage, I couldn’t hear the snippy chatter in the seats, and when my mother inhaled, I felt silence. Hers was the only voice in the room. I eased up as I bowed my first note and more so as I bowed the notes that came after. My mother was right. The performance wasn’t a big deal, something that both she and I had done countless times before. When we finished, with damp armpits and staccato breathing, the silence became a low buzzing, finally crescendoing into shouts of approval that continued into the lobby after the concert. The Chorus members had arranged finger-foods on long tables. Crackers and cheese, fruits and vegetables, chips and dip. The people around the tables seemed more colorful in their bright traditional Chinese clothing than the food they ate. I waited at the backstage door for my mother to pack up her things. She still wore her yellow qipao, so that when she stepped out, people turned their heads toward her. One-by-one they came up to us. I stood slightly in back of her as they peeked around her statuesque figure to look at me. [ 16 ]
They raised their eyebrows and smiled, more self-congratulatory than congratulatory. “Your mother was the best.” “It brought back memories hearing her sing again.” “She’s a true gem of the CCC.” My mother turned toward me and pushed me slightly in front of her. She smiled, responding, “Have you met my daughter? She plays the violin.”
[ 17 ]
[ 18 ]
[Reflection] Sonia Misra
Mrs. Hüzün Duygu Ula
You lose a grandmother, you lose an uncle. You don’t cry when the voice tells you:
Don’t come to the funeral. Too expensive. -I went to my uncle’s grave, to look. His sister, my aunt, lies by him, her 15-year-old grave fresh with red roses that her husband leaves every Friday, even when he’s broke and unemployed, and living off my grandfather’s pension. My aunt, I do not remember. A big dog killed her. A vicious bark. “The children! They’re outside!” Panic. Heart racing, then, stop.
[ 19 ]
The newspaper spelled her last name – Tüzün – wrong.
Mrs. Hüzün (Mrs. Sorrow), they said, had a heart condition. Underneath, a picture of my cousins, young, lanky with puberty, my uncle, tall, alcoholic but clean shaven, and her.
[ 20 ]
[Winter Friends] Lena Mironciuc
[ 21 ]
Because when I say I love you, what I really mean is do you love me. Hayley C. Merrill
The beech leaves are full red. Full stop. I am pounding my way out of dreaming. Wings slapping against a lake: my hands on your face. I can no longer tell the difference between love and hate. But let’s obstruct those abstractions: I am ill sick with loving and wanting. We used to drive up to Blueberry Hill, warm beer in the trunk (warm skin, your hands): those wild bonfire nights of summer in the mountains. Your eyes, full blue; I will never cease wanting you, you said, the October new dawn awakening as we swam with swans, making our way toward the other side.
[ 22 ]
Draught Emily Hall
It gets cold in our room. We homed it some, carpeting and curtaining the walls and windows, afraid of the blankness about us. Then we covered our comforters together, pulling at tight inside corners like holding onto our last baby teeth. We warned each other of the cold. I shelved my books, as you; we hushed our daily clothes into the drawers, and I poured full the corners with my music, the corners we could see. Some nights we sit together, we talking of warmth, some nights you sleep away. Those nights I breathe in seeping cold. This window would be sharp, if it were broken. Once I am cold and sleeping, there is nothing between the outside and me.
[ 23 ]
[ 24 ]
[Piazza Novano] Sonia Misra
The Produce Booth Camila Connolly
The horizon wiggled and wavered in the August heat. Andrew looked out at the corn stretching for miles on either side of him. It was hard to believe that if he just drove his truck down the dusty road and turned left at the old silo he would be only a mile from town. Out here he felt alone. The only car that had passed in the last hour was a dented station wagon carrying a tourist family. But here Andrew sat, perched on the edge of his truck’s bed swinging his legs and eyeing his produce booth. There had been a few customers early in the morning: teachers driving miles to the nearest high school and men on their way to factories and plants, the ugly industrial side of an almost wholly agricultural society. Andrew pitied them, driving an hour just to push the same buttons over and over again, their thoughts of home and life drowned out by the clamor of machinery. It was quiet now. Occasionally a little breeze would tickle the sweat on Andrew’s cheeks and rustle the tall corn stalks. The hours passed in silence. Andrew rubbed the calluses on his hand and thought about home. He pictured his dad tinkering with the equipment on the farm. Something was always broken. His mother was probably in the kitchen with his grandmother making lunch for his little sister. Sara was six years old and came home from kindergarten every day at noon. Andrew looked at his watch. 12:15. Andrew had worn the same watch every day since ninth grade and the leather straps were fraying, threatening to snap apart every time he moved his wrist too much. Karina Wiswell had given him that watch for his fifteenth birthday. She [ 25 ]
went to school in New York now. Andrew wondered for the first time in years how she was doing. He had thought about going to college after high school but it just made more sense to start working for his father. Little bubbles of sweat were starting to slide down Andrew’s temples. The sun was at its climax, beating down on Andrew and making the cornfield shine bright green in every direction. The truck glittered under the radiance of the sun, reflecting the light back into the atmosphere. It was almost completely clear except for a few tufts of clouds floating around. It was like the corn had exploded under the pressure of the heat and shot balls of popcorn into the sky. Andrew took a sip of his water bottle and let the cool liquid swish around in his mouth. None of the past few cars that had driven by had stopped to buy anything. Business was slow, even for the quiet highway. The August air kept people inside their air conditioned buildings. The silence rang in Andrew’s ears as the hum of nature seemed to get louder. Slowly the soft buzz turned into a low rumble. Andrew looked out into the horizon and saw a thick layer of dust rising off the ground. Two big eyes stared out at him from the dirt. They were getting larger and closer as the rumble became a growl. Before Andrew knew it, a blue sedan was screeching to a halt alongside his truck. The little car was blocking the road but the interstate was too empty to care. Andrew wiped the sweat from his face with a handkerchief, took another sip of water, and prepared to make a sale. The passenger window of the sedan crept down as Andrew waited by his truck. “Excuse me,” came a soft voice from within. Andrew bent over and peered into the car, sucking in the icy air conditioning. His eyes widened and he took a step backward when he saw who was sitting in the driver’s seat. She had honey colored hair that fell across her shoulders and over her back in cascading layers. Her eyes were like two big blue marbles that jumped out at him [ 26 ]
