Upcountry Spring 2021

upcountry university of maine at presque isle spring 2021

Editor: Professor Richard Lee Zuras Student Editor: Callie Rogers Upcountry reads submissions from all current University of Maine at Presque Isle students for the annual Spring issue. For specific submission information, contact Professor Zuras at richard.zuras@maine.edu. Upcountry is a publication of the University of Maine at Presque Isle’s English Program. A literary journal dedicated to showcasing poems, short stories, and visual art from students, the journal is published annually during the spring term. The views expressed in Upcountry are not necessarily those of the University of Maine at Presque Isle or its English Program. The University of Maine System does not discriminate on the grounds of race, color, religion, sex, sexual orientation, including transgender status and gender expression, nation origin, citizenship status, age, disability, genetic information or veteran’s status in employment, education, and all other programs and activities. Please contact the Office of Equal Opportunity: 207-5811226.

Poetry Paul Charles Science

Wolf Rock Amish Furniture

Margaret Dickinson Affectionate Afflictions

Vietnam

Sarah Draper Paper for Paper

Rendezvous at Musquacook Stream

Side Effects May Include

Sarah Harris Just Your Average Sprain

Seasonal Repression

Pat Karpen Daphne

Home

Mirage

Ines Ngoga My Best Friend

Resilience

Manish Pandey A Portrait of an Artist as a Loser

Watching People Leave on a Chunk of Iceberg

Callie Rogers Sunday Haven

April Sarasin A Second Look

Fiction Sarah Draper Country Knickknacks

Pat Karpen Alley Cats

Nathan Richardson Dying to Live Ella Underwood

Rich with Love

Contributions

Cover Photo Joshua Birden Lightfoot

Science By Paul Charles I once saw an ad for pheromones In the back of a car magazine With a testimonial of a man getting a woman’s Phone number at a high school reunion I almost wish I believed in chemistry like that I used to put two Pepsi bottles together Mouth to mouth, with water inside, then turn them over To make a tornado between them

Wolf Rock Amish Furniture By Paul Charles I almost kept up with James Unloading rocking chairs from the trailer Two at a time and stacking them Tetris-style in the barn And that was enough for me That’s one of the secrets, I think To making life bearable You have to notice the little victories Find joy in the slight burning sensation in your biceps Knicks fans celebrate three-game win streak and I smile At fog-splashed roads on the way to church and remember When I came out to my mom She only cried a little bit

Affectionate Afflictions By Margaret Dickinson You equipped words as weapons Each syllable a gash, now a scar. Hidden from the world, yet excruciating Silent screams within, muted behind a four-letter word I knew not yet the true definition of. I accepted these lacerations Naively attributing each contusion A badge of love. Becoming black and blue To your eyes, an authentic Van Gough In my heart Edvard Munch Screams To speak was to put pressure on my sores, Self-preservation: avoidance Evasion not enough. The onslaught of agonizing amity Softened my soul like wet clay Moldable to your desires A shape I no longer recognized I questioned imprisonment, You reminded me I was free. Free within the meager cage constructed to contain While you lived lavishly beyond, until My heartbroken escape. Hidden scars serve a reminder Never to return Never able to forget.

Vietnam Photograph 1970 By Margaret Dickinson In black and white my grandfather stands Confidently, hands perched on hips A makeshift shanty town and sandbags Stacked messily behind him Answering Uncle Sam’s call for help “This We’ll Defend” His uniform hangs loosely off his limbs, Spattered with wet stains From the humid haze hanging in the air Smelling of gasoline, gunpowder and napalm At 21 years he’s two older than the average soldier Star spangled eyes peering out through Thich sunglasses at the land beyond The camera a comrade holds to capture this moment If it wasn’t for the war it might be beautiful This place 13,000 miles from his homeland When he returns home he will be denied a hero’s welcome That so many veterans before received Protestors spit hatred, call him a baby killer Tell him his friends deserved to die, perhaps He himself shouldn’t have returned The uniform he wore with pride, now devalued By his own country He seeks solace at the bottom of the bottle Each empty vessel used to store away his pain Unable to confront the memories of his time overseas. Stowed away for many years until His granddaughter, a Girl Scout Invited him to a veterans service, asking Him to share so she may write a speech Honoring him, those lost in the war, and those Who lost an inner battle post war The way they should’ve been years before. 8

He delicately unearths his long buried remembrance Looking into her eager eyes with a gentle smile, A tear budding in his own Decades after coming home He and almost eight hundred-thousand men Are still fighting the Vietnam war.

Paper for Paper By Sarah Draper Wallets weigh heavy with paper and plastic currency. We don’t look at the names of shops, only windows, crowded with trinkets, baubles and canned comedy signs. Twinkling in late November sun, a mobile of tiny glass figures dance on fishing line — A tree, a star, a cross, a heart. Mom sees a quilt pinned up. I see dust-covered records lined in a “FRESH MILK” crate half-hidden below a hand-hewn bobcat. Having no record player I sit and flip through ABBA and Celine, Sinatra and Mötley Crüe. She finds inspiration, documents new hand stitches never seen despite years of baby blankets, wedding gifts and milestone quilts. Leather catches my eye from the shelf next to me. Tanned hide stretched smooth around bound paper, expertly crafted by deft fingers. I unravel the tied cord and reveal off-white pages with soft blue lines who hopes, asks pleads for the touch of pen tips and ink. A small fee of twenty dollars to wander within. Small Business Saturday in Cornish, Maine gives Mom ideas and canned comedy signs and for me, empty pages for crinkled green paper.

Rendezvous at Musquacook Stream By Sarah Draper In September, the North Maine Woods dress code reads: sweatshirts, Bean Boots and orange camouflage. Partridge season cannot begin without the annual hunting trip dubbed the “Rendezvous.” Rising before the sun, coffee and cocoa steaming from thermoses, some with a little extra kick, Herb hops in Dad’s truck with my brother and I and Jay climbs into his with Scott and Matt. Hours of dirt roads looking the same yet different, walking down the ones we couldn’t drive, three are bagged. Our lunch tables are tailgates and coolers in an empty gravel pit, location unknown. A few more hours navigating the tree-and-dirt maze that is the North Maine Woods, five more bagged. The sun sets, and we settle around the fire stoked by Mom and the Paula’s at the campsite. A Crown Royal cap cracks open, cups filling with spiked drinks or kid-friendly soda. Cheers to the birds, the woods, and the spent shotgun shells! Cheers to the burnt gunpowder and the echoing bangs! Rippp the wings from the birds in the stream, washing the giblets and feathers away. A cavity opens large enough for a cheap, cracked-open beer can and once settled in the fire’s coals, the resulting meal with the “beer can birds” and roasted potatoes is the finest dining in woods have to offer. 11

Side Effects May Include By Sarah Draper Isolation begets itchiness for me and restlessness for him. Words remain unspoken– what else is there to say beyond buzz words like quarantine, Co-Vid and stay-at-home or “Did you wash your hands?” and “Any new cases?” Headaches incurred from prolonged screen time, but my heart weighs less after video calls with family— deemed essential— and with friends found within a new TV show. Small home projects and a realtor book scattered throughout the house, his preferred boredom busters. My brother likes to work with his hands. Boredom and missing supplies bust a home project and his hands halt. Professors and emails from school ask “What is your new normal?” The new normal is loneliness and grief, annoyance and frustration, anger and pain. Forgotten goodbyes sound stale through a screen and “I miss you’s” are empty when passed over text. Humans crave humans not technology. Nothing is as good as the feeling of a hug so tight that your ribs bend inward or the inner peace that settles in your belly after Spending hours with your friends in silence, only for someone to turn and say “I need coffee” and off we go for impromptu Tim’s trips at 10:30 pm.

To say I wish this was different is redundant, this is the only way back to normalcy but these side effects are killing me..

