The William & Mary Review Vol. 53 by William and Mary Review

The William & Mary Review

Volume 53

The William & Mary Review

2015

Volume 53 2015

The William & Mary Review

Volume 53 2015

Masthead Editor-in-Chief Claire Gillespie Art Editor Emily Douglas Poetry Editors Nicholas Gupta Sarah Schuster Poetry Staff Paige Bermudez* Rachel Brown Frank Fucile Max Miroff Mary-Grace Rusnak Aidan Selmer* Prose Editors Libby Addison Cameron Menchel Prose Staff Izzy Hossain James Kaplan* Mia O’Neill Colin Weinshenker Bezi Yohannes *Denotes art staff

Cover: “A Man Looking Over the River Seine,” Nick Savides The William & Mary Review (ISSN: 0043-5600) is published by The College of William and Mary in Virginia (est. 1693) once each academic year. A single, post-paid issue is $5.50. A surcharge of $1.50 applies for subscriptions mailed outside of the United States of America. The William & Mary Review publishes poetry, prose, and visual art. Please find submission guidelines on our website: www.wmreview.org. This issue of The William & Mary Review was typeset in Minion Pro, Goudy, and Calibri and was printed by Fidelity Printing. Copyright 2015

Editorâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s note It is my pleasure to present the 53rd edition of The William & Mary Review to you. Our artists, authors, and staff have worked hard on this magazine, and what results is an accomplishment. Each solitary story, poem, and work of art that lies in these pages came here by way of discourse. Our poetry, prose, and art staffs have had lively debates about the merits of these pieces. Our editors have had a dialogue with each author or artist. The pieces themselves are inspired by the numerous interchanges that make up our daily lives. When you, reader, not only read but carefully consider the work that follows, you, too, enter into a discourse with our little magazine. This year, The Review has again made great strides. For the first time ever, four staff members attended the Association for Writers and Writing Programs Conference to learn about publishing and represent The Review to a larger literary audience. Our website, www.wmreview.org, continues to grow and our blog has lengthened. Our submissions have increased. These accolades are important and deserve to be celebrated. However, we must also celebrate the camaraderie created on The Review staff, a camaraderie that leads to a deeper discourse about art, literature, and the pursuit of both. I now invite you to join in this discussion with the work that follows. By doing so, you enter into a relationship with The William & Mary Review, one that I hope will be as fruitful and fulfilling as it has been for me. Sincerely, Claire Gillespie Editor-in-chief

Table of Contents Narcissus Pool art by Suejin Jo

Emerge

a poem by Sofia Starnes

A Game Board a poem by Mary Mallek Haines

Recovery art by Kara Sheehan

a poem by Simon Perchik

The Louvre Badlands at Sunrise art by Nick Savides

The High, Fluttering, Silver-Like Tones of a Piccolo a short story by Karl Harshbarger

The Marine Road art by Lia Ali

Iris

art by Arthur Kvarnstrom

Baptism a short story by Timothy Dodd

Time travellers 3 art by Mark Pol

Intercontinental Investigations, Washington, DC a short story by Michael Faia

Fortune in the Future art by Mark Pol

She & I (& lessons learned): deviling eggs a poem by Shelby Wolfe

Pretty

art by Kara Sheehan

Normandy art by Toni Silber-Delerive

E...li...se... a poem by Kelly Talbot

Dew Drops art by Wendy Winkler

A Body

a poem by Julia Travers

A Make-Believe Story from FOB Hammer, Iraq a poem by Paul David Adkins

Grannies Singing for Peace art by Regina Silvers

Horseshoes a poem by Timothy Dodd

Fear

a poem by John McKernan

Cormorant a poem by Susan Maurer

Sau Paulo. Brazil art by Toni Silber-Delerive

Contributorâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s notes

Narcissus Pool BY SUEJIN JO

Emerge BY SOFIA STARNES

At times this brings a stork, past rains, abandoning a tower; at times a bubble dying in a pond. I hear the word emerge and see a fern or a feather; the first one wild and wispy, to cure a wound, the role of ancient grasses; the other, trail of a bird, slim fan or lady’s purse— the kind fairy tales gather. Does not your heart, weary from things apparent, ask what each storyline will tell, which words carry their roots with candor? Secrets would hunker down, safe in their winter castles, were it not— for the prophetic stem, weighty with beans that rides its pole for air, for what we sense of seeds, soft inches down, fussing our veins awake, for every bone that pulls the body alert, to learn its fragile face. But what about our hands, the ones we excuse from light, deep in our pockets? With chambers dark, I think, the dark is change, is key.

A Game Board BY MARY MALLEK HAINES

I. A father bets heavily on his son, the mother prone to equal bids. A thrifty dad, ours shunned money talk. But how he sang, happy on whiskey sours: I wish I were single, my pockets would jingle. I wish I were single again. II. In Antonia Fortress Roman soldiers engraved a game board in stoneâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; each move a reminder. They rolled dice for the Rebelâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s crimson cloak. III. A mother divided herself among her children, but like an orange shared, not always equal the division, not always sweet an investment. She has yet to retrieve her thought, her vision. IV. That each of us dies for love is poetry enough.

V. The Father wagered on the sonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s fall. Sure he knew where the mother would stand, looking up at broken flesh. Tears kissed the ground and the earth shook, before it opened.

Recovery BY KARA SHEEHAN

* BY SIMON PERCHIK

You no longer dig for shadows as if this hillside depends on you for water—what you hear is trapped between two suns one circling the other till nothing’s left but the afternoon and beneath letting its pieces fall off—you dead are always listening for the gesture the lowering that sweeps in those pebbles mourners leave as words, overflowing, certain now is the time—it’s not the time this dirt is afraid to open become a rain again, be a sky let it speak by throwing the Earth and over your shoulder, eyes closed though there is no grass and your arms a Weber, Miller, Marie.

Badlands at Sunrise BY NICK SAVIDES

The Louvre 13

The High, Fluttering, Silver-Like Tones of a Piccolo By Karl Harshbarger

“So, ready?” said the husband at the hotel’s entrance. “Ready!” said the wife. As they walked away from their hotel up the narrow street in Krakow, Poland, they held hands. Why? Well, because even after thirty years of marriage they were still in love. That is, more or less. Sometimes more and sometimes less. “Oh,” said the wife after they had walked several blocks, “do you think this the right way?” “Well, I think so,” said the husband. But after they had walked another block he said, “Actually, I’m not so sure.” “I’m not so sure, either.” “I’ll just check the map.” The husband pulled out the brightly colored city map which the clerk at the reception desk at the hotel had given them and they both, husband and wife together, looked at it. “Hmm,” said the husband. “Well, the layout of the streets is confusing.” “But I guess this is the wrong way.” So, correcting themselves, or, at least, thinking they had corrected themselves, they turned and walked in the opposite direction, passing their hotel again and continuing along the narrow street until they came to a bigger street with tram tracks running up and down its center and actual trams running on the tracks. “This must be our street,” said the husband pulling out his brightly 14

