Thanks for viewing our second issue of Underwood. Enjoy!

1882

            Everyone flies until they fall. Yet it’s that one second of mid-flight hope that made me think that maybe I’d soar that makes me continue the jump. Eight stories above Baxter Street, a light breeze flared my arms with goosebumps despite the May sun. My bare feet balanced on the warm metal of the fire escape, my eyes focused on the telephone pole that loomed across the paltry alleyway. I tightened my dingy pantaloons around my waist, the strip of fabric that ripped on my last descent danced in the wind. The aroma from Mrs. Locklear’s fresh angel cake saturated the polluted New York air, my stomach whined. Spiked adrenaline rushed through my veins, igniting my need to jump. With my legs coiled and ready, I leaped. My one second of hope passed, I reached my arms out, and all too soon my hands wrapped around and clung to the smooth metal fire escape across the alley.

            I slid down the exterior of the fire escape—with a quick wave to the youngest member of the Chang family through their kitchen window—and landed on the cracked pavement beneath.

            The alleyway was empty, a gap of quiet amid the chaos of Mulberry Bend. This alley is one of many that lives perpendicular to the bend of low income living that makes up its populous. I bounded back across the alley, reached up and grasped the bottom of the second-floor fire escape. My upper-body muscles clenched as I pulled my body up until my feet rested on the metal railing of the second-floor. Old man Craine rested in his recliner drinking his morning coffee. I waved in greeting, he nodded before turning back to the newspaper, disregarding the funnies.

            I continued climbing up the outside of the fire escape until I reached the sixth floor. I slid open the kitchen window that sits in front of the kitchen table. I ducked under Mama’s clothespin line as I crawled through the window. Mrs. Locklear was already seated with a plate of Angel Cake on the table in front of her, and another plate of cake in front of an empty chair. Mrs. Locklear moved in with my mother and I eight years ago and has kept me after school every day until two months ago when I dropped out. Her husband, Hal, passed away over a decade ago while in an explosion aboard the Westfield II, on his first day off of work for months. Since then we have been each other’s biggest confidant.

            “Better not let your Mama see you climbing, dear.” Mrs. Locklear nibbled on the edge of her cake.

            “I won’t.”

            “She suspects.” Mrs. Locklear looked at me from over her glasses, which were pushed only halfway up the bridge of her nose.

            “Suspicion and knowledge are two different things.” I popped a chunk of the cake into my mouth.

            “You’re too smart to not be in school.” Mrs. Locklear shakes her head. “Especially when you only have one more year until your high school graduation.”

            “I’m not meant to sit inside all day. I stayed in school until the law said I could drop out.”

            “Susanna—”

            The door opened to reveal Anita and her young son. Anita moved into the apartment five months before after immigrating to America from Italy. She barely spoke any English which made conversing with her difficult. The only fact we know about her is that she has a brother on the west coast that she is saving up to see.

            “Gotta go.” I palmed the remaining piece of my cake and headed back to the small room I shared with Mama.

“You should be reading the good book.” Mama didn’t look up from sewing. The needle and thread weaved through the seams effortlessly. She was seated on her dark green chair that was handed down from my grandmother. A swath of ribbons was balanced on the end table next to her chair. The coach was covered in various dresses and coats she was hired to repair.

As one of the only seamstresses on this side of the bend, Mama was never short on work. Her shop was right down the street and since I dropped out of school, she requires me to work three days a week with her. The times I am not at the shop, I should be cleaning the apartment because a woman’s work inside the house is just as noble as her work outside of it.

            The wooden chair creaks as I adjust my position. Our kitchen table is pushed up against the only large window in the apartment. The sun had already disappeared behind the horizon, the moon shone in its place. On the streets below, kids run around chasing balls and stray dogs. Their laughter prickles my ears and pries my attention away from the book of fables in front of me.

            “Job’s a bore.” I leaned my head against my hand and flipped the thin page even though I have not read a single word.

            Mama huffed, “The Lord’s word is no bore, Susanna. Mind your manners.”

            “I thought Job wrote this book.”

            “It was Moses.”

            “Then it can’t really be the Lord’s word, can it?” I smirked into the window, my reflection shone back. The sound of Mama’s blood boiling was almost audible.

            Mama slammed her work onto the tattered ottoman that sat slouched in front of her chair.

            “Susanna Nina Hill, you will not disrespect the Lord in this house.”

            “Mama, I’m just saying that—”
            “Nobody likes a church bell ringing all the time.” Mama’s hands were placed on her hips. “You will never find a husband with a mouth like that. Now bend over.”

            “Mama, I’m seventeen.”

            “I don’t know what I ever did to deserve such a rotten child. Bend.”

            I bit down on my lip. The bruises on my ass were still pulsing from the day before. A few more on the top of my legs were just now turning a light green. I stood and bent over the table, while Mama pulled the switch off the hook hanging by the window. The children’s laughter from below floated up to my ears, their giggles fueled the sting as Mama’s switch came down three solid times.

            “To your room,” Mama ordered as she returned the switch to the hook.

            Silent, I walked out of the kitchen and directly into the adjacent tiny bedroom. I closed the door, set the lock in place and rubbed my burning ass. Our room was nothing special. The only furniture were two small stained mattresses pushed into two different corners, a small wardrobe that my mom had from when she was a little girl, and a wobbly desk sat under the small window. The desk was empty save for a sewing kit and strips of excess fabric. I pulled a small locked box out from under the desk. The only thing that is mine alone. Inside are my science textbooks that I could not bear to return and a few issues of The Prophetic Messenger—an annual astrological almanac. Sitting on top was the front page of yesterday’s paper announcing the much-anticipated arrival of the Barnum & Bailey’s Circus to lower Manhattan. It was set up just on the other side of the tracks.

            I grabbed the newspaper and shoved it into my waistband before I crossed the room and lifted a corner of my mattress off the carpet, revealing my hidden hammer which has now created a permanent engraving in the pallet. Mama had nailed my window shut some years before after she caught me sneaking onto the fire escape and practicing my climb. The nails had become easier to pull up as time progressed, and even easier to nail back in place after my return.

            Just like always, the nails popped up easily. I placed both on my desk and sat the hammer next to them. After the window was pulled up, I quietly slid out onto the fire escape.

The roof was silent and loud all at once. The silence that stemmed from the watching stars and waning moon was juxtaposed against the hustle and bustle of Baxter below—kids called in for dinner, Mr. Henry’s jazz music danced out of his bakery, and the simple chime of bike peddlers drummed in tandem.

            I stepped onto the small roof ledge and began to pace around the top. My arms were stretched out to the side of me. The stars above me winked in greeting, the wind whispered the street’s gossip. Never had I felt so alive than when I was balanced ten stories above the ground. Heights were my self-prescribed drug. A suspension in time to forget all that was expected of me. Some nights, with arms outstretched and eyes closed, my mind rocketed into the cosmic void above me. I could almost hear the crunch of asteroids underneath my feet as I danced across their infinity, my limbs intertwined with aurora borealis—brilliant dashes of pinks and greens.

            From a mile away, I could almost make out the illuminated large circus tent. The elephant’s triumphant scream was just a mumble by the time it reached my ears.

I glanced up one more time at the twinkling sky, wishing I could reach that height. I will go and follow the sound of the elephant’s call. If I can’t dance with the northern lights, then I will dance with the lights of the circus.

Once my feet were firmly planted on the asphalt of the alleyway, I turned in the direction of the railroad tracks. I waved at Mr. Henry as I passed his now silent bakery, still smelling of fresh baked bread and cakes even an hour after close. He was elbow deep in flour and as he waved back a small flour explosion formed a flaky cloud around his moving hand.