Just Your Average Sprain By Sarah Harris Without hosting a home game in over a week outfield was overgrown with foot-long dandelions encouraged by the combination of melted snow and April sun. Our coach’s father ran practice that day, since Coach worked at the hospital and did softball in his spare time. It was the same essentially: review how we lost our last game and what skills we needed to work on, warm up with a few laps around the park’s jogging path before base running, batting, and catching, sprints in between. Pop fly drills to finish with Coach’s father lobbing softballs into the sky for us to catch. Near the end of practice, he grabbed an aluminum bat and called names while slugging balls into orbit. I heard my name and took off, watching my softball’s path veer far left where outfield met asphalt. No problem, I can catch that. Before I could hype myself up further, those long dandelions chose to wrap around my cleats in a big messy knot, pulling me to the ground in one big thump extinguishing my speed and smearing a beautiful yellow-green stain on my shirt. I didn’t even realize I hurt myself until I stood and saw white, my ankle giving out, unable to support me. My coach was the lucky radiographer prepping my ankle for an x-ray post-practice, and he asked how I sprained it. Well… I was running to catch a fly ball in a drill your father had us do and I tripped on overgrown dandelions. His recommendations: R.I.C.E and hope for a quick return to our next game. 14

Seasonal Repression By Sarah Harris Wrung from clouds like a wet rag, rain plummets from the sky, drenching all who believed they could dodge drops and make it to class unscathed. I let the rain paint my hair to my scalp, glue my socks to my feet. Most of the time, I’m like everyone else sprinting to avoid the rain and stay dry. It bogs me down today. My sneakers squelch as I trudge through puddles. Once mighty snowbanks, they are but small lumps hiding beneath sheltering pines, where spring slowly strips them away, exposing dead grass and emotion’s smothered by winter’s quilt. Regardless, spring comes. Relentless, it reveals everything winter tried to hide, disguise, cover up. Worries that were previously dormant wake up and peek out from snow piles I’ve buried them in. They call out crying for attention. I try ignoring them some more, but I’m weak. I breathe in the smell of mud and unearthed melancholy. It soaks into my body, and I’m left to drown in the rain.

Daphne By Pat Karpen I have always talked to trees and Then you answered and I heard. Oh, Daphne. Tearing through Your cherished woods, your Calls rasped to your father, River God, to rescue you, save you From torpedoing, throbbing Apollo almost on top of you. Father roots you by his side. You crown upward, branches splaying, Roots spreading, racing down over under Rivers and rills, fens and flowers. Free. When the day has dimmed to silence I collapse my head to your chest and Hear the bubbling of your breathing and Am able finally to inhale and exhale As I wish. No longer disguised to save myself.

Home By Pat Karpen In my car I donned the mask and one Of the two straps snapped. At the Store I stood in line in drizzled darkness And at my turn the second one popped. I shoved it to my face with panicked claws And said to the gatekeeper, “My straps Snapped.” “Oh,” she said. Maybe inhaling And exhaling death, I grabbed, paid, fled. Rearview mirrors with hanging masks; Not fuzzy dice. Discarded rubber gloves; Not rubbers. We are as upended as Being asked to chug Clorox and Lysol Alone Instead of Bushmills or Modelo With friends. A-masked-sneezeInto-elbow-or-down-shirt garners no ‘God bless’ or ‘Gesundheit’ only laser looks. Home. Three tiered hand wash. Gargle. Blow nose. Forgot most of what I needed/ Because of where I live, afraid to put the Sign in my yard; but I did. Afraid to write Some things I’ve written; but I have. Scared To wear t-shirts with words that prompt Some cars to move too close; but I do. A Small part of the rescue team. Home.

Mirage By Pat Karpen I saw the ski slopes from Where I used to live but It was smoke shimmering up From chimneys where I am now. I saw a dead bird in the street Filled with ice and salt and cars. It was a chunk of tire-well-snowCrap dropped for someone to hit. I saw words and I believed them To be poems filled with pith but They were just kindling for a firePlace with the damper stuck shut. I saw a glass of whiskey and made Believe it was salvation. I wore a red wig and spike heels and Pretended I was beautiful. I saw you and I was certain that you Loved me.

My Best Friend By Ines Ngoga Oh the secrets I’ve whispered to her! The hours we’ve spent giggling in the middle of the night. I’ve asked my questions, but I’m always met with silence. She can’t answer, she’s drowning in my tears. My broken dreams are the noose around her neck. The shattered pieces of my heart the knife used to cut up her wrists. My darkest memories are the hand around her mouth, her screams silenced. I rest my heavy head atop her every night. She cradles my head, never complaining. She lols me to sleep, whispering sweet melodies in my car. I disappear into a blissful sleep. She is my best friend.

Resilience By Ines Ngoga Innocent hands in the air and you still shoot For you do not fear the orange jumpsuit Your badge is your shield The world your playing field Black bodies rot in the street Black blood pools at your feet A jury of your peers Acquits you with cheers Their deaths inconsequential Their lives nonessential Life begins again at dawn Forgotten as the world moves on We march again towards defeat A cycle which we repeat That is the black experience For black is resilience

A Portrait of an Artist By Manish Pandey I read Frank O’Hara the other day and wanted to cry on all fours like a dog. I would have, if there would be no puddle to mop afterwards. I still had dishes to do in the sink, so, instead, I cried while doing them. How utilitarian of me to drip exclamation marks into the sink! How does one lodge words on the screen that move one so much? For my artistic attempts crush me — it’s like losing a newborn. God help me, for I keep losing my newborns.

Watching People Leave on a Chunk of Iceberg By Manish Pandey Because I’m on a diet, in the morning, I munch on an iceberg lettuce (bought from WholeFoods), like it’s an apple, while, in the news, I watch starving people standing on a chunk of iceberg, floating further away from home, watching the mass of people waving to them, as if they’re leaving on the Titanic. Bon Voyage! I hope you don’t drown. Instructions from a lady to a dumb, brown boy: Be careful, I never taught you how to swim. These soft words are too dull to cleave the wind. I see myself in him. I think about being baptized in the cold water, until my body floats, like a dollop of ice cream in a glass of chilled root beer. I think about why people would want to flee their homes. I empathize, for the love of God, for, son of man, doesn’t God love that dumb, brown boy as much as he loves me and you? I empathize even though I’ll soon be occupied with tracking my package on the WholeFoods website. Post-modern Sisyphus— I’m as much a rebel as part of the system.

Sunday Haven By Callie Rogers I sit at the old pine table tracing my fingers over cat scratches and last night’s spaghetti sauce stains, waiting for you to pick up the cards yellowing with use or put down the phone and kiss me. You are my first sip of life on Sunday, pancake-syrup-sweet, my purple butterfly resting at the windowsill, putting my worried gaze to sleep. A sign from God that winter’s chill has been chased away. You are my Queen, jack, ten, nine, eight. As the steam floats up from your teacup and warms the apples of your cheeks, you smile at me and I forget we are playing this game. When morning melts away like butter, and the pile of dishes in the kitchen sink foreshadows the days that loiter ahead, that weathered deck of cards still rests at the old pine table, a reminder of our little Sunday haven, the place I feel most at home.

A Second Look Photograph 1937 By April Sarasin An aged black and white photographscant evidence of his existence. At first glance one might observe a young man posed, knees slightly bent perched on a concrete wall, perhaps. A long coat, dark as his well-coiffed hair, the grimacing face reflecting chilled air, a grove of leafless trees revealing late autumn two slender smoke stacks rise to the sky far beyond. Closer, the façade of a rotunda not unlike that of highly priced retreats oft visited by wealthy city inhabitants escaping on weekends to the countryside. A second look, a clearer image his brown leather bedroom slippers accessorizing not a coat but a bathrobe worn over pale crisp pajamas not lounging at some pricey refuge, a patient at the Rutland State Sanatorium. A diagnosis of Tuberculosis earned the afflicted a six to nine month sentence. Large doses of fresh air and sleep isolated from home and family deprived of hugs from a two-year-old girl, his only child from a cruel woman who would smother any memory of her Daddy. Confinement ended for him January twenty-forth, nineteen-thirty-eight. Twenty-seven years, six months and five days, the duration of his earthly journey. An old worn photograph falling into my mother’s hands some fifty years after his departure, then into mine when a father and daughter were at last reunited.