colored city map and looking at it again. “Yes, I think so,” said the wife. “For sure it is,” said the husband putting the map away. “So, ready?” “Ready!” As they walked along the sidewalk of the bigger street they took each other’s hands. And in one way it was fortunate that they held hands because before very long they found themselves in among more and more people on the sidewalk – all walking, for some reason, in the same direction they were walking. And ahead of them they began to hear the happy, lilting music of a marching band, punctuated by the high, fluttering, silver-like tone of a piccolo. “So, what’s going on?” said the husband having to slow down because of all the people around him. “I don’t know,” answered the wife. “Well, something.” “Yes, surely something.” They – and all the other people walking in the same direction they were walking – reached a big, broad avenue with tram tracks branching out into islands of tram stations. The husband and the wife paused at the edge of the avenue waiting for the pedestrian lights to change, but suddenly the crowd surged forward and they really had no choice but to allow themselves to be propelled across the street. And ahead of them they saw it, their goal for the day: the symmetric, imperial, majestic buildings of the central square. But all around those buildings and in front of those buildings, in fact, everywhere, they saw thousands and thousands of people. “So, what is going on?” said the husband. “I don’t know,” said the wife. Making sure they were grasping hands tightly they stepped into the crowd and immediately they were jostled forward along a wide sidewalk lined by a myriad of festival booths, one selling candles, another selling toy soldiers, another selling candied mints, and another selling hot waffles with cream. “Oh!” said the wife pulling the husband toward one booth. “Look!” The husband saw, over the heads of others standing in front of the 15

booth, bolts of cloth in different colors hung against the back of the booth. The proprietor of the booth, a rather large, chunky woman, wearing a bright, yellow vest over her red blouse, was talking to one of her many customers. “You know,” said the wife to the husband, “do you see? I think this is the best kind of cotton. I’ve read about it in a magazine. Would you mind?” The husband immediately knew what she meant. It was an old agreement between them. In saying, “Would you mind?” she was asking him whether he would mind waiting a few minutes – or usually a lot more than a few minutes – while she explored the offerings of whichever shop they were in and considered possibly buying something. “No problem,” he said. “You’re sure?” “I’ll just have a peer-around.” “But don’t go too far.” “Not a chance.” Certainly the wife was right to offer this small warning. Under these circumstances, considering all the people crowding by on the sidewalk, it was critical that he not just wander off. How would these two ever find each other again? Therefore the husband didn’t stray very far. He didn’t even venture out onto the sidewalk into the crowd. Rather, he squeezed in between the booth where his wife was at and the booth next to it (which was selling some kind of cheese) to a little mound behind the cluster of booths. This turned out to be a fortunate choice because not only weren’t there any people on the mound but its elevation allowed him to see other activities going on beyond the booths. Over there the husband saw a circle of people staring up at a tight-rope walker holding a long balancing pole and starting to walk across a wire strung between two poles. Half way across the wire the tight-rope walker stopped, kneeled very slowly down on one knee, balanced the balancing pole on the wire in front of him and held out both of his arms above him. The circle of people standing below clapped. That was one of the things the husband saw. Over there he saw a man rapidly manipulating two sticks back and forth and spinning a conical shaped object on a string between the sticks. As he 16

worked the sticks up and down he slung the conical shaped object off to one side and then to the other. Suddenly he whipped the conical shaped object high into the air, did two somersaults, stood right where he had finished the two somersaults and somehow caught the conical shaped object on the strings between the sticks. The people around him clapped. In other directions the husband saw other entertainers: a magician pulling an endless string of colored cloth out of one of his small pockets, an acrobat climbing a slippery pole, a contortionist slowly slipping herself into an impossibly small, wire cage. Those kinds of things. Additionally the husband heard the same music he and his wife had heard as they approached the square: the happy, lilting music of a marching band and the fluttering high tones of a piccolo. As he looked around to locate the marching band he saw what appeared to be a float-parade approaching the square. The first float, a mock-up of a dinosaur, one of those absolutely huge beasts with a long neck, a tiny head, and a tail as long as its body, led the parade. The head and neck of the dinosaur slowly swung back and forth over the people along the parade route. People on the float, all in costumes of some sort, threw out pieces of candy (the husband guessed it was candy) and shouted something which sounded like, “Halloooo!” Children from the crowd lining the parade route scrambled to pick up the candy. The husband hadn’t seen such a parade, complete with a marching band, in a long time. Really, not since he was a boy. And, after all, it wasn’t that far over to where the parade and the band would be passing. And, obviously – this doesn’t really need to be said – he would keep a sharp eye out for the booth where his wife was maybe buying something. So, double-checking exactly the location of the booth, and re-checking several times as he walked over to the parade, he stepped in behind the crowd lining the route. Behind the dinosaur float twenty or so men, dressed as scarecrows, complete with raggedy black clothing, straw hats, and bandana scarfs, strode along on high stilts. Every once in a while they stopped, waved to the crowd, shouted, “Halloooo,” and threw out pieces of again what the husband assumed was candy. “My dear, good sir!” 17

A clown in white face with a red, bulbous nose sporting a sparkly green tuxedo along with a bright, green, sparkly top hat suddenly stood in front of the husband. “We would be most pleased, sir,” said the clown, sweeping off his top hat and half-bowing, “if perhaps you would, sir.” The husband had no idea at all what the clown was talking about. “No, no, I think not . . . ,” started the husband. “Sir?” said the clown reaching out and fitting his hand on the underside of the husband’s arm. The husband felt a kind of pleasant tingling run up and down his arm. “No, no, really, I don’t think so,” said the husband, attempting, unsuccessfully, to pull his arm away. “But, please, sir,” said the clown increasing the pressure of his grip and therefore increasing the tingling feeling running up and down the husband’s arm. And just at that moment – the very moment when the clown increased the pressure of his grip – the husband became aware that an empty space had opened in the line of people along the parade route. “It is so, sir!” said the clown. The clown half-steered and half-pushed the husband through his empty space in the crowd and suddenly both the clown and the husband were out on the other side. “And there you are!” laughed a beautiful, young woman with flowing golden hair who suddenly appeared in front of the husband. She was dressed in an outlandishly tailored white gown which exposed her shoulders and most of her back. “So, please, sir!” She thrust two small stilts toward the husband – the kind with the stirrup maybe only a foot or so off the ground. The husband recognized these stilts as the same kind of stilts he had played with as a boy all those many years ago. “Oh, no, I don’t think so,” said the husband. “But, sir!” said the young woman. “Think of your boyhood,” said the clown. “Yes, yes, your boyhood!” said the young woman. “I don’t think . . . ,” said the husband. “Oh, sir!” said the young woman. 18

The clown laid a hand on the husband’s arm. Again the husband felt the shock of that pleasant kind of tingling running up and down his arm. “Well . . . ,” said the husband. “Oh, sir, do it!” said the young woman. The clown increased the pressure of his grip and the tingling running up and down his arm also increased. “Well, I suppose I could . . . ,” said the husband. “Of course you can!” said the young woman. “You can!” said the clown. The young woman again thrust the stilts at the husband. The husband took the stilts and saw it wasn’t that much of a step up to the stirrups. And as a boy he had walked all over the neighborhood on such stilts. The clown held one of the stilts firmly and the young woman held the other. As the husband stepped up onto the stirrups he remembered that he could hold onto the top ends of the stilts to steady himself. “Don’t think!” said the clown. “Don’t think at all,” said the young woman thrusting a bag of candy at the husband. The clown let go of the one stilt and the young woman let go of the other. The husband somehow managed to hang onto the bag of candy. “Hup!” said the clown. “Hup, hup!” said the young woman. And just like that the husband was off striding along on his stilts, no problem at all. Ahead of him he saw the twenty or so men on high stilts walking along the parade route. “Halloooo!” the men on high stilts were shouting as they pulled candy from bags at their sides and threw the candy down on crowd. “Halloooo!” shouted the husband also pulling candy from a bag the young woman had given him and aiming the candy at the crowd. “Halloooo!” Children ran along beside him scrambling to pick up the candy. He was dipping his hand into the bag at his side to get more candy when he saw his wife – or thought he saw her – standing with her back to him in front of one of the many booths clustered along the square. “Halloooo!” he shouted to her. 19