            The train tracks were just a few blocks away from Mulberry Bend and reaching them took no more than ten minutes. I slid my hand over the back pocket of my jeans making sure the few coins I managed to sneak out of Mama’s pocketbook were still tucked tightly within.

            My feet balanced on the rusty railroad track. I spread my arms out of the sides of my body and walked with grace toward the circus.

            Dense honey locust trees lined the tracks and the moon swirled a cool breeze around with its magnetic pull. I was far enough outside the city that the constant hum of movement and banter were nonexistent. Silence stretched out before me. Silence except for elephant trumpets and shouts of applause. The lights grew brighter. The allure of the circus tent was solidifying as it rose in stature before me.

            The train’s caboose forced me to get off the tracks and onto the knee-high weeds. There was a makeshift wall that was put up next to the train and looped into the dense trees. 

            I stepped back onto the track and propped my right foot up on the tail of the caboose and reached up with my arms until my fingers were able to wrap around the top of the fence. I pushed against the train with my right foot and used the leverage to hoist my body up until I could swing my legs clearly over the fence.

            A man with salt and pepper hair stood on the other side of the fence. His mouth wide. A zebra stood next to him, tied to a cable, as he chomped on the dying grass below his feet. “I’ve never seen anyone make it over that wall before.”

“Have you ever seen anyone try?” I wiped my hands on my jeans, my brown eyes connected with his blue eyes.

“No.”

“Hm.”

“Was it hard?”

“I like to climb.” I walked over to the zebra and began to stroke his mane. “I’ve never seen a zebra in person before.”

The man’s eyes were trained on me. He looked dumbfounded.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” I took a step back, not sure where to go from here. Is this one of the men Mama and her friends always warned me about? The ones with a screw loose in their brain, who are not sure how to ask permission?

“I don’t know what to do in this situation. Like I said, I’ve never seen anyone climb over the wall.”

“Well, what do you do when you meet someone on the street?” I returned my hands to either side of the zebra’s neck and began to massage the muscles after deciding that all this man’s screws were tight and secure.

“Introduce myself.”

“Susanna.” I turned to face him and stuck out my hand to shake.

He hesitantly shook my hand. “Benson.”

“Benson,” I whispered. “Show me to the show.”

Benson tied the zebra’s lead on a hook that was a permanent fixture on the side of the train.

“I think you still have to pay.”

I slid my finger into my back pocket and pulled out the two coins. With my other hand I reached forward and turned his hand over in time for me to slide the two coins into it.

“Keep the change.”

“This isn’t enough for a ticket, much less a tip.” His voice was dry.

“The newspaper wasn’t clear on ticket prices.” I shrugged. “Are you a stickler for the rules?”

He shook his head. “I’m just new here is all. I’m still trying to earn my keep.” Benson lead us through a maze of tables and chairs. Each table was covered in a red and white stripped table cloth to match the big top. Two large trash bins were found on either side of the area, both were already full of trash. “This is the dining area.”

“What’s over there?” I pointed to a mostly open tent that sat adjacent to the big top.

“The corrals and stalls to keep the animals in between their numbers.”

“Are you in charge of the zebras?”

“Right now, I’m just a hand. I feed, scoop out stalls, and transport animals to and from. I mainly work with the elephants, but they needed help with Oz tonight.”

“I could hear the elephants from my apartment.”

“Is that why you came?”

“I’m not sure.”

Benson led me the rest of the way through the backstage area in silence. For the most part, the area was deserted, everyone was busy putting on a performance. The only people lounging around were men Benson deemed grunts—and they would be busy at work soon enough. Clapping erupted out of the tent as we entered through the side. We were on the far left side of the stage at the edge of a set of bleachers. I looked out onto the center of the ring and saw nothing but empty space. I glanced around and saw that the entire audience had their heads tilted up toward the ceiling. I looked up and gasped when I saw them.

Two people in skintight outfits—a man and a woman—were perched on a ledge almost to the top of the big top. A large net was sprawled about ten feet below them in case they fell.

“How high up are they?” I whispered.

“Forty feet,” he said.

My mouth fell open as the woman inched her way to the edge of the platform, feigning freight. My breath caught in my throat as she jumped toward a short horizontal bar that was hanging a few feet in front of her.

“One second of hope.” I breathed when her hands grasped the bar and she began her act in the air. She flew from one horizontal bar to a second one in time for the man to leap from the platform and clutch the now vacant bar. They began to dance and flip in the air, the lights twisting and turning in rhythm to keep up with their movements. For the first time in my life, I was speechless.

“Can you imagine the rush?” I exclaimed. Benson and I were under the small tent reserved for zebras. He was scooping fresh hay into the stall, while I leaned against the fence.

“No,” he chuckled. “I’m terrified of heights.”

“I live for them.”

“Maybe you should be a trapeze artist.”

My smile faded from my lips and I brushed a strand of hair out of my face until it was behind my ear. “Don’t be silly. I could never.”

“How come?”

“Mama wouldn’t let me.”

“Does she know you are here now?”

I shook my head and brought my index finger up to my teeth and began to nibble on my nail.

“I ran away two years ago.” Benson slid down the fence until he was seated on the fresh hay, his legs stretched out in front of him. I pushed myself off the fence and took a seat in front of him Indian style.

“Aren’t you a little too old to run away?”

 Benson’s eyes grew wide, “Old? I’m not old.”

“I just thought,” I pointed his graying hair.

He chuckled. “My hair has had white specks in it since I was a kid. My father’s hair was the same way. I was born in 1861.”

“Oh, you’re only a few years older than me.”

Benson stood, entered the next stall and began scooping out the dirty hay.

“Why did you run away?”

“I realized life in Virginia wasn’t for me.”

“And touring with the circus is?”

“I didn’t find the circus until last year, but it’s enough for now.” He nodded. “Until I find a town I can’t bear to leave. For now, I’m guaranteed three meals a day and a half-piece a week.”

I swallowed and shook my head. “I can’t run away.”

“The girl that hopped the back fence into the circus an hour ago would disagree.” Benson stopped working and leaned against his shovel. “What do you want to do?” His voice was barely above a whisper.

“Fly,” I admitted. “I don’t know how.”

“Gisele and Javi can teach you.”

“I can’t just join the circus.”

“Sure you can.” Benson shrugged. “Mr. Barnum loves runaways. They’re cheap labor. We can talk to him in the morning.”

I laid back on the cool earth. My eyes drifted up to the bright stars. I could smell Oz from his place five feet away from me, as he still chomped at the grass.

“Come with me.” Benson balanced the shovel on the stall and walked out of the tent. The big top loomed before us. He opened the large flap and nodded his head for me to enter. The smell of dirty hay and sweat encompassed the room. Heat left over from hundreds of humans and animals stuck to my bare arm. The big top was empty except for two men raking the used hay into large piles. My eyes drifted up, where the trapeze sat waiting.

“I can see it.” Benson wiped his hands on his jeans. “Suze, the flying girl.”

“Suze,” I repeated slowly. My mind drifted to my tiny apartment on Baxter Street. I could picture Mama opening our bedroom door open and seeing the evidence of my escape sprawled on my desk. She would curse herself, but mostly she would curse me. I reached my hand down until it traced the back of my thighs, I winced every time my finger found another bruise from Mama’s lessons.

“What do you say, Suze?” Benson turned to me and offered his hand. “Want to fly?”