Country Knickknacks By Sarah Draper Nothing major usually happens in small Maine towns. Hell, nothing usually happens in Maine period. I live in the blinkand-you’ll-miss-it town of Cornish, Maine. Population—less than 1,500. All I have ever known is the Maine backwoods, and while I sometimes enjoy the simplicity of a do-nothing town, for a 20 year old girl, there is nothing to do! No mall, no movies, nothing. At least Portland is only an hour away. But even then, that’s nothing compared to New York City. When we went to visit family back in New Haven, Connecticut, I did the math. Two hours (depending on traffic) and I could have been in the Big Apple. Maybe I’ll move back once I’m done college. One bonus of Maine—everything is cheap, even college. I don’t really know what I want to do for the rest of my life, but I like learning about the world, so I chose a History major through the University of Southern Maine, located in Portland. But for now, I’m working at a tiny craft store named Mary’s. Billy Daigle, the owner, bought the empty commercial space for his wife Mary not long after they married. She loved to make things as a hobby, so they figured they could try selling some of her stuff. Soaps, jams, other seasonal things like wreathes in the winter. Eventually, business picked up and they started buying from other companies to supplement their store and bring in a wider arrangement of products. Years later, the business is still going, but Billy is nearing ninety, and Mary passed away three years ago. He doesn’t want to sell the store, but all of his kids live out of state, most out of New England even. Billy has mentioned many times through not-so-subtle remarks that he hoped I would want to run Mary’s once I’m done with school. “You know there Kelsey, the customers like you a lot. So did Mary. I think she’d have loved to see what you could do with the place. You’re crafty enough, eh? She made me swear that I wouldn’t ever share her jam recipes with anyone, not even the kids, but she’d probably make an exception for you if you’d want to sell ‘em here, you know.” Billy sat in his cushioned rocking chair by the wood stove like he always does when he makes it in to the store. It’s Thanksgiving weekend, meaning the big stores 25

are filled with Black Friday shoppers, but the smaller places are excited for Small Business Saturday customers. In Cornish, Main Street is lined with shops like Mary’s, antique shops, book stores, and a few florists. Surprisingly, people from all over New England and sometimes further come to Cornish specifically for Small Business Saturday. Sadly, most of his kids don’t come to visit during Thanksgiving, with only a son who lives in Vermont coming every other year or so. This year, he was alone, so my family invited him over for our dinner Thursday, and he’s here in the store today instead of his quiet, empty home. I watched Ms. Libbey get into her car with her paper bags of scented soaps and trinkets for her stocking stuffers this Christmas. She was friends with Mary, and mentioned before leaving how she just missed Mary’s Sweet Apple Pie jam. I smirked to myself when she said that. I knew Billy was going to mention me taking over the store again. He’s a kind man, and I would take him up on his offer but I want to get out and see more of the world beyond Cornish. I’ve only ever really known Cornish, with a few visits to Connecticut to see family, so there’s a lot I don’t know. Once I see Ms. Libbey get into her car safely, I sit on my cracked wooden stool behind the old register that really belongs down the road in one of the antique shops. I swivel Billy’s way with a kind smile and a laugh. “Billy, you need to do better with your delivery. You’ll never manipulate me into buying this place if you try to push it on me so blatantly.” “Beh, I’ve tried that and you’ve still said no. And I get it, you know? This ain’t glamorous or anything, but its got its charms. I just want it to go to someone who gives a shit about the place,” he said, resting his hands crossed above his rounded belly. I scoff at his language and look back outside through the glass door. “I do care, you know that. Give me a few years and then I’ll probably take you up on that offer. But not now.” Hearing him take a breath in to speak again, I followed up with “And don’t tell me you don’t have a few years left. You may be old, but you’re too damn stubborn to even retire fully, let alone die.” I looked back over at him. He’s staring at me with his mouth just barely open like he was going to speak. “That’s exactly what you were going to say, wasn’t it?” “Yeah, and you’re right too.” He smiles. “You know I love ya, right kiddo?” “Of course I do. You’re like my third Grampa.” I turned 26

back to the door just as I see a woman with a walker that has a seat built in coming towards the door. Her back is hunched forward and her purse sits on top of the black vinyl seat. I slide off my stool, pat Billy’s arm when I walk by him and around the counter to open the door for the woman. I don’t recognize her, so she’s most likely a Small Business Saturday shopper. “Good afternoon, ma’am! I’ll get the door for you. Do you need any help getting inside, other than the door? There is a bit of a bump going in.” There’s a lip on the threshold that most people don’t see until they catch the toe of their shoe on it. No matter how brightly orange I paint it, or how obnoxious the black-andyellow caution tape I once layered on there was, it never fails for someone to hit it and come stumbling into the store. The woman looked up from where she’s walking, pausing to do so. “No, no, dear. I’m alright. I just use this do-dad for balance,” she said, nodding at the walker. She smiled and started walking in. Despite being late November, there’s very little snow on the ground and the sun feels nice against my shoulders. The wheels on her walker bump against the lip, and I lean forward to help just in case, but with a small tilt of her wrists on the handles, the wheels go up and over it. She minds where she puts her feet and manages to get inside without issue. While her eyes adjust to the darker interior, I slipped back inside and return to the counter. “Is there something particular you’re looking for today?” I asked, making sure to project my voice a bit more than usual in case she can’t hear me well. “Not particularly. It was too pretty out to stay in the house, is all. Thought I’d come shop a bit.” Her voice has a sweet, sing-song type lilt to it. ‘I bet she bakes great chocolate chip cookies. She sounds like she would, anyway,’ I thought to myself. She started shuffling forward, looking at the handmade jewelry to the left of the door that comes from a local artist. “My, that’s pretty.” With a cramped finger, she touched a necklace with an amethyst stone, caged with silver and bronze wires. Anna, the woman who makes the jewelry, buys the raw stones and gems from places like Etsy or Amazon, and picks the right ones for each piece of jewelry. She loves to make the ‘caged’ pieces, a stone or gem wrapped with wire to hold it in place. “Each one is a little bit different, just like the stones themselves,” as she likes to say. “Everything on that table and the shelf above is made by a local woman,” I said. 27

“Ooh. Wonderful. She is very talented,” the woman said. She stood at Anna’s table for a few minutes, and instead of simply sitting and watching her shop, I started tidying the store. I added another log to the fire, knowing that Billy likes it warm, receiving a huff in appreciation for it. I take the broom down from its hook behind the counter and sweep the dust and ash from the stove, as well as the many stray leaves that have made their way into the store over the day. The woman begins making her way through the store, stopping at every display and examining many of the items being sold. From the jewelry designs, to smelling different scented soaps, to looking through a basket of little signs and reading each unique phrase. While she continued to shop, I sat back on the stool and looked to Billy. While I was cleaning, he began reading this week’s Bangor Daily newspaper and when he finished it, he slapped it onto the kindling box for the stove. As I sit back down, from the small side table next to his rocking chair, he pulls a book of crossword puzzles and a pencil. He keeps working on his puzzle while I think about the future of Mary’s and how I got here. Billy and Mary are, were, staples in Cornish. Billy is from one of the families that helped found the town, and Mary was from a few towns over, and became well known as a kind and quiet member of the community. From Billy’s telling, they met when they were both just out of school and began working. He told me once that he was instantly interested, but Mary was less so. Eventually, they did get together, and less than a year later, they were married and opened Mary’s not long after. A lifetime later, when Mary died, my parents saw a “Hiring” sign in the window of Mary’s. I had just turned 17, and was looking for a job, thinking I’d have to go to Standish or Gorham to find work, two slightly larger towns within a half hour’s drive from Cornish. Instead, I have a 10 minute commute from home to Mary’s, and I get to work for and with a nice, albeit sometimes gruff, man like Billy. He was looking for someone to help him with the store because Mary took care of most of the ordering of items to stock the store, and he had no idea how to do any of that. Mary passed rather suddenly, and hadn’t thought to write anything she did down. Plus, his back was giving him a hard time, so he was less able to physically care for the store than he used to. When I went in with my mom after seeing the sign to talk to him about hiring me, he was so happy he almost started to cry (though he would never admit that). He could just barely af28

ford to hire me, but he said that “I’m just so surprised a young person like you would want to work for an old guy like me.” I shake my head and look over to check on the woman shopping. She made it to the other side of the store, and I noticed she had a basket of small wooden ornaments we sold sitting on her chair next to her purse. ‘Is she buying all of those?’ I wondered to myself. She seemed to be doing fine, so I nudge Billy with my foot. “Yeah?” He rested his pencil between two pages of the crossword book and closed it. A pet peeve of his is when “you youngins never have respect for others,” meaning on their phones or continuing with what they were doing while talking to someone else. Another reason why he likes me so much, I think. I actually listen to him, even if he’s rambling. “Can I make a deal with you? About the store?” I make sure to keep my voice hushed so the woman doesn’t overhear, not like the conversation is wrong, but it’s basic curtesy. I see his eyes widen at my words and he shifts in his chair to sit up straighter, which is hard to do because of the cushions on the seat and back of it. “Sure, kid. What’re you thinking?” “Well, I have a year and a half left of school. Not this May, but next, I’m done.” I begin fiddling with my thumbs as a nervous tick. I haven’t talked to my parents about this, I actually just thought of it, but I know they’ll support me. “If you can make it, the fall after I graduate, I’ll take on the store fully. The summer in between will be a little break for me and we can figure out all of the details then, but you need to stick around for that.” While morbid, we often joke about Billy’s death because to me, and to him to an extent, he’s invincible. Having survived a heart attack and needing double bypass surgery in his 60s, he started eating better to stay healthy for Mary. Now that she’s gone, he went back to his “steak every night for dinner and a donut for breakfast” routine. After two years of nagging him, he started eating better for me. He paused before answering. He smiles and said, “Yeah I think that’s doable. Thought you wanted to see the world though. Beyond our little corner of it.” “I do, and I’ll do some of that in the summer after I graduate. I don’t know about the money part, or where I’ll go, but I’ll do something anyway. It sounds like a good compromise to me. I get a little traveling done and the store is passed on to someone 29