But she – or whoever it was – continued to stand there with her back to him talking to the proprietor of the booth. But look! The proprietor of the booth wore a yellow vest over her red dress. Therefore he stopped striding along and, tottering a bit, stepped off the stilts. “Halloooo!” he shouted again to the booth. “Over here!” But again his wife, or whoever she was, didn’t notice. The men dressed as scarecrows on high stilts were striding away after the dinosaur float and at the same time the husband realized that a marching band was bearing down on him. A drum major in a high conical hat pumping his mace up and down was already gesturing the husband away. Behind the drum major, the husband could hear the roll of the snare drum, the booming of the bass drum, and the high tones of a piccolo. The husband really had no choice. “Excuse me,” he said throwing the stilts aside and pushing up against the people in the crowd lining the parade route. “Please, excuse me!” He almost had to claw himself through. But when he got to the other side he saw that the woman with her back to him at the booth was his wife. “Hello,” said the husband coming up behind her. “Oh,” she said turning momentarily, “hello.” But she immediately turned back to the proprietor of the booth and continued talking. The husband waited a moment. Then he stepped back away from the booth and looked over toward the parade route. Already the scarecrows on high stilts, not to mention the dinosaur float, were out of sight. And the happy, lilting music of the marching band punctuated by the high, silver-like tone of a piccolo was also beginning to fade. He turned back to the booth. His wife and the proprietor appeared to be near the end of their conversation. It occurred to him that he still loved his wife. Even after thirty years of marriage. Although, he had to admit to himself, sometimes more and sometimes less. And, also, even though he listened for it, even through he strained his 20

ears, he could no longer hear the high, fluttering, silver-like tone of the piccolo. He reached out and took his wife’s hand. She turned toward him. “Done?” he said. “Yes, I think so, probably,” she said. The proprietor of the booth quickly turned to another customer. “Did you buy anything?” asked the husband “Not this time.” “So, then. Ready?” he asked. “Ready!” she said. And the two of them, holding hands, walked off into the crowd.

The Marine Road BY LIA ALI

Iris BY ARTHUR KVARNSTROM

Baptism

by Timothy Dodd

The cold water ran off Estelle’s body as they lifted her, falling back into the river like the cupfuls of bathwater she once poured over Jaimee. Estelle wiped her face with both hands and opened her eyes to a glaring sun. The thick green line of birch and elm along the river bank was unclear, a streak of blurred color. Hugh Krone’s voice boomed as he quoted scripture. Estelle pinched her nose and closed her eyes for a second submersion. Fifteen minutes earlier she had left the small, white-washed church and walked the short path down to the Bluestone River as the small congregation of Lorton Lick Independent Baptist Church surrounded her, singing hymns. James wouldn’t have believed she had attended services at the church for the past two months, but who else listened when his life insurance policy wasn’t enough? Before his mining accident, her husband wouldn’t have believed she’d start a hot dog stand at the mouth of the hollow either, or place ads in the paper for house cleaning, car washing, and lawn work. He wouldn’t have allowed her to sell their house because the monthly payments were too high. Yet she did all those things. She even tried a new man. Sheldon. But she was tired and there was no love on her part, no energy, and he lost interest after a month. Each month was now a challenge financially. Rebecca grew out of her clothes and needed new ones each year. Jaimee turned fourteen and asked for spending money every week for shoes, a new walkman, trips to the movies. Estelle told her there wasn’t any money while she tried to get her business started. Even their small, two-bedroom apartment cost too much, and she fell behind on the rent and had to pay late fees. 23

Reverend Krone and his assistant, Coleman Parr, lowered her a second time, their voices muted as they held her for a moment under the water. She barely heard them, like when James used to cheer for her in the gymnasium at Montcalm High School volleyball games. More than Hugh Krone, she heard her mother speaking again. “If you follow him to Bluefield, I know it’s the last of this place. Once you all put me in the dirt you’ll sell it off before I can even get comfortable down there.” “Can’t live in the past, Mom. Don’t expect me to stay here just because Gene and Tammy didn’t. Even if I am your last option.” “No, I can’t. You’re right about that. Guess I’m gonna have to get me some bigger britches. But you all go on then. Might wish you had this place some day, but whoever you sell it to will just be stuck with me. Takes an awful long time for bones to disintegrate. Especially mine.” “Wish you’d quit talking like that, Mom. Don’t know why you always got to be so morbid.” “Ain’t nothing morbid about dying. I’d rather be dead than forsaken.” The ministers walked Estelle to the river bank. Her eyes teared as the congregation sang “Blessed Assurance.” A churchwoman handed her two towels, one to dry her hair and the other to wrap around her shoulders. Perfect submission, perfect delight, visions of rapture now burst on my sight; Angels descending, bring from above, echoes of mercy, whispers of love. Then Estelle shook their hands, one by one. She was Sister Wickline now, praise God, but more than that she was just wet and cold as the euphoria wore off. The church members sounded like a flock of sparrows, chattering and whistling and chirping as they paraded happily back to the church. Hugh Krone accepted congratulations for winning another soul, his grinning face looking much younger than his forty three years. Estelle thought of her husband again. James never grinned like Hugh Krone. James never looked young. James walked under the earth for two decades digging out the dark rock. & She had needed Pastor Krone’s enthusiasm. “Don’t you worry, Estelle,” he said during one of his Thursday evening visits to her home with Harold Coleman. “You can’t expect to fix all this yourself. You have to believe in Him. Matthew 11:28 says, ‘Come unto 24

me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.’ Not to mention the church could probably find some way to help you out a little financially. Maybe we can help you find a better job than the one you’ve got at Fas Chek.” Estelle liked the sound of that. Jaimee brought them coffee on those nights, alongside oatmeal raisin cookies or warm cornbread, and pretended she was a waitress working for tips. No one had visited their home much after her father died, and she used the pastor’s visit as an excuse to fix herself up and put on her favorite Sasson jeans. “You ought to be with us too, young lady,” Reverend Krone said to Estelle’s oldest daughter. He looked at her quite a bit longer, but she didn’t say anything until he asked about her friends, cheerleading, and the honor roll. When they prayed each week to conclude their visit, the pastor asked that they form a circle to hold hands. Each time he made sure he got a hold of Jaimee’s. After a few visits from Pastor Krone, Estelle figured it couldn’t hurt to attend the church. She walked down Main Street thinking about it one evening after First Community Bank and Family Dollar had closed, the only remaining businesses in town. She stopped in front of Gandee’s Shoe Shop, out of business for over a generation, its “OPEN” sign faded but still hanging crookedly amidst the cobwebs. Estelle whispered her husband’s name, remembering when they had visited the store together as young adults. She told James she didn’t want her life, or Rebecca and Jaimee’s lives, turning into those darkened interiors of abandoned buildings. There was no farm for going back. There was no land to sustain them. Like so many others, they had bet on the highway to take them some place better. Now the highway between her family’s farm and Bluefield gave them little outside Burger Kings and 7-11s, slurpees and lottery tickets, all glued together in a wild rush by Amoco, Exxon, and Gulf. One Sunday morning in March she entered Lorton Lick quietly, not sure what to expect, but the parishioners smiled and welcomed her, said more to her in an hour than they had said in a decade. On a Wednesday night a month later, with fewer people in attendance, she walked to the altar weeping and bowed down. Linda Archibald and Elma Boyd cried with her until their tears turned to happiness, for one of the lost had 25