I glanced up at the stars again, wishing they would tell me my fate. Yet the daunting truth was I knew I longed for nothing more than to fly. I could see it, like I was looking into the future: a crowd cheered from forty feet below as I jumped with my arms outstretched to catch the trapeze. The lights danced and dazzled all around me. I slid my hand into Benson’s and allowed him to pull me to my feet, and it only took a single second.

Emily Garrett is studying for her MA in creative writing at Stephen F. Austin State University in Nacogdoches, TX where she currently resides.

The One about the Fox

I have touched one in a video online,
using someone else’s hands.

While he sits there and scratches and scratches and scratches
at something brown on his neck.

Someone very pale is handing him a red gummy bear.
He licks her hand and squeals.

We all fall into round patches of dust 
next to the path. We all chew on the leaves

of a bush with rose-colored berries.

Three Sink Basin

Five am: half way to my plating 
job at The Calf. On the bus, I keep

my pet fox in its cage. I am very bad 
at washing dishes. My husband says this

is because of white privilege: I can’t tell 
the dirty from the clean. I burn my hands

in the hot water, even wearing gloves. 
Yesterday, I spun a pyramid of beer glasses

onto the soapy plastic floor. Only three 
survived. My fox yawns, circles, goes back

to sleep on her pink towel. The towel 
is embroidered with eyeless flowers, all

bending to the grass. Sometimes she picks
at the threads like a hysterical machine,

the same angry bobbing I use to chew my thumb-
nail. My white suede boots, scuffed at the toes,

are stained from the early rain. On the side 
of the bus at a stoplight, a woman stuffs clouds 
into children’s mouths and laughs. Her lips are 
violet, the sky behind her a radioactive blue.

Self portrait with Reflected Light

She told me, “I have bought the moon,
a copy – a replacement for all the things 
I have forgotten. Ten years ago, I told 
myself never to write about the moon. 
But this is a blow-up moon. A 3-D printed 
moon. Not a grey fox walking on her hind 
legs and smiling. Not a handful of rusted 
rings under a starfish at the playground. 
Not a flashlight for exploring the pinkish 
storm drain in November. Not a piece of my 
body, excised, shoved in a red plastic cup 
signed sharps.” Oh, when did you turn 
like this? When did your sickness vanish, 
only to appear and jump out in front of the Fiat 
on that parkway? Not the headlights. Not 
the twin fawns, frozen as our car approaches
over the ridge. The moon is stupid as it stares.

Notes on Love, VII

We live in that red square

by the side of a milky

river, the box so small,

as I sit on your lap,

my calves fall asleep.

We pretend it’s winter

because we like to wear

different wooly hats,

because we delight in

sucking the cold out

of each others’ toes.

This cube so dim

we’ve forgotten how

to spell: a soft carmine

hearse or horse

croons just

beyond the lid.

Blazevox published Christine’s second book, Echo Park, in 2011, and in 2017, Ghostbird Press published Christine’s sixth chapbook, a linked collection of hybrid poems, Notes on Wolves and Ruin.

When I was seven, my aunt gave me a dreamcatcher and told me to hang it above my bed.  You will see the world through your dreams, she whispered to me as we huddled closely in the corner of the living room, so my mother couldn’t hear the mumbo jumbo she expelled on me – you will see my world through your dreams, she continued, and one day, other’s will find inspiration in your dreams.  Maybe if I’d hung it correctly from the start, the ending wouldn’t have been such a shock.

We didn’t see my aunt much but when we did it was always interesting; tales or foreign and exotic lands and just as many men of the same description. She and my mother varied in every respect; the way they looked, the way they lived, the way they loved.  My mother was plump and dark while crazy aunt Kate was tiny and blonde.  My mother had settled down early in life, found young love and married, had a baby, found a good job and lived the life of pleasant routine, while crazy aunt Kate had lost her marbles in her mid-twenties when a man she thought she loved drove the sanity out of with well-hidden demons.  She’d called off the fall wedding in late summer in a display of gut-wrenching pain and torment.  I remember when her fiancé randomly disappeared from our weekend visits to the beach house which coincidently was a few streets down from their house, mostly because I missed his dogs.  After that, we didn’t see much of crazy aunt Kate, and it was just the three of us and the lives my parents made for each other, as best they knew how.

The two of them overcame the trials and tribulations most working, busy, exhausted, polar opposite couples experience and lived a life of quiet normalcy.  I remember them fighting out on the deck one evening when I was little, younger than the dreamcatcher age.  My mother had given me a cup of ice cream and sat me in front of the television for a show.  Any other night I’d have revealed in this treat and ignored the goings on around me with the utmost enthusiasm.  But I could hear them fighting and talking about me.  I sat in the sitting room on the couch and watched my mom through the sliding glass door yelling at my father, who was just out of frame, like a ghost.  I waited pateiently while they fought, my ice cream melting away into milk in the other room.

When my mom came back inside, I asked her if she still wanted to live with my father, my sad, elongated eyes staring up at her as I spoke.  She burst into tears and collapsed around me as if to shield me from whatever was going on between her and my father.  I never saw them fight again, but there was also something missing in my mother after that night – something inside her had died; a glint of light in her eyes extinguished.  Later in my own life after having been married for some time and having children of my own, I would come to understand this disappearance as the mother’s sacrifice.  The extinguished light was the death of the part of her that existed outside the moniker of wife and mother.  When my mother decided to remain true to the domesticated life she had chosen years before her soul had matured enough to understand what her life could be, she ceased to be herself and continued as only wife and mother.    

She loved my father. He was good to her, but they were different people. When she sat with my crazy aunt Kate on the couch late at night with a bottle of wine between them, I could see the excitement born back into her eyes from the top of the stairwell through the banisters as I spied on them. I saw a glimmer of light when crazy aunt Kate expunged stories of dark men with names like Luka and Enzo doing dark things to her that I was too young to understand.  They would laugh and whisper and drink too much.  Crazy aunt Kate would tell her stories, and my mother would ask questions about the people and places like she’d known them herself.  We only saw crazy aunt Kate when the wind blew her in from her outlandish adventures, and my mother fed off the stories she presented and tucked them away for safe keeping. 

It had been years since I’d seen crazy aunt Kate, probably close to five when she reemerged in our lives.  She’d been too engrossed in fighting for women’s rights in some overly misogynistic nation to come home when my father first fell ill and too deep in the jungle studying the effects of modern technology of the native culture when we celebrated his first stint in remission.  We would receive letters from her over the years entertaining us with magical tales of places no one knew existed except for her, things only her eyes had seen, loves only her heart had conquered.  My mother would always read them to us with an air of jealousy hidden in disapproval, her mouth in a constant smirking state as the words fell from her lips.  When he was gone, she would read them to me late at night when we laid in bed, like I was a little girl again and she was reading me a bedtime story.  The first few letters my mother sent her after my father died came back return to sender, which was not uncommon; gypsies rarely stayed in one place long enough to have an address to post mail to.  One must have found its way to my crazy aunt Kate and carried her home one evening on a gust of wind so powerful; our lives rattled in its wake.

I listened to them talk from the upstairs hallway, secreted in the dark, like I had done when I was little.  There were whispers, and hushed words, tears as my mother chronicled the last days of my father’s life, the clanking of wine glasses, and finally, childish giggles after the business of catching up on the formalities of our lives had concluded.

I awoke the next morning with the uncomfortable feeling of someone watching me; my aunt sat on the edge of my bed humming some nonsensical tune, twirling the dreamcatcher she’d given me years prior and, that, for some reason, still hung from the spindled bed knob near my pillow.

“It must be broken,” I groggily confided in her.  She turned so I could see the confused look fall upon her face as her ears interpreted my words.