from against her creamy skin. She was perfect. For a moment his mind went blank and all he could see was this delicate creature resting her hands on an ordinary steering wheel unworthy of her touch. Then the words toppled out of him. “What, uh, what can I do for you, miss?” “I’m so sorry to bother you, but do you know how I get to route 6 from here? I’m so lost and I don’t know where I went wrong.” Her voice lilted like she was a little girl torn between singing and speaking. Andrew felt all his muscles relax as he listened. He thought he might pass out right there on the road starting into her big blue eyes. She stared back without blinking. Andrew’s eyes reflexively lowered to the ground as he responded. “You’ll have to go through town if you want route 6.” “Is that far?” Her eyes darted to the endless field behind Andrew. “No,” he smiled, “not far at all. Just take your first right a little ways up, then follow that road until you get to a big silo and take a left. Follow that about a mile and you’ll reach Gordon.” “You’re really a lifesaver,” she said. “Don’t thank me yet. Just follow signs for route 6 once you’re in town. You’ll have to make a few turns.” “Could you show me on my map?” “Well sure.” She smiled and turned off the engine. “It’s in the trunk.” Andrew took a couple steps back and leaned against his truck as she got out of her car. When she reached the back of her car Andrew saw her properly for the first time. She was wearing jean shorts and a white t-shirt. The small muscles in her arms shifted as she pushed open the trunk. “It sure is hot out. You been out here all day?” She looked over at Andrew’s produce booth. He nodded. “I’m not sure I could handle it,” she said, shaking her head and rifling around in the trunk. [ 27 ]
“You get used to it. You want a peach?” She looked up from her rummaging. “On the house,” he added. “You mean on the truck?” She smirked and those eyes stared into him. “How about on me?” he said. “Sounds good to me,” she said, holding out the map. He handed her the peach and she passed him the map, their hands brushing in the exchange. Andrew felt a shiver run up his spine despite smothering heat. He watched as she took a bite of the peach, juices dripping onto her small, porcelain hands. “Oops,” she wiped her hands on her shorts. He just smiled and looked at the map. She took a few steps closer and peered around his shoulder. She was too short to look over it. He was acutely aware of her body just inches away from his. She smelled like vanilla ice cream and coconut. He suddenly wondered if he smelled like the sweat that had been accumulating on his shirt since morning. He felt disgusted by his sweaty t-shirt and sunburnt nose. “So I just follow this road?” She traced a route with her finger. “Actually it’s more like this,” he corrected her with his hand. “This way will take you right down Main Street. If you’re hungry you should stop at Frida’s. Best milkshake in the state.” She smiled. “Well I don’t see how I could turn down that endorsement. Thanks so much for all your help.” “Not a problem,” he said, handing her the map. There was a pause. He wanted to say something clever. He wanted to charm her and give her a reason to spend the afternoon right there on the road with him. But instead Andrew just looked out at the horizon, his mind whirring and empty at the same time. She started walking back to her car, the dirty road crunching under her white sneakers. Andrew smiled politely as he watched her pull open the door to the driver’s seat. She stopped suddenly. “What did you say your name was?” she asked him. [ 28 ]
“Andrew Turner.” “Well, Andrew, I’ll be sure to tell Frida how nice you were when I stop for that milkshake.” He let out a little chuckle and waved as she stepped into her car. He listened to it sputter to life and within twenty seconds she was gone. He stared after her car until the dust had settled and all he could see were those wavering lines of heat rising in the distance. The air settled back into its solemn existence. Andrew hoisted himself onto his truck’s bed and tried to make his mind as empty as the road. Her face kept popping up in his mind. He pictured her soft hands and her dirty sneakers. He wished she had stayed. He should have asked her name or invited her to sit with him. Andrew imagined her blue car rolling through the horizon and pulling over next to his truck again. She would get out and say she had been thinking about him since she left. They would hug and he would joke about not knowing her name. They might pack up some of his fruit and go have a picnic in the field. He sat there thinking about her lips, her eyes, her cheeks. The dimples in her smile and the exact shade of her hair were emblazoned in his mind. He got excited thinking about her driving back to him. As Andrew daydreamed he heard a familiar rumble in the distance. He looked up and saw the dirt swirling up into the air. His pulse raced and he felt his heart pumping harder. Andrew stared wide-eyed into the distance, waiting for the mystery car to get closer. It was coming from town. His whole body was tense. The car came closer and closer until he could make out its exact shape and style. His fists unclenched and he let out a deep sigh. It was just another dented station wagon. Andrew took another sip of water and leaned back against the bed of the truck, waiting for his next customer.
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[Dancing Medea] Lena Mironciuc
staff Amanda Black WR Duygu Ula [Editors-in-Chief] April M. Crehan WR Claire Grossman [Layout Editors] Jenny Peng [Non-fiction Prose Editor] Megan Cunniff [Poetry Editor] Galen Danskin WR Michelle Lee [Assistant Poetry Editors] Alex Pistey [Prose Editor] Faye Bates
WR Julie Daurio WR Jeanette Lee [Assistant Prose Editors]
[ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS]
Sumita Chakraborty, Founding Editor | Lena Mironciuc, Cover Artist
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