returned home to the flock. & Estelle was in the kitchen washing dishes when the doorbell rang on the evening after she got saved. Pastor Krone and Harold Coleman stood waiting on the porch. “Evening, Pastor. Guess I didn’t expect you all this week.” “You’re not the only one in this household who needs the Lord, Sister Wickline.” And every Thursday they kept coming, even after the weather warmed up and Estelle was baptized. “She’s just a girl still, Pastor Krone,” Estelle said one evening as she let them inside the house. “Sometimes Mommy is the last to know,” Pastor Krone replied. “God forbid she was to die tomorrow. Where would her soul go? Fourteen years old ain’t as young as you think.” Estelle didn’t know the answer to his question and deferred to the pastor’s knowledge and experience. “I understand, Pastor Krone. She’s upstairs doing her algebra homework now. Rebecca, go up and tell your big sister to come down a minute.” “No, no. No reason to interrupt her from her studies,” Pastor Krone said. “I’ll just go on up myself if that’s all right. I want to remind her we expect to see her this Sunday. Shouldn’t take long.” He started up the narrow flight of stairs. “Second door on your right, Reverend Krone,” Estelle called. “I’ll just stay here,” Harold Coleman said. “That’d be fine, Brother Coleman.” Estelle asked Harold to make himself comfortable on the sofa and excused herself to the kitchen. Rebecca followed her mother. Ten minutes later they came out with a pot of black tea and a tray of various cheeses and crackers alongside raw vegetables. Estelle poured a steaming cup for Harold as he reached for some celery and sharp cheddar. “Rebecca, go up and tell the preacher he’s got a cup of hot tea waiting on him.” Rebecca ran up the stairs. Jaimee’s bedroom door was locked. She knocked three times. Pastor Krone finally opened the door and said they’d be right down. 26

He came down a few minutes later, smiling, his cheeks ruddy and his big bear frame making the stairs squeak. “Did you say tea or coffee?” “Tea, Pastor Krone.” “All right, then,” he said, sitting down next to Harold. “Your daughter and I had a good talk, Sister Wickline. She had some questions, but we’re making headway and she knows what’s expected. I’ll leave it in your hands to make sure she starts coming on a regular basis. No more of this on a week, off a week stuff.” & Four months after her own baptism, Estelle watched with pride as Pastor Krone and Harold Coleman led Jaimee out into the river. A few short months earlier, Jaimee had given her mother excuses to avoid attending church; one Friday evening she said she didn’t want to go at all anymore. But Estelle had persisted, made her go, and Jaimee followed her mother’s orders as usual. Jaimee never talked much at church, even to the girls her own age when the congregation got together for a dinner or picnic and softball. Then one Sunday night Hugh Krone found Estelle and Jaimee lingering in their pew after the service. Jaimee was crying, and the pastor asked her if she wanted to give her life to the Lord. With a simple nod, her face wet with tears, she agreed. They were in the water above their knees and Pastor Krone stopped at the same spot in the river where he had baptized Estelle. The two men let go of the girl’s hands. Jaimee pushed a strip of her long, blonde hair back over her ear and peered into the water. Estelle couldn’t see her face, but admired the white cotton dress on her daughter, a gift she had given her on her birthday a few weeks ago. Jaimee said she liked it, but she didn’t get as excited as Estelle expected. Estelle marked it up to maturity, to growing up. Now she couldn’t help but notice her daughter’s fine figure as the breeze pushed the dress around her body. Hugh Krone and Harold Coleman each put one hand behind Jaimee’s back while their remaining hands tightened their grip around her upper arm. Pastor Krone shouted the words, “I baptize you in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost,” and they laid Jaimee down, under the water. She came up crying and shivering, from cold or from fright. The men prepared to put her under a second time. The high pitch wail made Estelle fidget. Jaimee had never feared water, 27

loved swimming pools. Estelle closed her eyes, and looked closely. She didn’t like what she saw. The trees along the riverbanks looked plastic, and the river water had turned to an iron-fused, rusty orange. She heard a second scream from Jaimee and opened her eyes. Hugh Krone never looked so ugly; bulging eyes and a head shaped like a cinder-block. In the sunlight, his dyed, slick-backed hair looked as shiny as pyrite. And Estelle knew why his eyes popped out: the water had soaked Jaimee’s dress, revealing the shape of her youthful breasts. Estelle ran to the water, one hand in the air and the other covering her mouth. She considered entering the river herself, but Jaimee neared the bank as Pastor Krone and Brother Coleman paraded her back, holding her tightly by the arms. Estelle wondered what her own mother would have done. At the riverbank Jaimee balled up and wilted in Estelle’s arms. The congregation quieted and looked on with confused faces, sensing something was wrong. “What happened, Pastor Krone?” one of the parishioners called out. “Oh, I believe she just got a little water in her lungs. There’s a lot of water out there you know. Praise God, that’s all right! The Kingdom of the Lord is hers!” As Estelle embraced Jaimee, something hard rubbed against her stomach. She reached down to her daughter’s waist, and through her dress and underpants she felt the old, leather knife pouch that James had used during deer season. Estelle looked back at Pastor Krone. A few members of the congregation stepped forward to congratulate Jaimee, but Estelle motioned them off with her hand. Pastor Krone stepped forward and laid his hand on Estelle’s shoulder. “Everything all right, Sister Wickline?” “Well, I’m not sure, Pastor. Something more than a little water in the lungs has happened to my daughter. Have any idea what it might be?” “Anything more than that and I’d have no idea, Sister. Think maybe she just needs a little space?” “Yes. I’d say so.” “All right, then.” Pastor Krone turned to the members of his church. “Brothers and Sisters, Jaimee isn’t feeling too well right now and Sister Wickline thinks it best if we give them a little time. If you’d be so kind, 28

please make your way back to the church and we’ll reconvene again tomorrow morning for our usual Sunday morning service. Drive safely and God bless.” The congregation departed, leaving Hugh Krone and Harold Coleman standing on the path next to the riverbank, a few feet from Estelle and Jaimee. “Sister Wickline, would you all want me to bring you any extra towels?” Estelle didn’t answer. “Well, I hope everything turns out okay. Whatever it is, I know the Lord can work it out. Praise God, Jaimee’s born-again.” He paused. “You all have my number if you need anything.” Estelle listened as the sound of lumbering footsteps faded. Jaimee’s sobbing started in again. Estelle tightened her arms around her daughter and rested her chin on the top of Jaimee’s head. Estelle thought of James as she held her daughter close. She thought of what he had told her all the years they were married, all the years he worked the mines: “Them safety regulations don’t mean a thing. The company only adheres when it’s good for them.” She remembered the mine wagon that brought the bodies up out of the ground after the cave wall collapsed on him and his six workmates. She recalled having to point at him, claim which swollen, unrecognizable head was his. Jaimee didn’t move from her mother’s breast. Estelle gripped her daughter more tightly and looked at the river. It had washed a few things out, but she wasn’t sure if it had the power to cleanse. If there was a cleansing, it had died and bled away. She remembered her mother again, remembered a simpler time when her day was spent feeding the chickens, collecting eggs, or helping her daddy pitch hay. The land around them lay still except for the river’s soft gurgling. Estelle moved her head slightly to the left and looked at the tall grass surrounding the path between the church and river. It was August and the excessive summer heat had dried their stalks so that they poked at the air like a frail man. She wondered what the ground thought. What would the sky say if it could speak? Was the earth tiring too? Were the ghosts of a fertile land exhausted of pestering, tired of getting picked to bones? Was it their turn to eat soon? Ten minutes more passed and still Estelle didn’t know what to say to 29

Jaimee except that things would be okay. This was new territory, as James used to say, and her arms and chest were tight from holding her daughter. She began to sway ever so slightly, trying to mimic the Bluestone as it rolled on. And she thought how James used to love the sounds down in the mines, how he spoke of their beauty, especially of water dripping onto rock.