“I never dream,” I yawned, still half asleep, the puzzlement upon my aunt’s face growing deeper and deeper.

“When I was little, you came back from one of your exotic expeditions and gave it to me and told me to hang it above my bed and I would see the world in my dreams … or something like that,” I trailed off as I flicked the dreamcatcher out of her hand.  We both watched as it swung back and forth and then came to rest against the bedpost.          

Quickly, the bewilderment transformed to understanding upon crazy aunt Kate’s face.  “I remember that trip,” she whispered, her eyes fluttered back and forth as if she was seeing the memories pass in front of her at that very moment.  “Lots of peyote,” she added in a hushed, disapproving manner with her face wagging side to side, as if to say don’t tell your mother I just told you that.

We sat silent for some time, not knowing what would come next.  The last time crazy aunt Kate saw me, I was 11 or 12 maybe, so the 17 almost 18-year-old that laid in front of her now most likely seemed like a stranger to her.  She only knew of me what my mother had shared with her in her letters, most of which she never received.  And I knew only knew of her what my mother told me, which was a fraction of the truth.  We were two strangers with familiar blood pumping between us, sitting on a bed together, waiting for the silence to break.

“You don’t remember any of your dreams?” she questioned, as she began to twirl the feathers of the dreamcatcher in her delicate fingers. 

I thought about the question posed and then desperately tried to remember the last time I awoke in the morning having retained anything resembling what a dream might look like, but nothing distinct came to mind.  No dreams of boys and innocent teenage petting, no dreams of sneaking out in the middle of the night and laying in the dew rinsed football field with friends, no dreams of leaving for far-away places; there was nothing, just blackness as thick the darkest night you’d ever seen.

“I mean, maybe something, bits, and pieces,” I lied unconvincingly.

My crazy aunt Kate looked at me with the expression of wonderment and awe upon her face.  After a few more awkward moments she glanced down at the dreamcatcher she still twirled between her fingers.  The continued silence began to grow uncomfortable.  I threw back the blankets in an attempt to exit the comfort of my bed but stopped when the coolness of my aunt’s hand fell upon my own.  She looked at me with a content smile but still did not speak.  The air of comfortability in the room scratched roughly against my skin.

I continued to slide out of bed, my hand slithering out from under crazy aunt Kate’s grip.  I began to babble about what we had planned for the day as I opened and closed my dresser drawers looking for something to wear, anything to break up the awkward feeling in the room.  Mid-sentence crazy aunt Kate interrupted me, her breath on the back of my neck, stinging like ice cubes on a hot summer day.

“It was upside down,” she whispered from behind me.

The seriousness of her voice was out of place for her whimsical flow.  I didn’t even know she could be serious; I’d never heard her say anything without the flow of imaginative passion or fanciful lust before in my life.  Had I not known it was crazy aunt Kate standing behind me, I may have thought it was my mother.

I turned to question the proceeding statement; upside down?  What kind of obtuse comment was that to make, I knew how the dreamcatcher was supposed to go.  What nonsensical insanity was this crazy person about to depart on me?

Her eyes lit up like the 4^th of July as we came face to face, eye to eye, soul to soul.  I couldn’t help but feel the enormity of what my crazy aunt Kate was about to explain to me, and the truthfulness that lingered behind the fireworks in her eyes pulled me into her world, deeper down the rabbit hole than I’d ever known existed. 

“What?” was all I could conjure amidst my confusion.

My crazy aunt, Kate, cupped her small, warm hands around my face and pulled me closer.   

“It was upside down,” she whispered again.  “This is a daydreamer’s catcher.  It has to be upside down for you to see …”

The noise in the room began to buzz or hum like a swarm of bees surrounding my head, and the words my crazy aunt Kate spoke to my mother who had burst into the room at the most pivotal moment in our conversation, began to trail into the distance.  I stood, frozen by the stagnation of the moment’s inertia which crowded the room.   What was it that my crazy aunt Kate thought or knew or thought she knew?  What was she trying to tell me before we had been faultlessly interrupted?  Why did it feel like the completion of the conversation was all that mattered in life?            

The feeling of spinning broke my outwardly calm resolve. Words they spoke came back into focus.  Both my mother’s and aunt’s eyes upon me as I sped back to reality.   

“What?” I reiterated, obviously dazed.

“What were you two girls talking about?” my mother asked as she stood cross-armed next to my aunt.

I was frozen, unable to answer the simplest of questions with the simplest of lies.  We were talking about boys, sports, school, dogs, books; anything would have sufficed, but the words would not leave my mouth.

“We were talking about my latest trip to the Far East,” my crazy aunt Kate started.  “And a man named Giusto,” she continued with a wink and a hip shake, successfully satisfying my mother’s curiosity while leaving my hunger at its peak.  My desire for more information about my aunt’s cryptic words would have to wait; plans for the day were being formulated in front of me while my mind drifted. 

We spent the day shopping, sipping tea on the front porches of bakeries, strolling for the purpose of strolling, with our last stop of the tired day being a small gallery my crazy aunt Kate begged us to visit.  None of it felt real; I would have said almost dreamlike, but never having experienced the surreal sensation of a dream of my own, I wasn’t completely sure that’s what the experience mimicked.  I floated through the day, unsure that it even really existed as I experienced it. 

The smell of incense invaded my nostrils as we crossed the threshold of the gallery and the quiet sound of chimes and peals resonated from a poorly hung speaker in the corner.  Crazy aunt Kate struck up a conversation with the gallery keeper while my mother and I wandered the open space looking at the strategically hung overpriced pieces of art that adorned the walls.  I stopped my amble at a specific piece of figurative representation of a child sleeping in her bed, the loud pastel colors that covered the canvas an interesting contrast to the soundless subject of sleep.  I stood, rapt, by the odd pairing of subject and color, and in my enthralled study of the work, I noticed a tiny familiar object hanging from the bed spindle.  I moved closer to confirm that my preoccupied mind was not playing a trick on my weary eyes.

“This is a very interesting piece,” a man’s voice interjected behind me, it’s presence in my world giving my body a reason to jump back at least three feet.

“Apologies, apologies,” he begged at the realization that he’d interjected himself into my world unannounced.

The man introduced himself as the curator of the gallery, and we made pleasant chit-chat about the gallery.  He was a small, thin man with the eyes of someone who’d done too many mind-expanding and mood-altering enhancements throughout his years.  Looking into his eyes felt like looking out into the ocean, blue in color and endless in depth.

“This is one of my favorites,” he explained motioning to the piece I had been studying before his interjection.

“It’s … interesting,” I replied, turning my attention back to the piece hanging on the otherwise stark wall.  “But, is that … a dreamcatcher?” I questioned, squinting my eyes trying to make out the tiny, blurred object hanging from the spindle of the bedpost.  “It looks like it’s upside down though.  I thought the feathers were supposed to hang down from the bottom,” I finished, the point of my nose within inches of the pastel paint.

“Very keen eye,” the curator commented.  “It is a dreamcatcher.  It’s upside down because it’s a daydreamer’s catcher.”   

The ease in which the explanation of the upside-down dreamcatcher flowed from the curator’s lips was almost as confusing as the words themselves.  I stared at the painting and attempted to comprehend his meaning, unsuccessfully and conspicuously apparent.

“You know, so the daydreamer’s dreams can flow to the person sleeping below it.”

Seeing my utter confusion, the curator took pity on me and dove into an explanation of how dreams are made involving visionaries and seers, people who are born to be daydreamers and whose extraordinary lives are put to use in the dreams of those in need of inspiration and stimulation. The upside-down dreamcatcher above their heads, the tool used to circulate these images and passions to others around the world. 