who cares about it.” I squeeze my right thumbnail between my left thumb and index finger, waiting for a final confirmation. “So lemme guess, I got to start eating healthier than I already am?” He grins wide, his coffee stained teeth on full display. “Well, that would help you last longer. Losing a bit of this,” and I reach over and pat his belly, “wouldn’t hurt you any.” He swats at my hand with a laugh. “Yeah, yeah. Alright. You got a deal. In two years, this place is yours.” I can all but see the happiness and gratitude radiating from him and he rocks back and forth, a small smile staying on his lips. “Good.” Just as we finish our conversation, the woman wheels her way over to the counter. My eyes grow wide in surprise when I see the sheer number of items she has on her little seat. Ornaments, jewelry, signs, even a few paperbacks we had are balanced delicately against her purse to make sure they don’t fall. “It looks like you found some stuff you liked then!” I laugh. “Yes, ma’am I did. You have a lovely little store here,” the woman said. She smiled at Billy and back at me. “I do think I’m all done though. I don’t know if I could fit much else!” Nodding and looking at her chair, she was right with that. “Billy, do you mind getting one of those old wooden crates out back for her? I’d hate for anything to drop or break when she’s getting it all into her car.” With a big rock back in his chair for momentum, Billy gets up and puts his crosswords on the side table. “Sure thing.” He clomped around the corner and down a narrow hallway, coming back a few minutes later with a 2 foot by 3 foot crate. I start helping her put the items on the counter, and once most of the stuff is on it, I move back around to the register and start punching in the price of each item and passing them to Billy, who bags them in our paper bags once or twice, depending on breakability. With each wrapped item, he places them in the crate with surprising care. For the next several minutes, we work silently except for the loud register, and soon the counter and her chair is clear, and she has two crates of items, the first crate filling with a third of the items remaining. I look at the register total and manage to hold back a gasp. I knew it would be expensive just because of the sheer size of her purchase but wow. “Your total this afternoon is $167.54,” I tell her. Billy inhales sharply at the total. That is the largest purchase we’ve ever 30

had.

Without blinking, she pulls her wallet and a Ziploc bag from her purse. “Lovely. I have some coins, is that okay?” I look at the contents of her Ziploc and see it filled with rolls of coins. I take the bag as she hands it to me and see that each roll has the word “DIMES” printed on it. I count the number of rolls and count 24 rolls of dimes. I look at Billy, who came to stand right next to me, staring at this strange payment and the strange lady who just gave it to us. I swallow, realizing my mouth was slightly agape. “Um, sure, I guess. Money is money, right?” I chuckle, still in a bit of shock. I do some fast mental math. “This is $120, so $47.54 is your remaining total.” Billy takes the bag of dimes and stares at it, turning it over in his hands while I subtract the $120 from the total. “Wonderful.” The woman pulls the snap of her wallet open and brings a $50 bill out, placing it on the counter. “Here’s the rest then.” I shakingly pick up the bill and open the register to get her change. I give her the $2.46 for her change, and she tucks it into her wallet and pushes the snap closed again. “Thank you very much, dear. This really is a lovely store. Would you mind helping me get these crates into my car, please?” “Absolutely.” With one crate on her walker’s seat and me carrying the other, I walk down the sidewalk with her until she stops at a tan Honda Civic. She opens the trunk and I put the crates in, closing the trunk after I’m sure they won’t shift and nothing might break while she drives. She walks around to the driver’s side and opens the back seat. I help her fold the walker down flat and put in behind her seat. Holding onto the car for balance, she looks back to me smiling. “Thank you again, dear. You were very kind to help me.” “It was my pleasure really, ma’am. Although I have never seen that large of a purchase before, nor that form of payment!” We laugh, and before she gets into her car I ask, “If you don’t mind me asking, what’s your name?” She smiles again. “Well, yes, I suppose I should introduce myself. My name is Elenore, but most people call me by my middle name Mary. It’s part of the reason I stopped at your store. If it’s named after me, well, I guess I should go see what’s inside, right? And I was!” We share another laugh, and she gets into her car and drives off. I walk slowly back to the store, stunned but grinning at the strangeness of that interaction. Although Mary is a common 31

name, the irony did not escape me. “Thanks Mary,” I mutter to myself, thinking of Billy’s wife. “I’m glad you approve of me.” I open the door, minding the lip on the threshold, and see Billy still standing in the same spot, holding the dimes. He looks up at me when I enter, and with a brief pause, we both start laughing rather hysterically. “What a weird lady,” he said. “Oh, do I have something to tell you,” I said as I took the dimes from him and tuck them into the shelf below the register. I sit on my stool and Billy falls back into his rocking chair. “Billy, you’d never guess what this woman’s name was…”

Alley Cats By Pat Karpen It was never an acquired taste. She had always savored alleys. Her first alley was actually a tunnel in the “Old Fort” at Ft. Totten in Bayside, Queens, New York. The Fort was “off limits,” but like so much that is taboo, it invited exploration. Children discovered treasures and played make-believe; teenagers smoked, drank, made love, contemplated life and wrote poetry; historians absorbed its DNA. It was built, partially built, starting in 1862 as a defense against Confederate ships heading for the East River. The tunnel seemed long and must have curved because when you reached the center you couldn’t see the light at either end. She and her friends dared each other to pass through and back – alone. The child had to discover and confront whatever the dark center might hold for her. You always knew, though, that your friends were there, not too far away, at the end, beacons of the light. Once-in-a-while they played the tunnel game. Instead of moving quickly to the light at the other end, tagging the wall, and then turning and running back screaming all the way to the start, she began to linger when the blackness was reached. Once she went by herself. When she reached the impermeable heart, she lay down. Stretching her 9 year-old-blue-shorts-clad legs and her short-sleeved-white-blouse-with-pink-flowers clad arms, she floated on the coolness of the dark center hearing sounds never noticed and smelling aromas never inhaled. Though unseen, she was certain there were pictures and writing on the walls. That night, at home, with lamps lit and televisions humming, she closed the door to her room and wrote her first story. As an adult in Manhattan, she forsook dead-end alleys which had a “top of a T” end branching off into an invisible left and right or those which were so fetid that the odors masked secrets. She walked between apartment buildings with fire escapes festooned with shade loving plants and upturned milk crates covered in old cushions or blankets. Drying laundry on crisscrossed lines evidenced individual tastes, styles and economics. Some weeds managed to survive in the darkness as they punched their way up 33

in the spring and settled into slumber in the fall. At night, the women sitting on the crates with cups of coffee and chattering with neighbors, were replaced by men in white undershirts and dark trousers leaning over the railings. The glow from their cigarettes seemed to be the only light left to them. They puckered their lips and made sucking sounds as she walked beneath. It was just Pavlovian, though. The alleys behind upscale and downscale restaurants were where she went when her imagination needed a rest. In Little Italy (after they came to know her and what she was about), the waiters on a smoke break would bring her a glass of Chianti. They’d speak a little Italian with her until the owner or maître d’ came bursting through the door to reclaim the AWOL waiter. Eventually management began to refill her wine glass, added a bit of bread and oil and chatted for a bit. At a couple of them, one in particular, she was a most excellent customer; would dine inside; eat and drink well and was generous. There were alleys of desperation. Those she did not enter. When she left bags of McDonald’s at the openings, the denizens at the backs in the “tops of the Ts” could be heard scurrying like cockroaches. The favorite ones offered silence and solitude. She stopped in the middle and inhaled the darkness, the simplicity, the compassion and the harshness. One was in her neighborhood. Between Blessed Sacrament Church and the Rectory on 71st and Broadway. There was an enclosed and elevated walk-over so the priests wouldn’t have to venture outside to go to work. There were carved architectural crannies along the wall of the church. One was under the stained glass window of Mary holding the crucified Christ. It was there that she found his resting place. It had been about a month since she’d strolled this alley. Now there was an opened up, folded over packing box from something large, maybe a refrigerator. At the top, there was a large pizza box for the pillow. The side of the packing box away from the church was curled up and inward as though he had pulled it around him the way sleeping people did with a blanket when the night grew chilly. It was November. Was he settling in for the winter? There were no heating grates near his bed. Did the priests or the janitor know he was there? Probably… if he left his stuff. There was no trash. No wrappers 34