Time travellers 3 BY MARK POL

InterContinental Investigations Washington, DC By Michael Faia To: VW Topic: A Dove of Plagues? (your title) Date: December 20 (happy holidays) Code: 09–237–C [signed] First of all, R has a high moral code. She’s non–violent. She would never have shot you. Never. Violence is not part of her repertoire. Never has been. Nor did it ever occur to her to “set you up” in the way you suspect – even more strongly. We now know what kind of person she is; we’ve seen her high integrity. You must comprehend this, by now. We at ICI remain convinced that a lawsuit against her, with any of these allegations, would have a very limited prospect. The malefactor is your man. Your ex. Soon-to-be. Soon to be sent to prison. Prison should be – in our opinion, must be – your final mandate to move toward x’ing him. You’re right, that we do not typically handle divorce. But given the serious criminality of this instance, we will make an exception. Let me know. Or maybe – eventually – I’ll get on your case! Case closed – and then maybe close. If you still put up with men. As you say, V, the company has icy eyes – but I don’t. As Freud would point out, I don’t identify with the corporate person. If anything, I try to invoke Freudian projection upon it. But it remains an it. So: All R did was her job: to peruse a questionnaire, find a few good research prospects, analyze data, present a paper, argue with her readers, respond to her friends and colleagues. That’s what scientists do. She does not lie: Of this we’re sure. Our investigative team seems now to realize this – we are clear on her innocence. She had simply forgotten the details of the abortion series elsewhere in the question list – otherwise she probably would have suspected something. She was definitely naïve, you’re right. Little patches of naïveté. Surprising, 32

if you’ve seen any of her sophisticated work on women. Little patches of brilliance – some large. As we understand it, her major task involving the GSSX-STD has been to see whether women are protecting themselves. Against AIDS. Many, she claims, are doing a poor job. I’ll send you a copy of her latest paper (perhaps “typical”) from our file, if you wish. Believe me, she doesn’t mind sharing her published papers. Or her books. We all laughed at your remark that “she’s beautiful, for a scientist.” Says our Miss Keller, “just look at Einstein.” On this next issue, remember – you asked me. If your French is a little beat up, things get tricky. Indeed, R lately did present this new research in Paris. The preface – a joke of sorts – explains a few things about her attitude toward men and women and their relationships. She emphasizes trust – as you now appreciate. The paper starts with a slogan sprawled bright red on a wall, during the Paris riots of May ’68: Si tu n’es pas avec moi Je ne vous connais pas “If thou art not with me, I do not know you.” The familiar form, implying closeness, affinity – withdrawn. Inapplicable. The romance languages do use this familiar form extensively, comparable to our “thou,” “thee,” “ye,” and all their special conjugations. (You said your grandmother was a Quaker.) So, now, R reverses this couplet as she thinks not about Paris politics, but about the AIDS epidemic: Si je ne te connais pas Vous n’êtes pas avec moi “If I do not know thee, then you are not with me.” The familiar form, a known relationship, insisted upon. Remember: known relationship. Think this, R says: moi pas, pas moi. Seems like a fine idea. She tells us that Einstein, despite his strong commitments to relativity and beauty, never thought of these little French couplets. Although, didn’t he raise a ruckus in Paris once or twice? So, for this and for other reasons, we agree that it is not wise to lie to one’s spouse. Even if, initially, the cost of truth seems high. 33

You’re right: Dash Hammett, our “guru” as you label him, would buy everything we say here. Early on, by the way, R saw no reason – she never did arrive at any reason, till everything blew up – to think your man, your ex, wherever he now falls, was lying to her. & What you rightly call horror, to us, started merely as a matter of ethics till we got busy digging. Hollywood ethics, you know – ethics schmethics, till we discover otherwise. By the time R understood what your ex – the “slime” as you now call him – had perpetrated, it was too late. Suddenly R had three more potential customers. She eventually saw what was going on, turned them in. One of them, for blackmail. Another, a count or two of attempted blackmail. They had married well. Perhaps they had married for the money. By the way, take a look at Trudeau’s strip in the Sunday funny papers a few weeks ago, about Facebook as a divorce court. These women told their suitors too much about themselves. Your descending ex is a fine actor. All R really wanted was the pay. Consultation fee. And the experience – working with a man like yours. Like yours appeared to be: a funny guy. R told us that your man claimed he wanted you to think he could read your mind. It was all bound up with your birthday. Or the wedding. The anniversary. Some such thing. He says your love for one another will never “erode.” That steadiness, we should have hoped, would be taken for granted. On the other hand, why does he feel, believe, that love is made of substances that can erode? Bad chemistry, like Breaking Bad. Semantics, connotations – always revealing, of a person seriously ill. You’re right. This man has bad things hanging out – say, a psychopathic personality. Too bad you never saw it. Apparently his first wife saw it sneaking up for a long time. According to the prosecution, he was trying to line up a few hundred thousand dollars, seeking other “respondents” whom he eventually did find. Maybe the DA will turn up still more shenanigans; she definitely knows how to dig. She does not like these men. Nor does she especially like R. But R has no culpability, beyond naïveté. And she is an academic, loves a good payday. (The DA does not like this combination.) 34

Your man recovered a hell of a lot more customers and currency than he ever willingly revealed. He told us he had identified a few “buddies” who wanted to have good times just as he had done, playing around with their wives, friends, wives of friends. Apparently, your man is heavily involved with this latter category. You suspected this. You should have sprayed your message on a wall. Red. Sad truth: They learned this unprecedented procedure, for them a natural scam, from R. She learned about it in her past contract negotiations; she tells us she was totally shocked. The clients also learned, from her or other demography nuts, how to exploit the famous “small world” phenomenon: “Do you know this gentleman in Lewiston, up in Idaho?” “No, but I do know a family in Moscow.” So – you call the Moscow family. They know a couple of mechanics in Lewiston. One of these gentlemen knows the man you’re looking for. You have to develop a good story. Money stories – say, an obscure inheritance – are often good, albeit a bit hackneyed. Small world. Skip tracer’s dream. Hit man’s dream – nightmare for those in witness protection. Works in big cities too: many more people, but also many more seekers. Believe me – as R says, all she wanted was the money. That does not make her crazy, like the deranged little man you married. They got the name list and addresses cheap – at least part of them. The woman we learned about, who peddles this information along with men like your husband, is the real killer – at least, the central culprit. We may never find her. The company employs lots of women. No doubt, as you say, they carry a coven of anti-choice radicals. We worked out all of it, the whole damn scam. It took us four months to get the details. And a couple or three demisemiquavers, as you say, are still missing. & You have asked and I will tell you – insofar as we know, and we know very little about the earliest co-conspirators – how it works. You’re right: We should insist on explanations to all respondents, all the interviewees, and send them a detailed warning. It does not hurt to have open discussion of these machinations, manipulations, complications. Murder attempted, for a high fee. Not far from Murder Incorporated, the way these men set 35