The rabbit hole had fallen completely dark and felt tight around my skin, constricting my ability to think rational thoughts.  Had I had the dreamcatcher upside down this whole time?  Had it been upside down, would I have been dreaming dreams that other people had seen; dreams of the things my crazy aunt Kate had lived?  Is that even possible?

“Of course, it’s not possible,” I screamed internally.  “Have you come completely unhinged?”

I stood still, my body facing the direction of the painting in question, but my mind was elsewhere; my eyes scanned their peripheral vision for a familiar face that could rescue me from this nonsense.  Where was my rational mother when I needed her? 

“Often, the ability of the daydreamer is passed down through a family, from parent to child,” the curator continued unprompted. 

Something stepped into my peripheral line of sight as he spoke, blurred at first until I turned slightly, bring her into perfect clarity.  Crazy aunt Kate stood at the other end of the gallery, the sun from the skylights above raining down on her like beams from heaven.  Her skin sparkled like bubbly champagne, effervescent in the jumping light.  She floated across the floor, her feet barely brushing the ground below them.  She was angelic, unreal and yet more present in my life that I’d ever known her to be.  When I looked at her, I had a hard time disbelieving this unbelievable idea that my aunt and this strange man believed to be true. 

“Sometimes it skips a generation or only passes to one of several siblings in a generation.  It just depends on the dynamic of the person passing on the gift.  Sometimes people don’t even know they have it.  Sometimes someone knows they have this gift, but chose to ignore it, for one reason or another.”  The curator spoke as he stared into the space of the gallery, his eyes focused on images only available to his eyes.

As if in some masterly orchestrated ballet, the curator’s last words to me passed through his lips as my mother gently came to rest alongside my crazy aunt Kate, the two of them exchanging smiles and giggles in slow motion.  The light twirled between them as dust bunnies danced on the air.  The look of release and reprieve shown across their faces and as they turned the look of acceptance filled my mother’s eyes.  What I assumed to be the refraction of the sunlight pouring through from above turned out to be something more than mere light itself.  The spark in my mother’s eye, that had disappeared the night she fought with the ghost of my father on the porch while my ice cream slowly melted, now leaped from the canvas of her face.  She and my crazy aunt Kate turned to look at me in unison, faint, reassuring smiles resting on their faces.

“Or sometimes,” a voice whispered from behind.  “Sometimes, someone who abandoned the gift for whatever reason comes back to it later in life, when the time is right.”

When the time was right?  Was the time right, right now?  Had my mother abandoned some mystical gift because she married my father, had me and settled down to a life of normalcy and routine?  Was the timing right at this moment in her life since my father had passed and I was no longer a young child incapable of caring for myself?  Had I just gone insane, lost my marbles, because I was on the brink of possibly believing in some small aspect of whatever it was that was going on around me?

My mother moved toward me, leaving my crazy aunt, Kate behind to dance in the sunlight.  There was a weightlessness to her soul that let her drift across the floor, a fresh smile breaking upon her face.

She tucked a small dreamcatcher into my hand, forcing my rigid fingers to curl around its edges. 

“Ready?” she beckoned. 

Jessica Simpkiss lives and works in Virginia Beach, Virginia with her husband and daughter. She studied Art History at George Mason University. Her work has most recently been published or is forthcoming in the Hartskill Review, Zimbell House Anthologies, The Write Launch, The West Trade Review, The Dead Mule for Southern Literature, The Bookends Review and the Virginia Literary Journal, amongst others. Find more of her work by visiting jessicamsimpkiss.com

Alice Tilson Whitaker
Daughter, Sister, Wife
1865-1894

            He keeps saying it, over and over, like a prayer or a promise. “I didn’t kill her,” he says, even when no one asks. They all assume his guilt now. They stand back and whisper as he walks unsteadily through the village. Talking to himself. Speaking of murder and innocence. It’s as if he’s hearing the voices of the dead, and possibly he is. Possibly he’s hearing me now, after nearly a decade of ignoring my every word, my every need. I hope he can’t stop hearing me. 

            “You killed me, Edgar.” I hiss in his ear and he flinches.

*  *  *

            My name is Alice. It’s an unremarkable name, but it suited me. I was never an attractive girl, cursed with a nose too long for a face too round. My mother, with her finite capacity to comfort, referred to the protrusion as “aquiline.” In reality it was just big, bullying its way into the limited space between my eyes and my mouth from the time I was twelve. It grew with the same relentless aggression as my limbs, resulting in a fourteen-year-old gangly creature with skin and hair so white some folks in our tiny community assumed me to be albino. I resembled a snowy egret, without the grace or beauty. This made for an unpleasant adolescence.

            My father, Dr. Wilfred Tilson, with no sons to treasure, doted on my younger sister Norma. I could never blame him for his appreciation of her. It was as if she had been sculpted by a God trying to compensate for his earlier artless error. That pride my father felt for Norma transitioned abruptly when his heavily browed eyes fell on me. No academic accomplishment—and I had enjoyed many in our tiny school—could change that. Despite the recommendations of Principal Newel, Father refused to invest in my higher education. He believed there could only be two options for daughters: we would either be married, or we would be a burden. There was little question as to which of those futures Norma would enjoy, if only our father could find someone suitable. I was destined for the latter.

            But Father underestimated the desperation that can exist in a lonely man’s soul. Sometimes, all a man wants is the warmth of a woman’s parts and someone to feed him thrice daily. Even I was well-equipped to handle those joyless tasks. Shortly before my twenty-fourth birthday, a spinster by local standards, my father was approached by Edgar.

            Edgar Arthur Whitaker, a twenty-nine-year-old farmer from Madison, had tried unsuccessfully for the hand of Norma. He had been canvassing the surrounding towns for months seeking a sturdy girl to marry, take home, and put to work. But Edgar forgot those requirements when he laid eyes on the sixteen-year-old beauty. He was quick to appreciate those large blue orbs, her hair the color of autumn oak leaves, and skin that seemed to generate its own soft light. But as lovely as Norma was, a farmer’s wife she would never be. It was ridiculous that a man more than a decade older than Norma, with nothing to show for those years of labor except a bit of tanned muscle, would think he could abscond with my father’s only prize. Even Mother, a woman who was disinclined to openly belittle others, was amused by Edgar’s stumbling advances.

            It was a year later that Edgar, even more desperate now, turned his attentions to me. When he arrived at our door, I assumed he had returned to craft a better case for Norma’s hand. But my sister was giddy with the news that Edgar was vying for mine. She grabbed my arm and guided me out to the front porch where we could sneak peeks into the sitting room. There my parents and Edgar sat, civilly chatting over cups of tea. I was taken aback, considering how they had reacted to him the first time. I’ve never blamed Mother for her passive acceptance of Father’s decisions. She was a woman whose story had been written for her. She therefore must have assumed mine needed authorship as well. However, I was surprised, and even saddened, that she considered Edgar an appropriate penman. Whereas I had accepted Father’s displeasures with me, I had always thought Mother to be more embracing of my less visible attributes.

            “He has a certain charm, Alice,” Norma said as we stole peeks through the curtains. Edgar struggled there with a saucer balanced on one knee as he sipped from a cup that looked ridiculous in his massive paw. “This is just like that book you love so much, the one by that woman.”

            I was surprised that she would reference a novel, since reading was not her pleasure.

            “You know, that one about pride. The romantic one.”

            I laughed. “As if you’ve read Pride and Prejudice.”

            “I haven’t, but you’ve talked so much about it I feel as though I have.”