caught in the protective metal grill work entombing the dead Christ and his shattered mother. There were no urine stains on church nor rectory. The image of the curled-box blanket moved into her imagination. Images started to spirit in her head. At times, the ideas seemed divorced from her as if they were birthing themselves and she was nothing more than a mid-wife. She wanted to meet this person and talk with him. Day and evening she checked. He was never there but his bed remained. The priests had to know. How did she know he was a man? Because the priests tolerated his presence. On December 12th, the Feast of the Virgin of Guadalupe the patroness of “the lowest of the low,” she walked through around 10:00 at night. He was in his bed. She had a cinnamon and raisin bagel with butter and two cups of coffee from the “Bagel Nosh” on the corner. Her coffee was a “regular.” There were sugar and cream for him to mix as he wanted. She put the bag and other coffee down next to him and leaned against the rectory wall. When she was half way through her cup, he propped himself up on one elbow and looked in the bag. He took out the bagel and coffee; arranged himself against the wall with his legs, bent at the knees, in front of him. He had on an old heavy army fatigue jacket, a cap, a scarf around his neck and fingerless gloves. It was too dark to assign colors. He was a shadow of form. After three weeks, they started to talk. She’d drop by oncea-week or so on different nights. Sometimes the bagel had some peanut butter or cream cheese. The cups of coffee became large ones for both of them. In the New Year they’d started to talk over each other. He would say, “Sorry. Go on. You were saying something,” and she would respond with, “No, you go. I want to hear you.” He was a real New Yorker; born a few blocks away over at the old Roosevelt Hospital. His family (He snorted when he said that word or would add, “my so called” as modifiers.) had rented up on 75th and Amsterdam. He went to the grade school that used to be part of the church now supporting his back. That’s why they let him stay there. The old Monseigneur remembered him as altar boy and student. They had

offered him a room in exchange for some snow shoveling and odd jobs but he didn’t want it. His family was really screwed up he said. His hand and collar bone were broken when he was 9 years old trying to keep his drunk-out-of-his-mind father from breaking his mother’s head. He never made it out of high school and enlisted as soon as he could. He did two tours in Vietnam and somehow managed to come back in one piece. Pieces that could be seen anyway. When he came back he stayed with friends. Worked bartender jobs at two locals. One closed and became a fruit and vegetable stand and the other became some sort of “fancy schmantzy” restaurant. Got another bartender spot but by then his drinking was pretty much running him and he got sick. Friends got him a doorman job at Bergdorf Goodman and he got fired. They found him another one at a high rise complex in the neighborhood. The same friends got him into some counseling for PTSD through a Vet program. Maybe 30 years too late, huh? He got fired from the last job; got sick; friends got sick and tired and badda bing badda boom. Then he started talking about Vietnam. At first he laughed about it. When he first came back he couldn’t sleep in a bed. Had to sleep on the floor. Preferred squatting to sitting in chairs. He chuckled when he talked about walking through open spaces with Vietnamese soldiers and being the tallest guy there just aching to be picked off. When you were on duty, drowning in dampness, shhh quiet and don’t move, you’d be so bored you’d hope two mosquitos would land on your arm and start “doing it” just so you could watch. He began really laughing when he told the story about the old farmer trying to herd his only cow away from the American troops he had wandered in on. Hey, he was a diversion. Something to do. As he told the story he mimicked the high, pleading voice of the farmer. Then – wow! Done! One of his buddies just vaporized the cow! The old guy was okay except for the splatter but the cow – gone. He was laughing so hard he started to shake. The rectory curtains twitched. Not laughing this time but still shaking, he repeated the story. He confessed that with all he’d seen and all he’d done that that was what tucked him in, woke him up and crouched on his shoulders as he walked. What they did to that cow and to that old man. That’s the thing that stayed with him. He thanked her for never asking if he’d ever killed anyone. Did people really ask him 36

that? He didn’t answer. By February she’d gotten him a sleeping bag, hat, gloves, boots and blankets. He wouldn’t go into the rectory and wouldn’t be sheltered. Would not! She and the Monseigneur and the priests had a nodding acquaintanceship as they checked on him and brought food. He was doing okay, holding his own. No one knew where he went during the day. She continued to stop by once-a-week. On February 13, she was getting ready to head out and he asked her if she could come back the next day. It’s Valentine’s Day, you know. Sure she said and asked him what he’d like for dinner. Something special? He wanted two peanut butter and jelly sandwiches (wrapped in wax paper, not saran) with some chocolate chip cookies and a quart of milk. Okay. Will do. See you tomorrow. She saw the blue and red lights as soon as she turned the corner from the “Bagel Nosh.” There was a small crowd across the street. She found the Monseigneur. Joseph Bartholomew Crane was dead. His throat had been cut or something. From the rectory they heard a scuffle; looked out and called the police. She passed by just outside the police tape and with their strong lights was able to see down the alley. His body had been bagged. Where was his sleeping bag? Was this for a sleeping bag? A few feet from him there was a red rose wrapped in cellophane with a red ribbon tied around the middle. She continued down the street towards Columbus; trashed the sandwiches, cookies and milk; walked up to 72nd; back over to Broadway and took the Number One to Chinatown and walked over to Little Italy. She went to the alley behind the restaurant and sat on the chair that had been placed a while ago for her. She saw the owner see her through the steamy kitchen window. He came out with wine. What? Do you want to talk? She didn’t; shaking her head. Do you want to come inside and be warm? No, just to sit and sip and thank you. Wait here. We have something for you. It will take a bit. We didn’t know if you were coming. Waiters took turns coming out and refilling her glass. They would smoke and not say anything. A couple put a hand on her shoulder before they went back in. The chair was placed as far away from the dumpsters as possible but she could still hear the rats scurrying around, impatient for her to leave. Too bad, rats, you’re just going to have to wait. They’d put the chair under this sumac tree that somehow man37

aged to grow up through the old alley’s cobblestones; its roots pulling up a few. That was a feat even for a sumac. Some of the busboys and waiters had cleared out a patch around it and used the cobblestones to make a garden at its base. In the summer they put in some impatiens and coleus. In the warm weather there were a couple more chairs. Two wine crates stacked on top of each other were a table. The owner and the chef came out. They had a big shopping bag. They’d made one of her favorites and packed it up for her. There was the calamari starter she loved and a cannoli for the finish. Their favorite bottle of Chianti was included. A good one. Very good. Then she saw the red rose wrapped in cellophane and tied with a red ribbon. The owner told her they were sending her home with a car service. It was St. Valentine’s Day! The black Lincoln Town Car was waiting out front. The owner seated her in the back and gave the instructions in Italian to the driver. He told her the calamari was in the small box on the top. Handing her a red cotton napkin with a small fork wrapped inside, he waggled his finger and told her to eat the calamari on the ride uptown or to just throw it out. It would be ruined if she waited. She smiled at him. The calamari was always a beneficence. The texture perfect with not too much breading. It always made her think of paper thin lemon slices floating on a perfectly salted ocean. Then the owner leaned in and kissed her gently atop her head. They would see her soon. Yes? The driver walked her to her building and held the bag as she unlocked the door. No, he would take no money from her. All was taken care of. Did she need help getting the bag upstairs? No. Thank you so much. She walked up the lopsided stairs narrow enough so that she could lean on the wall with the food bag in one hand and still keep the other hand on the railing. From the first floor front apartment of the old brownstone she heard Julia’s television. In the back, Peter’s opera. On the second floor, Allen’s rear apartment was quiet as he worked on a lighting design for some show and next to him, in the front, Dennis was having a Valentine’s Day party. On her third floor in the front Joe was still out. Looking for love. She opened her door; ate a bit of the food and then a bit more. The wine was amazing. Looking out her window she saw that the three sumacs in the backyard were snow dusted. Peter, two floors down under the overhang of his small 38

patio, played his violin. She cracked the window and the music was balm. Peter never played for long, never at rude times and was really, really good. She ran the cannoli upstairs to Mrs. Turgeon and hoped she hadn’t awakened Ahmed, her neighbor above, who woke up early to head to the Bronx to teach 5th graders. She went back down to her apartment. She closed the door behind her and began to write his story.