things up. With their highly effective “stalking,” as the prosecution calls it. Fortunately, most of the men did not kill their wives. Again: Don’t tell the larger lies to your spouse, your partner, your kid. Goes without saying. On the other hand there is, in this culture, a way of “lying” to your intimates. It came out clearly during the Nixon Watergate travails. A man named Alex Butterfield had worked for Nixon. Senate investigators brought in Butterfield as a witness. Later, the investigators found that he had neglected to tell them about the infamous Nixon tapes. He told them “you never asked me,” but he must have known, all along, that this omission made him a non-cooperative witness, suppressing an essential truth. Note this well: Butterfield had sworn to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. He withheld the whole truth; he perhaps should have been prosecuted for perjury, but was not. In this culture, you sometimes must tell the truth, and you cannot slip in a few random lies with impunity. But you do not, ordinarily, have to provide the whole truth. We all take advantage of this evasion, this casuistry, this sometimes benign feature of our tricky culture. It probably saves around half of all marriages. A few of our ops will testify to this, at least in part: They will speak the truth and nothing but. You do admire our ICI ops, right? – with their foreign language talents. Nor, if we suppress all discussion, is this disaster going to help scientific research. I’ll do my best to explain to you what happened. But my staff was right when they told you that R has problems recalling details that occurred early on, things that led up to the catastrophe. She’ll never get over what befell you. But early on, she was not even suspicious – of this, we are sure. Naïveté? Definitely. Read Hans von Hentig, The Criminal and His Victim. In our work, we know these victims. Sometimes far better than they know themselves. When R first heard about this risk, this potential breach of whatever one breaches, it came as a shock. A phone call. From a man who, as she recalls, did not give his name – he merely mentioned his alleged beltwaybandit company, near DC. You say R was naïve, that she should have seen what was coming, that she should have raised more questions. You’re right. But she was taken aback by what he said. Never before had she heard such 36

things, or encountered such a unique problem, proposition. He made it sound fun – although officially he was telling her to be alert, to avoid this predicament. Her research, she says, has always been fun. But not lately. First of all, you have to take a look at a public-opinion table that is far more sophisticated than what you’ve seen and heard endlessly on the daily TV network drivel – though we’re now very sorry R did indeed go way beyond the standard skittery–scatter. The folks at Berkeley used to call their public opinion archives the CSA – bad connotation right off, Mossa Bob Lee and all that truck. We don’t know what CSA stood for back then, at Berkeley, but nowadays on the Internet, these letters represent the Chinese Students Association, a site that conveys nothing but delight and perpetual non-booze frat parties – there has to be some connection. The latest name for the Berkeley archives is SDA: Survey Documentation and Analysis. Log into it, take a look. You’ll see what the criminals saw when they were starting out on this dangerous scam. It takes a while to learn the SDA. We’re almost afraid to try – or morally inhibited against trying – some of the “perhaps ill-conceived” manipulations worked out by these criminals. (We love the defense team’s lingo, far more than they hate ours.) SDA and other sites go way beyond the nearly worthless survey information we encounter on TV. (Somebody told us at the firm that we have to start studying The Public Opinion Quarterly.) The data given by SDA and by others, for free, cost somebody (mainly taxpayers, but also a few multi-millionaires) hundreds of millions of dollars. It’s an incredible arrangement. An incredible gift. Someday ABC-CBS-NBC will find it, glaum onto it; they may even figure out how to explain its workings. We never identified this gentleman, this beltway bandit, the gentleman bandit, who called R to discuss the massive dataset she had acquired for her AIDS work. We find this lapse frustrating, mystifying, inexplicably so. But as I said, R is not sure the man ever gave his name. Perhaps he was on the ill-conceived payroll. He did mention the huge D.C. enterprise he claimed to represent, and R recognized it immediately. She doesn’t recall whether he wanted her to sign a contract or merely deemed her word, her promises, to be enough; she leans toward the latter, because if he had sent a contract she of course would have kept a copy. In any case – and aside from any postgraduate students who might work with her, whose word this 37

man accepted without contracts, signatures, assurances – he wanted her to agree that she would never publish, or give to the media, a statistical table with any cell frequencies below five women. We asked R why this mattered, given that the names and addresses of interviewees never appear in publicaccess datafiles. She told us something along the lines of what I will now tell you, about a real table from SDA that we figured out how to run – take a look at it, if I can display a good copy. Anybody on the planet can do this. & Suppose you have a questionnaire that asks a huge batch of questions, including a series about one’s attitude toward abortion. You run a table. Online. Print it out. You can’t sell the table to CBS: they handle only one number at a time. CBS is a paper shredder. But you know how to juggle the numbers. This table is formatted beautifully. It begins by letting you insert your own title: “Free Choice by Education” is ours. It then lists the names of “labels” and corresponding “variables.” The first label refers to a question – really, in this survey, a declarative sentence – included in the interview and summarized online thus: ABORTION IF WOMAN WANTS FOR ANY REASON. A given respondent either agrees or disagrees with this statement, perhaps “strongly” either way – that’s the “variable” – unless he or she wishes to withhold an answer or doesn’t know an answer. (“Don’t know” and “no response” people, R says, are always a challenge.) The next label refers to RS HIGHEST DEGREE, the respondent’s education. Now you introduce “filters” that select only those respondents who interest you – say, for the current example, those between ages 51 and 61, those who are female, those who live in the South Atlantic region. Why not? Fascinating folks. Older postpartum women, in a traditional part of the country. You punch the filtered folks back into the format of the original table. In the body of this new table, in the Frequency Distribution, you see the numbers and percentages of interviewees who support abortion “for any reason,” with a separate column for each level of education – and with age, sex, and region, the “filters,” held constant for everybody in the table. So, the main story line, in case Fox decides to run it: As you move 38

from “LESS THAN HIGH SCHOOL” to “POST–GRADUATE” with three stops in between, you see percentages who support abortion “for any reason,” no questions asked. The percentages, in this case, rise from 17.9% to 30.6% to 42.1% to 51.7% to 65.3%. As we move up the schooling scale, highly educated women are 3.6 times more likely to support “free choice” than women who have not finished high school. This pattern, applying, remember, to older Southern women only, must have large political consequences. As for younger women, women of high fecundability, women outside the South – well, we leave that to CBS– NBC–ABC–Fox. End of story. Almost. We now move away from high fecundability, and consider attempted murder. & The data of this repeated national survey involve interviews done over the last 35 years. From one of several sources – or perhaps by merely asking – let’s suppose you know that your spouse was one of the interviewees. Last year. There are 548 interviewees remaining in the table just run, interviewed last year. The number who have a junior college degree, who are between 51 and 61, who are women, and who live in the South Atlantic, is 21. Of these, the number who support abortion “for any reason” is nine. Let’s say you’re a man, a husband. Assume a lowlife sonofabitch. Suppose you wonder whether your wife is one of the nine. You had always believed otherwise. She had told you otherwise. Nowadays, for whatever reason, you doubt her. First, how do you know she’s one of the 21? You know this, because her highest degree does come from a junior college, because she does live in the South Atlantic, and because she, now 54 years old, was among those interviewed last year by this poll. Maybe she told you about it. Somebody sure as hell did: This is the unidentified lady perp we want to catch. So, finally, how do you know whether your wife is among the nine who strongly support free choice, and not among the twelve who do not? If it were possible to list all interview results for individual interviewees – and sometimes it is – you could select the nine cases and list all their 39

responses. Reading carefully, you would probably recognize your wife among them – if she were there. But this task would be labor intensive. Abhorrent. Hard work is not what these chaps are investing in. So, instead of trying to recognize her the hard way, you find another filter. You find some rare characteristic – one that your wife does have – say, that her birthplace was France, an item also found in the interview. You use this information as an additional filter, run the same table, and find that there is only one respondent among the nine who was born in France. This is your wife: And she says that she strongly supports abortion on demand. If she claims she’s a victim of mistaken identity, run a few more filters until you juice out a complete portrait. Better than a photo. Photos and videos often do not hold up in court. Remember Rodney King. We believe your little bastard spouse did precisely that, juiced you out through an OJ filter. And then he turned to the third degree routines, worked them on you. He discovers something new. My partner Tom M says your ex’s punishment should be retroactive birth control. We suspect the jury will assign him several consecutive years of the rhythm method – day, night, weekends. We hope he has a few safe periods. & You testified that your man indeed did check your responses carefully, questioned you with hostility, “to make sure.” At that moment, at the top of this repulsive probe, you should have run him out of your life. But it is not our place to say this. At least, not until the moment arrives when he thought about trying to kill you. In your case, in your interview, the questions had to do with all the usual demographics – but from that point onward the questions focused mainly on marriage, divorce, sex, contraception, pregnancies, miscarriages, abortions, births, STDs, sterilization. Everything pertaining to family and fertility, sexuality. For older respondents, perhaps two, three hours of detail. By the way, you asked about this demographer, a fertility specialist, whom we interviewed for our case prep a few months ago. The “shocking” thing she said was that, in this carefully conducted in-depth national survey of 40