            I squinted through the curtains, trying to grasp what Norma must be seeing in the disquieting scenario that I could not. “And to which of the men would you compare him? Mr. Collins? He certainly doesn’t have the grace of a Mr. Darcy. And who am I to be? Jane? Lizzy?” I laughed again at her ridiculous premise. “I think you need to read more, Norma. In no way does this resemble the beginnings of a romantic novel. From the looks of it, I’m more inclined to compare it to a comedy, or most likely a horror story if it goes on much longer.”

            Norma rolled her eyes as if it were she who understood the world more fully. “You’re too cynical, Alice. This could be your future if you would be open to it. Mr. Whitaker is a fine, hardworking man. He has his own farm, and he’s not so unpleasant to look at.”

            “Really? Didn’t you all laugh at him the first time?”

            Norma picked at a cluster of invisible lint on her gloves. It was her nervous habit when she was dissatisfied with the conversation. “You obviously misunderstood.”

            “I think not. You did it openly.”

“No, Alice. We were laughing at me, not Edgar. We were laughing at the image of me amongst pigs and chickens. Could you imagine?” She giggled too ambitiously. “You must admit it’s an amusing thought considering how I am.”

“But you could imagine me there? Surrounded by pigs and chickens and all of whatever that entails?”

“Yes, I could. You’re good with animals; always taking in the strays. And you are a far more resilient person than I. Whereas I would be overwhelmed by the challenges, you’ll rise to them. You’re strong and adaptable and so smart. I’m sure there’s a lot to learn but you’ll take to it quickly. And Edgar couldn’t ask for a better companion. You might even be happy there. Anyone can tell that you’re not now.” She turned that lovely face toward me with so much sincerity and humiliation—whether it was real or feigned—that I loved her more in those seconds than I had ever loved her before. I glanced back at the scene that appeared to be developing into what could be my future. Mother’s smile was static as she listened to Edgar’s story. Her eyes widened at some distasteful detail.

            “But look at him, Norma. He’s like an ape at a tea party.”

            Norma joined me at the window and burst into giggles. She hid her face in a pillow. “You shouldn’t make fun of him while he sits right there.” She glanced back and laughed harder. “He does look like an ape though, doesn’t he? Still, you shouldn’t be laughing at him. He may be your husband soon.”

            The reality hit me then. Husband. The word felt foreign, like a jagged bone in a bowl of stew. Norma lowered the pillow and smiled. She took both of my hands in hers, and the gloves’ fabric was cool against my sweating palms.

“You’ll be good for Edgar. He’ll take care of you, and you’ll help him to become a better man.” She looked down at our conjoined hands and smiled. It was an amusing assemblage: mine like long white anglers entwining the shorter and thicker clusters of hers. “I will miss you, but this is the best option for you. There may not be others.”

            Norma had a point, although I doubted it was hers. She, and my parents by proxy, was probably right. There was little chance of exiting my limited life in Riverton or even improving upon it. I could plainly see the road that lay before me if I stayed there in Father’s house. I would grow old with my parents. I would take care of them at the end, and I would do nothing of significance beyond that. I would be Auntie Alice, a sad and pitiable woman. It seemed that a life with Edgar offered, at the very least, a possibility of the uncertain.

            “You could make him smile, Alice.” She was doggedly enthusiastic, as if her future depended on the settling of mine. I suppose it did, in some way. Norma was approaching the marrying age herself, and possibly it had been planted in her mind that an older, unmarried, and unattractive sister would not make an acceptable impression for suitors and their families. It occurred to me then that she bore a responsibility that I had never understood, a burden to marry well, while I was allowed a modicum of choice.

            “It’s one of your talents, making others smile,” she went on. “You’ve always done it for me. And Edgar has a lovely smile but he doesn’t use it nearly enough.” She shouldered me toward the window again. As if by cue, a smile did curl at the edges of Edgar’s mouth. But the reason for it was not lovely. Father had just extended an envelope to him, and Edgar’s lips parted into a crooked grin as he counted its contents.

            There was no courtship. Edgar had little time or patience. The arrangements had been made, and the dowry had been accepted. My departure from my “certain” life was quick and with little pomp. The wedding, if one could call it that, was at home in the parlor, attended only by my parents and my sister. Norma was as lovely as always in a pale green dress with matching accessories. I could not be similarly described in mother’s starkly white wedding gown. She had insisted that I wear it, despite the differences in our shapes, and there was no time for alterations. It rose well above my ankles and drooped in places that called attention to my lack of womanly growth. But the whiteness was its most disturbing effect. Norma gasped when she saw me.

            “It’s so…white,” she said, as if I hadn’t noticed. “You look like a ghost.” And she was right. The dress’s pallor matched mine perfectly, as if we had been cut from the same cloth.  

            What a grim couple we made. Edgar, apparently having come directly from the fields, did not dress for the occasion. He was outfitted in a tattered shirt, faded overalls, and boots that seemed to have collected a great deal of organic matter over the years. He did not arrive with a smile nor did he adopt one. As I approached him on what should have been our happy day, I could see his horror. He had clung to an unrealistic hope that on this one day I might be closer to acceptable. He had not expected my appeal to move in the opposite direction. When the pastor suggested that we kiss, signifying the loving bond into which we were entering, Edgar was still. He was like a child who had not received the gift he had been promised. I felt sad for him, but only briefly. I leaned in and put my lips to his. They were colder and stiffer than I had expected, and they seemed to harden beneath mine. It was to be the only kiss that we would ever share. For that I am grateful.

*  *  *

Our marriage, our arrangement if you will, limped along for nearly six years without significant highs or lows. It was a dramatic change from my life before, and in that way it was as I had hoped. It was not, however, a Jane Austen novel as Norma had suggested. I cooked, cleaned, tended to the cows, the pigs, the chickens. The cooking and cleaning came easily, since Mother had given me an education in both. The other tasks were more strenuous. My job was to keep the farm alive, to insure that the livestock and the chickens and even Edgar and I did not fail in health. I had never experienced that kind of responsibility—the life-and-death kind—and it was so overwhelming that I had no time to bemoan my circumstances. Every day was a challenge; it was a ritual of vigilance.

The care of the livestock was a task that required training, and Edgar was surprisingly patient with me. He taught me well, and I took well to it. There were many times during those six years when I felt close to him. He loved the farm, and sometimes it seemed as though he almost loved me now that I belonged to it. I say “almost” because he never expressed it in any way that I could qualify as affection. There was a tenderness there sometimes, a softer center that would seep through his integument. We would be delivering a calf or tending to an ailing pig and there it would be: a lightness, a gentleness, and that smile that Norma had appreciated. But the moment would be fleeting. As quickly as I noticed it, the softness was gone. He would pull it back and slam the portal closed as if he were afraid of it opening too far and swinging out of his control. Those glimpses, as fleeting as they were, maintained me. They gave me hope for more, and a reason to stay.

            Each of us bore our responsibilities solely, and in that way it was a predictable life. Edgar immersed himself in his own work. He tended to the fields and dealt with the structural repairs, which were considerable. The house, the barn, the fences were quite old and in need of attention. He spent his time mending structures while I spent most of mine with the animals. We rarely spoke of our days.

            Even the weekly coitus was enveloped by the predetermination of time, place, and expectation. Mother had advised me of that unpleasantness. She had warned me of a man’s weight, his odor, and his unnecessary proliferation of hair, of which I was unaware. I recognize now how close we are to beasts. Edgar would be a marvelous illustration of Darwin’s theories. There is no other logical reason for why a man such as Edgar should be blanketed with so much dark hair. It seems that he, and possibly all men, have one foot firmly planted in the genetic mire of another species. It would explain so much.