Dying to Live By Nathan Richardson It’s places like this, and times like these, that can make bartenders and waitstaff consider changing careers. It isn’t because management redesigned the shirts or overhauled the menu. It’s not because of new ownership or regulations. Instead, it happens when the customers start dragging themselves, and their problems, around like they’re heading to their own funerals. This little place has its share of local patrons like that. It’s to be expected when working in a small place like this one with a centrally located bar and a nautical-themed dining room that overlooks a tidal river and the bay. In the summer, this part of town is awash in tourists. They coalesce here all season long. Some of the locals wonder if tourists actually multiply like amoebas. They don’t. It only looks that way when your town goes from 1,200 residents in March to 6,000 people in June. Nonetheless, the staff in this shack are efficient, serving endless trays of fried seafood and countless draught beers. They buzz like an ant colony during lunch rushes. On slow nights like tonight, they often soak in the relaxed feelings. Though, slow nights in late summer mean only one thing: stories. The bartender cleans glasses and organizes supplies while stealing views of the river. There’s a little light coming from a few boats and some paper lanterns on the dock. While making a list of supplies to order, the bartender catches a conversation. There’s a patron seated nearby wearing a sports coat with elbow pads and a necktie he’s loosened who is starting to tell a story. It’s Thursday. This is the third time this week the bartender has heard this story. It doesn’t matter. The patron tells it with the same enthusiasm each time. Yet, each time, the emotions are different. It always starts the same. And, when the bartender hears the patron say, “Listen to this, I’ll tell you a story alright…” the cleaning and organizing are set aside. The bartender draws a seltzer and leans in to listen unapologetically. Here’s what they heard. *** He always replies with, “Everyone wants the story, and an autograph.” Then he laughs a little. He thinks he’s some kind of celebrity. After they leave, he acts as though the requests bother him. He gets really quiet and stares off into the distance blankly 40

for a minute. And, when he looks back, he sort of looks like he’s about to cry. Maybe it’s because he knows the truth, even though he acts as if people actually want to talk to him. As if people actually like my brother, the doctor. We’re different, he and I. Personally, I hate the spotlight. It’s why I teach more than anything these days. But my brother? Oh, he loves the attention. Truth be told, every time someone asks him about what happened, he smiles like a kid on Christmas and moves is sunglasses up over his forehead. He’d tell the story twice if anybody’d stick around. His face lights up every time he tells it. But, unfortunately, for him, nobody asks about it anymore. That’s just how things are these days. People don’t care like they used to. They rush straight to the next big thing. It’s the same as when kids want to be teenagers and teenagers want to be adults. Older generations keep telling younger ones to grow up, to hurry up, and get it together. So, we have this culture where people don’t pay attention for long. They feel rushed toward responsibilities they didn’t ask for. Right about now you probably want to know what really happened. Funny, none of the newspapers will cover it anymore. It’s old news; all the glitter’s gone. The winners—you know, the ones who always win—have already taken their trophies home. If my brother’s story were a high school dance, they would’ve already stopped the music, turned on the lights, and folded up the chairs by now. But, me? I’ve grown to like telling this story. So, I’ll stick around and tell it again if you’ll order another round. And, if your tender spouse doesn’t mind a kid like you coming home late smelling of beer, fried fish, and disappointment. Here goes. My little brother loves himself, especially his looks. He always has. I guess that’s why he decided to specialize in med school. He wanted to work with people’s looks. You know, he thought he could help people be beautiful. He finished school and opened this little practice. He was so new that my aunt Lucinda, a retired nurse, still called to ask him about his residency, even though it was over. Lucinda—she raises chickens and builds dulcimers now—still talks to my brother like he’s a kid. It was always the same thing, always something like this: She’d ask, “How’s the hospital? Are you comfortable? Has the food in the café improved? Does it still smell like a coun41

ty fair?” He’d reply, “I’m good, really. Out on my own now. And no, it hasn’t changed. I’ll drop by for coffee sometimes, just to say hi. They ask about you whenever I’m there.” “I’m glad. It was a good start for you. Don’t let your ego screw it up.” “My ego? Never.” My brother would laugh and they’d made small talk. “Is Deborah still at the hospital?” My aunt would ask about an old friend. “Debbie, the preceptor? Yeah, Debbie’s there. She’s all smiles, but she limps now from a bike accident last fall.” “Oh God! Well, say hello for me, tell her to call me. And take care of yourself.” With that my aunt would hang up. Back to his practice. He had this pocket-sized office with pastel walls and these bright paintings from local artists hanging all over the place. It was real welcoming. It sat alone on a grassy hill with a well-lit parking lot overlooking this town. It had great views of the sunset from the picture window in the waiting room. Things should have been good, right? But business was slow. I mean really slow. He had hardly any patients. Hard to get started. Impossible even. But why? He was good, I mean really good, and handsome too, which my brother says is important in his line of work. You know, he’s tall, clean-shaven, has a strong jawline. He’s lovable. But he couldn’t get going. He knew he had to change something or loans and insurance would sink him. He tried advertising online, on the radio, even in those free alternative newspapers. No luck. It must have gotten in his head that he wasn’t any good. Something changed in him. He started lurking around the office after hours and on Sunday nights trying to figure out how to keep his head above water. One night, he and I come here after work to blow off some steam. I finished my beer and went home to my wife around eight, but my brother stayed and continued to think about his situation over a few more drinks. About an hour before last call, and three stools to your left, he had this idea. He was already injecting folks with botulinum—you know, Botox—it was his only bread and butter. These tiny needles that make tiny wrinkles just go away. He had a few patients who loved the stuff, but it wasn’t enough. So, he thought and he read and he researched. Then he mixed and tested and formulated and stayed up all hours. He got no sleep for three days. By this 42

point he was looking pretty raggedy. His hair was all wiry and on -end. He was sweaty and a little pale. He wasn’t eating. His receptionist, Jean, was worried about him. “Doc, you alright?” she asked as she prepared to leave the office on the third night. “Fine. I am fine,” replied my brother without looking up from his desk. It was covered in charts and textbooks. The only personal item was a small framed picture of our dad. “Say, listen, I’m not a therapist, but you should probably go home. You know, rest, maybe shower, and maybe eat something? It’ll do you some good.” “I said, I…Am…Fine…Jean. Thank you very much,” snapped my brother. “I’m picking up Chinese for Steve and me, can I bring you something?” “Good night Jean,” my brother replied with his teeth still touching, his eyes focused downward. They were both silent for a moment. Jean asked, “You sure?” His tone relaxed. “Sorry, you didn’t deserve that. But yes. I am sure. I have to be.” “See you tomorrow then,” said Jean as she left. Then, about an hour later he figured it out. He found the right mix and developed this anti-Botox. I’m an architect by trade, not a chemist, so it’s hard for me to explain. But basically, this stuff, which he called Dignify, helped young people look older. Strange, right? But the stuff was an instant hit. Overnight, he was booked up solid for nine months. Young people from all over scrambled to make an appointment. There was a guy in his 20s who drove his dad’s rusty pickup from Michigan for treatment, and a newlywed couple that flew in from Santa Clara just long enough for their appointments. These people wanted to stop being called kid or baby. There were guys who were in great shape that wanted to add a distinguished touch of gray to their slicked-back hair and a few thoughtful wrinkles to their foreheads. They thought women would find it sexy. There were some women who started to feel that if they could add five years to their appearance, men would stop treating them differently in the office. And you know, it actually worked. Well, maybe not exactly as everybody planned. Not all the guys went gray, some went bald, and a few of them got fat. Some of the women made progress professionally, but they would have anyway. Some 43