some ten thousand women, forty per cent said that the first time they had intercourse, they had not given consent. They were violated, probably by a guy they knew, but nonetheless – violated. This demographer said she felt like an idiot, after having published a paper entitled “When Women Say Yes,” a comparison of black women and white women that did not give enough attention to acquaintance rape. She made the same mistake R made: You have to study the whole questionnaire, or you get into big trouble. That may be the chief reason why TV backs off. You said at one of the preliminary hearings that you regret having lied to this man you married – I’ll try to stop calling him names. You said he felt badly deceived: He felt that you had lied about abortion in order to strengthen your claims about the miscarriages. Again, it is not our place to tell you how you should have handled these questions – but indeed, this one lie, perhaps more than one, has ruined a large part of your life. On the other hand, you found out things about this man that were far more important, far more disturbing and destructive, than anything he found out about you. One of our investigators said that there’s a famous Mexican proverb, echar mentiras para sacar verdades – pitch a few lies in order to liberate the truth. Or, as one of the office workers says, pitch lies in order to strike out the truth. She then reminds us, “hopefully” she adds, that “to strike out” has many meanings: “obliterate,” or “start something new.” The word serves as its own antonym, like “sanction.” I think it is almost always good when the truth survives, raises itself, transfigures itself. Perhaps transfigures our lives. Mercifully. We’re glad your injuries were not serious. At least not physically. Nowadays, we’re studying the surveys on gun control. Maybe TV is doing so too.

Fortune in the Future BY MARK POL

She & I (& lessons learned): deviling eggs BY SHELBY WOLFE

During the holidays she used to take my hands and teach me how to be a womanâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; how to clean a pan just right and which spoon to use for soup. On Thanksgiving I learned to make casserole and gravy, to never talk back, to devil eggs. I understood that part at least: Put some eggs in a pot with water. Heat to a boil, let it threaten to disobey and try to leap from the pot do not ever correct me in public then subdue it, remove from stove and cover for twelve minutes even if I am telling a lie (as I so often do). Run each egg under cold water, tap it on the counter, roll the egg between your hands until the shell cracks to lace say that everything is fine, even when it isnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t strip it back, peel away until its skin is wet and smooth, exposed. Repeat until the batch is done. Then take a knife and halve each egg itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s rude to have emotions use a spoon to carve the hearts into a bowl take from them what they could have been; submit. Leave the patient white to wait for orders, add mayonnaise to the yolks so they change color, sit proper like a lady, listen up, speak when spoken to temper with mustard to make them yellow again. 43

Open a jar of pickles and ladle its juice into the mix to make it tangy, a little more interesting; try to have hobbies, but not too many. Stir well until creamy, then scoop the new yolk back into the waiting empty eggs and shape it just so; pour yourself into an (appropriate) dress already, little doll Finish with paprika sprinkled perfectly, put on your mascara mask and try not to blink red on yellow, pleasing to look at and to eat.

Pretty BY KARA SHEEHAN

Normandy BY TONI SILBER-DELERIVE

E...li...se... BY KELLY TALBOT

… walks into the room, lips pursed … fingers fluttering nervously … can’t make up her mind … shuffles her feet … stares out the window … opens her mouth to say … runs her fingers through her hair … never could commit … sometimes feels incomplete … can’t remember what they did to her … is lost in thought … is trapped between a whisper and a scream … guards her secrets carefully … glances at the clock … always implies things … knows there is something more … is trapped between a comma and an exclamation point … likes to repeat her points … has misplaced her “l,” her “p,” and her “s” … is about to …

Dew48Drops

BY WENDY WINKLER

A Body BY JULIA TRAVERS

My limbs open and close for use like hinged measuring sticks, like kindling tethered. A glove that cracks with age over softer intentions A hobnob of bones balance and reach above ten toes. A delicate case of mud, a me factory. Following me each day, my fragile sister, my cage of feathers.

A Make-Believe Story From FOB Hammer, Iraq BY PAUL DAVID ADKINS

I pretend my soldiers loved me, loved the way I shared with them my cokes. I ran PT with them in the dust at four a.m. I let them leave their shift an hour early to sing on karaoke night. If that rocket I prayed to smear me like a beetle beneath a wiper blade had really wiped me raw as a bloody steak across a granite countertop, I believed, once, my soldiers would have wept, their voices broken as a frequency in a thunderstorm.

But they pulled up lame at the first twinge on the two mile run. They lured the Russian laundry girls to the bomb shelters with Smirnoff sent from home. They dipped their darts in shit, peppered my back like a board. I was the uncle with money they elbowed each other to get. I was the bill collector mispronouncing their names, the alarm clock they slapped to the floor, empty can rattling across the gravel before the toe of a sterile wind.

Grannies Singing for Peace BY REGINA SILVERS

Horseshoes BY TIMOTHY DODD

Arrival is a miraculous emergence from the gray, murky water between moon and tide, perfect timekeepers climbing the sand with eyes that have seen past eons. Meeting me at the piles of concrete boulders, we are swallowed by the crevices of our lives, unable to make it back to sea. But easing each other from hard capture is a touch better than presidential handshake, the feel of millions of years. Departure hears the tails wave, their ancient locomotion my own cells too, carrying me to a primordial world of mutual rescue.

Fear BY JOHN MCKERNAN

Come Here Who do you think You are? A tan? The muscle Under the skin? The bones Holding the whole shaking body steady Remember Yesterday How it ended not with an eraser But a tornado Large as Omaha in the western sky

Cormorant

BY SUSAN MAURER

My first language was baby talk. At home we spoke cocktail party. I became very fluent. Like Nell, like a wild child I developed a covert language in the tent at night I made on my bed of blankets and bed sheet, forbidden flashlight and book. There it grew like a ghost plant or pale shoots of muguet. I learned loveâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s a computer which translates. There were others who spoke it as well. And often weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d meet for some laughs far from the streetlights of hell.