In Mother’s way she was helpful with my introduction to sexual congress. Of course I was aware of its existence. I was an avid reader, after all. But Mother was quick to point out that it was not the enlightening experience of novels.

“It can be quite odious,” she said, although she didn’t qualify it. “As well as messy and unsanitary,” again without details. “You will do best to relax and allow Edgar to do the work. Men like to be in charge, especially in the bedroom.”

It was a brief conversation, uncomfortable for both of us.

She offered one last piece of advice that was helpful. It had come to her from her mother, and she swore that it would “get you through the worst of it.” She suggested I memorize a poem, something to silently recite during the process. It was a distraction that she herself had employed. “It will pass the time,” she said.

“What poem did you choose?” I asked, excited by this new intimacy.

Mother paused, considering, as if the detail might be too personal. “I chose Love’s Secret by William Blake. I had always loved his poetry, and it’s a beautiful poem.”

“I suppose, but it’s quite short, isn’t it? Did you repeat it or did you memorize another?”

She flushed. “No. Once was enough. I only hope you are as lucky. And don’t worry. At some point he will get bored and seek other distractions. You’ll be fine.” She patted my knee and gave me such a loving look that we both teared. And that was all.

I was not a fan of Blake or any of those old men. I found my poem in the works of Adelaide Procter. A Woman’s Question. However, I treated her lovely words in a different tone than she had intended.

            Before I trust my fate to thee, I recited silently, as Edgar thrust and moaned,

            Or place my hand in thine,

            Before I let thy Future give

            Color and form to mine,

            Before I peril all for thee, question thy soul

            Tonight for me.

It was a long poem, but rarely did I get as far as the sixth stanza, my favorite, before the experience was over.

            Lives there within thy nature hid

            the demon-spirit Change,

            Shedding a passing glory still

            On all things new and strange?

            It may not be thy fault alone—but shield my

            Heart against thy own.

It became my practice to sing the final stanzas aloud as I washed myself with a good amount of lye soap and hot water. It was a ritual that became as much for my soul as my skin.

Our years moved forward in the way that a workhorse pulls its plow: back and forth, steadily trudging through soil and rock until it either dies or is put down. Except for the weekly coitus, we were like business partners. I did my job and Edgar did his. When we spoke, it was only concerning the farm. He left me alone for the most part. He had his own room, and I occupied the smaller adjoining one. When we were not working, I had my books, and Edgar had his pipe and whiskey. There was little conversation, only instruction.

It would have been unbearably lonely if not for Walter. I smile when I think of him. Whereas Edgar could have been likened to the dark, my dear friend Walter was, at least for me, the light. He owned the neighboring farm, a smaller one at seventy acres compared to ours at over two hundred. He was a vegetable farmer, and we shared a fence that was close to the chicken coop.  

“You should wear a hat, Missus,” he said on that day we met. It had been a year since I had moved to Edgar’s and nearly that long since I had conversed with anyone. There had been no trips to visit Mother and Father at that point, and they would not visit the farm. Purveyors and buyers came through, but they always dealt with Edgar. And when there was reason to go to town, it was his job, as well as his pleasure, I assume.

I held a hand up to darken the afternoon glare. Still, I could only see a silhouette against an expansive white sky. “I beg your pardon?” I quickly glanced around to see if Edgar was in sight. He was not.

The man tossed something to me, and I managed to catch it before it landed in the dirt. It was a soft, wide-brimmed hat with yellow tie strings.

“It was my wife’s,” he said, as he lowered himself from the horse. “I seen you out here most every day. That hat will be good for rain and sun. A woman as pale as you needs protection.” He put a hand across the fence. “Name’s Walter. And I guess you must be the missus. Heard Edgar got himself a bride.”

“Alice,” I said. His hand was thick and rough, but it held a warmth, like flesh that has worked hard but has also been touched. He nodded and then glanced toward the hat which was nearly forgotten in my other hand. I released his grip, loosened the tie-strings, and settled it in place. It fit nicely.

“Ellen wore it every day till she passed on. Long time ago. She was my missus for thirty years.”

That was the beginning of our friendship. It started with a gift, and it continued that way, though his companionship was the best that he brought. He stopped by the fence once or twice a week, always with a bag of vegetables. In return I gave him eggs and milk. It was a secret exchange, since Edgar was not a man who either gave or received. If he had known of my friendship with Walter, I’m certain he would have ended it, one way or another. As time passed, Edgar had become a man who did not appreciate others’ joy.

I don’t know the seed of Edgar’s hatred and mistrust of the world, since I was not privy to his thoughts or his history. But in our sixth year that seed took root and grew. Although the farm was doing well by then, and Edgar was more financially solvent than he had been, he swelled with hate and misery. It was as if he blamed the world for allowing him a small slice of success but not the entire pie. By that year it became obvious that I would not bear children, and Edgar hated me for it. He was more attentive to me in that year, and not in a good way.

It was like living with a rabid dog that foams with hate but is confused as to where to direct it. Whenever I was within reach, a proximity that I learned to avoid, he directed that misery at me: sometimes with his hands and sometimes with whatever was available. I tried desperately to alleviate his discomfort, and hopefully to quell mine, but it was a fool’s errand. A rabid dog does not respond well to petting.

I wonder if the need to comfort is within a woman’s design. Since I had no children, it’s possible that I directed those instincts toward Edgar. There’s no other explanation for why I felt so compelled to make his life more comfortable as he made mine less so. I wonder if it’s God’s way of helping us move through our woman’s work. If I ever meet Him, I will let Him know that it was not a gift helpful to me.

“Perhaps the arthritis would lessen if we had indoor plumbing,” I suggested one evening in February as I ladled the hot potato soup into his bowl. He had been complaining loudly all winter about his aches, and he blamed the damp cold of the outhouse for aggravating it. On a recent trip home for Norma’s wedding—an event that was considerably more lavish than mine—I had spoken of his complaints. The plumbing was my father’s idea, and I mentioned that to Edgar, since he respected Father’s opinions above mine.

“He thinks that we can afford it now that the farm is doing well.” I said this in the casual tone I had learned from Mother, one she had employed when trying to acquire some new furnishing. I should have known better. I should have respected our boundaries.

He turned his face up to me, as if I had dislodged some mental blockage. His gaze was clear and nearly intelligent in its brightness. It reminded me briefly of those moments of tenderness in our earlier years, when we would work together in the barn and he would smile at some wonder of nature. But I had misread him. His face was like the sky when there is just a touch of sun before the darkness cuts across it. I saw that cloud pass through Edgar, and I was frozen by it.

“We?” He stood slowly, his face filling with the darkness. “This is my farm. Not ours, not your father’s. I’ll decide how to spend the profits. You ugly, barren, useless woman. How dare you speak of what’s good for me.”

The explosion was like nothing I had known, in man or beast. It was volcanic in its power, emanating from some deep place within him. His body seemed to expand and radiate. I’m not sure if it was he physically, or the power that swelled out of him, that sent the tureen of boiling soup into the air, tumbling and then covering me with burning liquid.

The pain was immediate. I ran outside, threw myself into the snow, and rubbed fistfuls into my face and scalp. My clothes held the heat against my skin, and I pulled at the fabric, tearing it away and pressing the cold into the burning areas of my neck and chest. My upper body screamed from the heat.

Edgar stood in the doorway watching me, saying nothing, clouds blowing from his nostrils like the breath of an angry bull. I continued to rub the snow into the burning areas, pleading with him to help. He went insideand I hoped, foolishly, that he would bring burn salve from the kitchen, that maybe he would feel sorry for what must have been an accident. But in a few moments he was back at the door with something in his hand. He threw a blanket at me.