other women found themselves still stuck working with executives who couldn’t find their asses with both hands. But overall, everyone was happy. They finally felt like real adults. This was great, right? Everything was roses for my brother for a while. There were more and more patients, which meant more and more money. Lots of money. He was an instant success with this stuff. But all that changed after about a year. One of his first patients was this 30-year-old guy. He was a new father but he smiled a lot because his Dignify treatment made him look 52. His hair had more gray than brown and he had these deep lines at the corners of his eyes. He was so happy he didn’t think twice when he had to get glasses for the first time. Then, while out running errands he had a heart attack and collapsed right in the produce section of a Whole Foods. Just like that. Boom. He was dead by time the ambulance arrived. Poor guy was just buying a fruit bowl for a baby shower. It happened to another former patient the following week—then another, and another. These patients started dropping left and right. In six weeks, Dignify buried 85 people. I remember my brother called to tell me about how bad it was. “I don’t know what’s happening,” he said desperately. “This isn’t how it’s supposed to work! It turns out, Dignify doesn’t just make you look older. There’s something in it that actually speeds up the body’s urge to die!” Poor kids, I thought. The papers started reporting that these people were killing themselves to look like their parents. My brother’s no idiot. He knew he had to make this right. He went over his formulas and his calculations again and again and again. He stayed in his office well past midnight alone. Jean quit after the tenth death. On her way out the door for the last time she turned back to my brother and looked him dead in the eye and said “I trusted you.” She walked right out at lunchtime on a Thursday. She couldn’t have gotten any more involved. After Jean left, my brother was alone at his desk with his formulas, charts, and textbooks, and that picture of Dad. Dad had died two years earlier, exactly eight months after retiring from a fruitful career as a real estate attorney. Mom found him one morning, covered in kerosene, face down in the driveway by the garage door. When I got the call from my sister with the news, we all assumed dad suffered an accident while working on his retirement project, his prized ’71 Nova. But my brother, who didn’t cry at all that day, was the one to point out, “No man gets 44

that much kerosene on himself without planning to selfimmolate.” I didn’t like the idea of my father’s suicide attempt, but why else did my dad have a lighter in his hand? He’d quit smoking the year before he retired. It stuck with my brother. He never shook it. My brother felt like he never got out of dad’s shadow. And, Dignify backed him into a corner under that shadow. His last hope was a family friend. This guy was one of dad’s old army buddies. He was a retired doctor working with the Board and med school grads preparing for their exams. He called this friend to put in a good word with the Board. But of course, the Board was this scruffy bunch of old white guys in white lab coats and wire glasses that saw my brother’s work as a threat to their reputations. He’d hoped they could help. They didn’t. They decided to take away his license, forcing him to close his practice. Then, they called the government. They had to. The government didn’t like it either. Overnight, the government froze his bank account, staked out his house, taped his phone, and started reading his mail. The whole thing looked like it really couldn’t get any worse. Then, when it was looking like they’d arrest him, lock him up, maybe even execute him, these guys—tall, expressionless guys with dark glasses and black suits who were driving unmarked SUVs, you know, the whole nine yards—show up at his house on a Tuesday morning. It was just another business day for these guys, but it looked like the end for my brother. These guys were robotic and well-rehearsed in the way they approached the front door. Again, it was just business. They flashed their badges and their guns and accepted only one-word answers as my brother’s face nearly fell off because of the fear. He let them in because he had no choice really. What could he do at that point? Tell them no? They directed him to his own living room and started asking more questions. After 20 minutes and satisfied with the answers, the leader of the group took off his mirrored sunglasses and looked at my brother. “Good, son, good.” He grinned with just one corner of his mouth and continued, “Listen close son. Here’s what happens next.” Turns out, the government wanted to buy Dignify. So, they talked over coffee and powdered donuts. The Feds had flipped a coin before they got to my brother’s house to decide who would run errands for the group, like kids playing a football game. They sent a guy to go pick up coffees and donuts while 45

their boss was interrogating my brother. Who knew they flip a coin for things like these? But the whole thing started to feel like visiting your grandma. They told him he’d be protected, that they’d drop all charges. Just like that. They agreed to dismiss all of his debts and pay him enough to retire and stay retired. My brother was dumbfounded, so he asked the guy, “How do I know you’re telling the truth? How do I know this isn’t a setup? That you won’t just lock me up, or shoot me?” The Feds were silent. Their boss put down his coffee, leaned back, and rubbed his silvery military haircut. “Do you want to call a lawyer, son?” he asked my brother, “Would that help? Be my guest.” My brother reached for his phone on the counter. The Fed smiled, “Every attorney from here to Springfield probably won’t talk to you though. We’ve already spoken to them. They know what you’ve done.” My brother was stunned. “Can I call my brother then? Just for a second opinion?” “Sure, take your time, son. Take your time.” None of the agents moved an inch. So, he called me. I was in my office grading exams. The whole thing was too unbelievable for me. What could I say? I told him, “Ask why, and if you like their reason go for it.” With that my brother hung up. He turned to the Fed and asked, “What do you want it for anyway?” The Fed looked at him and said, “Son, the government is interested in exclusive production rights and intellectual property. It’s that simple.” They went on to tell him they want to use this stuff in the next world war. Sure, there isn’t one now, but, you know, they want to be prepared—just in case. With that, my brother agreed to their offer. That was it. That damn little brother of mine cashed out. He got away with it. Where is he now? Oh, living on a sunny, tree -covered island half the year, with no need for shoes, slowly sipping fancy drinks and eating freshly shucked oysters. He just married this tall, slender woman with a silky baritone voice who’s a few years older than him. They had a short engagement, but a really nice wedding, great band, lots of people—some folks I didn’t even know. We all gathered under this big white tent a stone’s throw from the beach. I don’t think my wife and I got back to our 46

hotel room much before midnight. As we were packing up the next day and saying our goodbyes, I had a chance to chat with my new sister-in-law. I asked her why she married my brother. She laughed. She smiled this welcoming smile and her eyes lit up. You know what her reply was? She said, “I don’t know, it’s because he looks dignified.” *** With the story complete, the bartender pours another seltzer. The bar is stocked with every liquor any beach-bound, lobster -loving, customer could want, even if they asked by saying, “Hey barkeep, this drink’s a little light. I’m on vacation you know. I don’t want trouble; I’m just trying to have a good time.” The bartender looks around at the options, looking for something to add to the seltzer. Whiskey? Scotch? No, nothing. Nothing tonight at least. The bartender looks out onto the dining room. The waitstaff are cleaning or rolling silverware into napkins for tomorrow’s lunch rush. All of the customers left, except for the patron who was telling the story. “Hi, bartender, excuse me,” calls the patron. “What’s up? Another round?” “Nah, I’m good. I’ll take a ginger ale and square up with you after that, okay?” “Sure, no problem.” The bartender fills a glass and prints the check. The patron turns his back to the bar while waiting. “Here you go. And, here’s the check whenever you’re ready. No rush.” “Hey, thanks,” says the patron reaching around for the glass and taking a long sip. “Sure. Also, sorry to hear about your dad.” “Hey thanks. That’s real nice of you.” The patron and the bartender look at each other briefly before turning their attentions toward the bay. There’s a faint smell of saltwater floating into the bar. In the distance, blurry balls of light bounce gently. The tide is in and it rocks the boats, and their passengers, to sleep. A gull cries. A few lights go out. “You see that,” says the patron pointing toward the bay, taking another sip. “The lights?” “Yeah, the lights.” “Okay, they’re here every night. What about them? “They’re here, sure. They shine nightly, until they don’t. Those lights make me think of people like us. We’ll shine for a 47

bit. Then, poof, we’re out. Just like that.” They look toward the water in silence. The patron finishes his soda, stands up, and tightens his tie. He reaches into his coat and leaves enough cash for a generous tip. Once at the door, he turns and waves to the bartender. Then, he slips into the night. The bartender is left with an empty bar as a few more lights on the water bob, and sway, and go out.