Sau Paulo, Brazil BY TONI SILBER-DELERIVE

Contributor’s notes PAUL DAVID ADKINS lives in New York and works as a counselor. LIA ALI was born in 1986 in Sofia, Bulgaria. She studied at Bulgaria’s National Academy of Arts until 2009, and had the honor of painting the murals at the Church of Saint Petka of the Saddlers in Sofia. Lia attended the New York Academy of Art from 2011 to 2013 to receive her Master of Fine Art Degree. She has had her work featured at the Tribeca Ball and at King’s Highway Library in Brooklyn. The Brooklyn Watercolor Society awarded her the Best International Artist in the Art of Fashion Group. Her exhibit, “Full Moon, Half Night” was announced by the New York Times. Lia teaches at the New York Academy of Art. TIMOTHY B. DODD grew up in Mink Shoals, West Virginia, and completed undergraduate studies in Comparative Religion at Wesleyan University. His work is scheduled to appear in upcoming issues of Main Street Rag, Birmingham Arts Journal, and Children, Churches and Daddies. He is currently in the MFA program at the University of Texas, El Paso. In addition to writing, he enjoys oil painting and traveling to “forgotten” places. MICHAEL FAIA serves as a faculty member at various schools, including California State University, Southern California University, Tongan Royal University of Technology, Universidad Veracruzana, Whittier College, The College of William & Mary, and University of Wisconsin, Madison. His vita and many of his academic articles and books can be seen on his website, mafaia.people.wm.edu. MARY MALLEK HAINES, a poet of Polish ancestry, is from Stevens Point, Wisconsin. She served as Vice President for the Eastern Region of the Poetry Society of Virginia and has been active in the poetry community for many years. Her first full-length poetry collection, Beads of an Abacus, was published by San Francisco Bay Press in 2011. 58

KARL HARSHBARGER is an American writer living in Germany who has had over ninety stories published in magazines such as The Atlantic Monthly, Ploughshares, The Iowa Review, The Antioch Review, The New England Review and The Prairie Schooner. Two of his stories have been selected for the list of “Distinguished Stories” in Best American Short Stories and thirteen of his stories have been nominated for the Pushcart Prize. SUEJIN JO, a Korean-born abstract painter based in New York, has had numerous solo and group exhibitions in New York, Korea, Mexico, East Timor, Italy, Japan, and Belgium. She received the Jacob Lawrence solo exhibition award in 2008. Suejin’s work was cited in the New York Times twice on paintings in the Parrish Art Museum shows. The State Department included Suejin’s painting, “Pontchartrain,” in their 2012 calendar “Homage to American Women Artists.” ARTHUR KVARNSTROM is a painter living in New York City and Wind Gap Pennsylvania. His work has been exhibited in solo and group shows including Sussex Community College in New Jersey, the Prince Street Gallery in New York, and Kingsborough Community College in Brooklyn, New York. In October 2006, he was awarded a residency at the Heliker-LaHotan Foundation on Cranberry Island, Maine. SUSAN H. MAURER’s Josephine Butler: A Collection of Poetry was published by Phoenix Press International, Perfect Dark by Ungovernable Press. She has six little books and her three broadsides published by Clamshell Press, Center for Book Arts, and Marymark Press. She has had five Pushcart nominations and has been published in fifteen countries. Susan’s work has been anthologized in Help Yourself (Autonomedia) and Off the Cuffs (Soft Skull Press). Magazine credits include Virginia Quarterly Review, Gargoyle, and Volt. JOHN MCKERNAN grew up in Omaha, Nebraska and recently retired from herding commas after teaching for many years at Marshall University. He lives – mostly – in West Virginia where he edits ABZ Press. His most recent book is a compilation of selected poems, Resurrection of the Dust. His 59

poems have appeared in The New Yorker, The Atlantic Monthly, Paris Review, Field, and elsewhere. SIMON PERCHIK is an attorney whose poems have appeared in Partisan Review, The Nation, Poetry, The New Yorker, and elsewhere. His most recent collection is Almost Rain, published by River Otter Press (2013). For more information, free e-books, and his essay titled “Magic, Illusion and Other Realities,” please visit his website at www.simonperchik.com. MARK POL, born October 17, 1943 in The Hague, found an early passion for painting. His interest in drawing and painting started in primary school. He later studied at the Free Academy of Art and the Photo Academy in The Hague. Mark is inspired by daily human life and its vulnerability and animal unpredictability. In the early stages of a painting, Mark Pol draws his thoughts and dreams with a pencil and then continues his vision with a basis of oil or acrylic paint on canvas. Mark’s vision is often too much for the two dimensional canvas, and the result is a three dimensional world, shown in different materials. Mark’s work can be viewed at www.markpol. nl. NICK SAVIDES learned to paint from his mother at three years old and hasn’t stopped since. Inspired by the works of Edward Hopper, the quiet energy within his art captures a palpable sensation of both light and place. After graduating with Highest Honors in Fine Arts from Brandeis University, where he studied under Paul Georges, Nick began a career as an American Realist painter. Since 1980, Nick has exhibited in many group and solo shows in New York City, as well as Massachusetts, Long Island, upstate New York, Connecticut, and New Jersey. His work is included in numerous private and public collections and was featured on June Middleton’s “Minding Your Business,” which aired on the Manhattan Neighborhood Network in 2010. Twice published by Nabi Press, he recently had a retrospective of his work at Berkeley College in New York. Nick lives and paints in Brooklyn. KARA SHEEHAN is a recent graduate from James Madison University with a degree in Studio Art and a minor in Art History. She has been 60

published in James Madison’s Gardy Loo. Her piece “Recovery” won the audience choice award at the Larkin Arts Show in Harrisonburg as well as a juror’s award in the Undergraduate Juried Show at James Madison’s Art Works Gallery. Kara is originally from Leesburg, Virginia. TONI SILBER-DELERIVE is an award-winning artist and graphic designer based in New York. She studied Fine Arts with a major in painting at the Philadelphia College of Art and received a degree in Art Education from Kean College. She also studied graphic design and silk-screening at the School of Visual Arts and the Parsons School of Design. Her work is represented in private and corporate collections and has been in many exhibitions including solo shows in New York at the James Beard House, Rockefeller Gallery, Studio Gallery in Chelsea, Interchurch Center, Blue Hill Plaza, National Arts Club, and Speakeasy Gallery. A selection of group shows includes the Pen and Brush Gallery, Dacia Gallery, Chelsea Art Museum, and Kaller Fine Arts in Washington, DC, and Riverside Gallery in New Jersey. Toni is an active member of the National Arts Club, Artists Fellowship, and the National Association of Women Artists. Additional information and visuals can be seen on her website, www.tonisart.com. REGINA SILVERS, a painter, studied at Pratt Graphic Center and received an MA from Columbia University. Her work has been featured at Saint Peter’s Church, the Fountain Art Fair, the Sacred Gallery, the Museum of the City of New York, and the Puffin Foundation. Regina has held a residency with the Dorland Mountain Arts Colony. She founded the TriBeCa Open Artist Studio Tour and is the former director and curator of the Gallery at Hastings-on-Hudson. She lives in New York. SOFIA M. STARNES, Virginia’s Poet Laureate from 2012 to 2014, is the author of five poetry collections, most recently Fully Into Ashes (Wings Press), and editor of two poetry anthologies. She is the recipient of a Fellowship from the Virginia Commission for the Arts and various national awards, including an honorary Doctor of Letters degree from Union College (KY). Sofia serves as Poetry Editor and Poetry Book Review Editor of the Anglican Theological Review. 61

KELLY TALBOT has edited books and digital content for twenty years, previously as an in-house editor for John Wiley and Sons Publishing, Macmillan Publishing, and Pearson Education, and now as the head of Kelly Talbot Editing Services. His writing has appeared in dozens of magazines. He divides his time between Indianapolis, Indiana, and Timisoara, Romania. JULIA TRAVERS is a writer, artist, and teacher living in Charlottesville, Virginia. Originally from the Midwest, WENDY WINKLER lives in Seattle, Washington. She received her BA from the University of Washington, Seattle and a teaching certificate in Art from Texas State University, San Marcos. She uses images from the natural world as a starting point in her work. Wendy is proud to be a participating artist in this yearâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Street Heart/ Facing Homelessness project. Wendy is also excited to have a showing of her work at the Mountlake Terrace Public Library this summer. SHELBY WOLFE is a recent graduate of the College of William and Mary currently in the process of applying to graduate school. Originally from Virginia Beach, she has had a lifelong love of poetry.

The William & Mary Review Volume 53 2015