Rich With Love By Ella Underwood James Harris trudged along the slush-covered cobblestone sidewalks of Brooklyn towards his apartment complex. The bitter January air suddenly became warm and fragrant with the smell of fresh dough and basil as James passed Marcell’s Pizzeria just a couple of doors before his own. Glancing up at the red and green glowing “open” sign above his head, he made his way inside to grab a slice for himself and his wife, who awaited his return back home. The glass door chimed a soft jingle as James entered the quiet restaurant. Tables that were once full of chatting patrons and laughing businessmen playing poker and drinking ale were now completely empty. Making his way past the deserted dining room, James headed towards the back counter and met eyes with a familiar face. “Good to see you, my friend. It sure has been a while since you and your lady have come by to see this poor old man.” Marcelle spoke with a certain stillness to his voice but flashed a warm and welcoming grin as a cigar waved from the opposite side of his mouth. James nodded in agreement and gazed towards the checkered floor as he searched for the right words to explain his recent absence. “I can see the restaurant is hurting just as badly as our shop is downtown. We’ve been working long days on the streets trying to make sales; shoe polish, sewing kits, children’s toys, all the usual bits and bobs. It’s just hard to sell anything when nobody’s got the cash for buying.” Marcelle looked around his vacant shop and let out an exasperated sigh. “All we can do is keep going and hope Hoover can get this turned around. A few more months of this and I might have to shut down completely.” James smiled empathetically, reached his hand into his pocket, and set the last 15 cents he had onto the counter. “Betty and I might not be regulars anymore given the circumstances, but we still need to eat tonight. I’d like two slices and a cola, please.” Marcelle graciously packaged the food and bid James farewell as he stepped back out into the brisk night toward his red brick apartment complex. 49

Reaching the top of the narrow cement and plaster-walled staircase, James shifted his items to his right hand and gently rattled the creaky apartment door. Inside, Betty was sitting at the kitchen table peacefully hemming a pair of well-worn trousers by candlelight. Her bright red hair, tightly wrapped in curlers, appeared to be on fire in the illuminating glow of the room and against her cream-colored frock. Seeing James in the doorway, a relieved smile grew on Betty’s face as she set down her project and came to his aid. “Good to see you, dear. You gave me quite a surprise coming in like that, and so late! Months of these endless days behind us and I’m still not used to it one bit. I was beginning to worry about when you’d return,” Betty exclaimed nervously as she began taking the food from James and started putting it on plates for the two. “I’m sorry for giving you a fright, darling. With how poorly business is going lately I feel that there are many more nights like this one to come. I’m hopeful that our old favorite from Marcelle’s will do our spirits well.” James forced a smile in the hopes of reassuring Betty as they sat down to the table. Betty looked longingly over the thought of James’ anticipated work schedule but met eyes with him and nodded with acceptance. “It sure has been a while since we’ve been treated to this kind of meal. Thank you for the surprise, James. Do you think tomorrow will be better? With sales, I mean?” James glanced down toward his plate and let out a quiet exhale. “I’m afraid it won’t be. Everyone is struggling to keep a roof over their heads and meals on the table just as we are. Nobody has extra coin to buy the kind of things I sell at the shop or along the street corner. I don’t want you to worry, though. I’ll figure out a way for us to get by until the economy picks back up. The work you’re doing here and the projects you’ve been working on for the neighbors help more than sufficiently to keep us in good financial and comfortable standings.” James reached for Betty’s hand and this time the two shared a more genuine moment of understanding and hope after their conversation. As it was decided, James would try working in more wealthy areas of the city to promote sales, and Betty would expand her services by selling her baked goods, quilts, and handwoven baskets within the building. The next morning, James went to work with a newfound 50

sense of confidence that was quickly diminished upon his arrival. After meeting with his boss, Bill, to discuss trying a new location for the day, he was met with unfortunate news that he would no longer be needed in the shop. James’ stomach dropped as he was told that with how poorly the store was doing recently, they had to let go of about half of their salesmen for the time being. “Just for now, until we can get back to where we were. I know this is a huge loss for you and the wife, but I simply can’t afford to keep you,” Bill stated sorrowfully. James swallowed the lump that was rapidly growing in the back of his throat, shook Bill’s hand, and threw himself down on a snow-covered bench outside along the street as he thought of how to break the news to Betty. “How am I ever going to take care of us now? We’ll surely lose our home now that I have no way to provide the coin it takes to survive…” Choosing to consult Betty over wallowing alone as the city of New York bustled around him, James decided to head back home. When he entered the impossibly tiny but well-kept apartment where they resided, the two exchanged glances and Betty immediately knew what had happened. Walking to James and embracing him in a hug, she cupped his cold wintery face in her warm hands as she spoke. “We can make this work, sweetheart. I’ll just have to start making larger batches of almond cake and cookies. Mrs. Brown who lives down the hall told me today she’d love to get some baskets to carry with her when she goes to the farmers market and…“ Betty wasn’t finished talking, but James got an idea after hearing about the farmer’s market and began to drift off into thought. “What if we were to set up our own stand at the farmers market? I could sell what’s left of my products from the shop, and Betty’s homemade treats would surely do well in a market!” James attentively listened to Betty finish discussing what the other tenants might be interested in purchasing and decided to offer his idea surrounding the market square. With a charming grin on his face, James discussed with Betty his idea. At first a little hesitant, Betty wasn’t sure if they would have any luck opening a stand at the farmers market with how badly other businesses were hurting for customers. James became more serious in 51

regard to her concerns but spoke confidently on how he believed being in charge of their prices and marketing needed necessities would make their venture more successful. Betty nodded and took a moment to process everything they had discussed over the last few minutes. “I know it’s worrisome to stray from our past ways, but it’s time to start trying something new. I have the experience with sales to be able to get us started, and you have many considerably valuable products to offer the public,” James concluded as he waited for Betty to give her input. Betty held her breath for a moment and suddenly seemed to appear more confident in their plan. With a smile and a sense of nervous excitement in her voice, Betty agreed to James’ newly proposed business venture. “Lets try it! If it doesn’t work, at least we know we’ll still be rich with love at the end of each day.” The two shared a lighthearted laugh over Betty’s banter and immediately jumped into planning their strategy for their work at the market square. In the same week, James gained permission to set up, prepared signs, and worked on creating a stand that would hold their for-sale goods. Betty gathered her previous earnings and started buying ingredients for baking her best pastries, desserts, and breads. After a few days of preparations, they arrived in the market square on Saturday morning bundled warmly for the harsh weather and anxiously awaited their first customer. A few minutes passed and James got up to hang a sign on the front of the stand. It read, “Rich with Love: Local Goods from Our Home to Yours.” Despite a less than abundant supply of items to start out with, James and Betty strived to make sure the products they did carry were high-quality and reasonably priced. Most importantly, each item was indeed made with love. Betty peered out from under the cover of the sheltered area and giggled at James’ sign. “That’s right, all of my treats are made with love- and lots of margarine in the baked goodies!” After just one weekend downtown, James and Betty’s stand became one of the most talked about shops in the market. They quickly grew popularity for their affordable prices, practical goods, and family-oriented atmosphere. As the weeks passed and business continued to be successful at Rich with Love, James decided that he wouldn’t need to go back to working for Bill at all. Betty loved being able to showcase her talents, help the communi52

ty, and having the chance to work alongside her husband on something they built together. While times were still hard and days of challenge and struggle were sure to lie ahead, the two were able to keep their home, work as a team on their new business venture, and ultimately bring people together in a way that they had never expected. Lastly and perhaps most crucially of all, James and Betty realized that the love they shared even in times of hardship was plentiful enough to make them both feel rich in the things that mattered most.

Contributors Joshua Birden is currently a senior in the Fine Arts program at UMPI. Joshua primarily enjoys drawing with pen and paper, but also has a passion for graphic design and digital art. Paul Charles is an English major who loves music, art, literature, and the connections between them. Margaret Dickinson is from Lisbon Falls, Maine. She is a Senior in the Elementary Education program at UMPI and has a concentration in Special Education. Margaret is a member of both the volleyball and track teams at UMPI and loves to read in her spare time. Sarah Draper is a recent graduate and earned a Bachelor's in English and a Bachelor's in History. She took many creative writing classes in her time at UMPI, including Eng 312 in Fall 2020, and plans on continuing her education in both the English and the History fields. Sarah Harris is a senior in the English program at UMPI, with a few more credits needed before graduating. Along with creative writing, her passions are reading, editing, and being a plant mom. Pat Karpen takes classes at UMPI. She is grateful to the school for its gifts and to her professors for the magic. Ines Ngoga is a senior majoring in Biology with a PreMed concentration. She enjoys reading, writing, watching Criminal Minds and hanging out with her friends and family. Her career goal is becoming a pediatrician. Manish Pandey is a senior majoring in Business Administration with a minor in English. When he's not reading books, he's reading about books on the Web or watching cricket.

Nathan Richardson is an English major completing his final semester at UMPI. He is a two-time member of the Dean’s List for highest honors and 2021 STC Sigma Tau Chi Honor Society inductee. While at UMPI, Nathan has studied professional, fiction, and nonfiction writing. Callie Rogers is an English major at UMPI. In addition to writing and editing, she enjoys reading, traveling, and spending time with her cat. April Sarasin is a senior pursuing a major in Liberal Arts with a minor in English. Taking several writing classes has enhanced her writing skills and provided a creative outlet through poetry. April is the mother of four and grandmother of five. Graduating in the Spring of 2021 will be the realization of her lifelong dream. Ella Underwood is an UMPI sophomore majoring in Elementary Education. She has a passion for writing and art, and hopes to regularly incoporate both into her future classrooms.