“You’re so damn smart, ain’tcha?” His words were full of gravel and spit. “You and your rich folks. Telling me what to do with what’s mine. Well, you ain’t that smart cause I was already planning for it. I’ll be getting that indoor shithouse. But I’ll be damned if you ever use it.” Then he slammed and locked the door.

I spent that night in the barn, wrapped in a blanket and mounds of hay.

*  *  *

Edgar’s stupidity was only out-weighed by his pettiness. Plumbing, or a limited version of it, was brought to the house the following month, but only for one room. He moved his bedroom to a large section of the first floor, and in that area he had installed a toilet and a sink. When I say that it was limited, I mean that it was not as innovative as the plumbing in town, since we did not have access to town water. And Edgar was far too miserly to have a collection tower built. The plumbing that he had installed in his quarters required a hand pump, and I became the necessary hand. When Edgar washed himself or evacuated his bowels, I was in charge of the pump, which was located outdoors. Locks were affixed to his door and windows, although that seemed ludicrous. If I had needed to relieve myself within his domain, I would have defecated into his hat or urinated into his favorite boots, rather than struggle through a window. If Edgar had known me, he would have understood my creative nature. If he had known me, I would still be alive.

Fortunately, there was Walter. He never acknowledged the scars from the burns, or the occasional bruising—I did my best to conceal the evidence. We always kept our conversation light: discussing the animals, the weather, his deceased wife, his children who had families of their own. Only once did he make reference to my troubles, and even then he disguised it as a neighborly gesture, although his meaning was clear.

“If you ever need help, missus,” he said, looking away toward the fields where we could hear Edgar cursing a tired horse or possibly a stump that refused to be freed from the earth. “Help with anything at all, just ask. I’ll do what needs to be done.” That was all he said, and I pretended to accept it at face value.

It was so strange to have those two men in my life: one feeding me with joy while the other sucked it out as quickly. As unoffended as Walter was with my physical appearance, Edgar was always quick to show his disgust, as if I were a reminder of his failings. He had been burdened with an infertile woman, and there would be no child who would grow and lighten his load. He’d see me and growl something indecipherable through gritted teeth, not directed at me but more as an aside to some internal cohort, his invisible confidante with whom he now exchanged a constant grunting dialogue of anger and regret, even within the throws of coitus.

Those particular assaults became more brutal in the sixth year. They were administered with the foulest of language, if it could be called that at all. It was a degrading and vicious attack on my gender and my lack of adherence to what Edgar thought of as “womanliness.” That year he began taking me in the way that a dog takes a bitch, with my face shoved deeply into a sweaty pillow. With each thrust, he pressed my head deeper. I struggled for air while he groaned, swore, and eventually released. The time that it took for him to achieve that was, thankfully, briefer now. I could hardly recite my first three stanzas before he was up and gone to his room. It was as if the violence of the act was all he needed. He would finish quickly but with a torrent of hate, gripping me tightly around the neck and the waist, pounding and pinching at my back and breasts. It was like the assault of an avalanche: fast but destructive.

It was in that festering year, after countless humiliations and assaults, that I saw my future clearly, in the way that I had seen it before. Again, I knew there would need to be a change if I were to avoid an even darker path. Life would never be better for me as long as Edgar was in charge of it. I was being swallowed by his darkness, and there would be no end to it until one of us was dead. If I allowed it to go on, the dead would be me.

But in that clear vision I could also see a future without Edgar. It was a pleasant one that included the farm, my animals, and maybe even Walter. In the aftermath of such a lovely dream, I was left with a twinge of sympathy for Edgar. After all, no one would miss a man who neither gave nor received.

            It was Walter who acquired the rat poison for me. I was down in the dirt one day, examining a chicken, when he bellowed out his usual, “Mornin’!”

            I nearly toppled from the volume of it. “My word, Walter,” I said as I collected myself. “I should put a cowbell on you.”

            “Sorry, Missus.” He smiled mischievously. He was always amused by the start he could give me. It had become our manner of play.

            “Walter, why can’t you call me Alice?” I shook out my skirt and fanned at the billows of dust that rose from it. “It’s my name, after all, and we’ve been friends for years.”

            “Wouldn’t be right. You’re another man’s missus.” It was a cultural truism that I understood but pushed against. We had repeated that same exchange dozens of times, and it bounced between us easily, like all of our banter. He served and I returned, back and forth like a flirtatious game of badminton. That day was the same. And then I brought up the rat.

            “Walter, you know so much about farming. Sadly, I’m still stuck in the learning phase after nearly seven years. I’m concerned about a rat we have near the barn. I think it’s getting into the feed and making the cows jittery.” I asked him if he knew of where I could acquire something to rid us of it.

            “Are you sure it’s rats, misses? Could be feral cats. They’ll spook the hell out of a cow, ‘scuse my language.”

            “Oh, I’m quite sure it’s a rat. I’ve seen him.”

            “Why doesn’t Edgar help you with that? I know he goes into town.” Walter clearly did not like my husband. His mouth turned down whenever he said the name. There might have been bad blood between them, one of those disputes that erupts between neighbors. Whatever the cause, I recognized his dislike of Edgar as a measure of his goodness.

            “Yes, he could, and I’m sure he would, but the barn and the animals are my job, you see. He has so much to do already, and I—”

            “I know, missus,” Walter said. “No need to explain. How big is it?”

            “Very large,” I said, and I extended my arms in a best estimate.

            Walter laughed. “Looks more like a dog, but I get your point. It’s a bigun. I’ll get the right stuff, not to worry.”

            And the next week he brought me a ten-pound bag of it.  “It’s good for the biguns. More thallium concentration. That’s what kills ‘em. Might take a while, depending on how fast he eats. And there’s probably more than one. You shouldn’t skimp on it. You want me to put this out for ya?” He quickly jumped down from his horse and made for the fence. Walter was older, nearly fifty I expect, but youthful in his movements.

            “Walter, no,” I said and searched the horizon for Edgar. “I think I should do this. I know where the rat lives. And Edgar wouldn’t appreciate it.”

            “You’re right. ‘Nuf said.” He looked toward the fields. “I won’t make it worse for ya.”

            “Thank you, Walter.”

            I touched his shoulder without thinking, as if the moment required it. I allowed my fingers to linger there for just a few seconds, taking in the texture of his shirt and the firmness of his shoulder. It was the only time I had touched him, except for that first handshake, but it was the same warmth I remembered, coming out of him and through me like water rushing into an empty vessel. I felt energized by it. The seconds that I paused there seemed to go on and on, and in that pausing of time I got a sense for real affection, like what I felt for my parents and Norma, but different. I felt like I was moving, running, and the air seemed to be rushing past, cool against my heated cheeks.

            But I wasn’t moving at all. I was just there, perfectly still with my hand laid softly against Walter’s dusty shirt. He didn’t move either. We each stood like that, frozen, looking down at the earth and at our feet and at the fence that separated us. Old rusty wire and rotting wood. It was a fence that had been built fifty years before, built to separate two properties. I was both angry and grateful that it was still doing its job.

            Who knows for how long we might have stood like that if our time hadn’t been interrupted. I heard the sound of hooves on the road and quickly turned to see the clouds of dust. “It must be a buyer,” I said, withdrawing my hand. “Edgar will want coffee for them.”

            I turned back to Walter and noticed the redness that had climbed into his face. It was so endearing I couldn’t help myself. I leaned across the fence and kissed him softly on the cheek, lingering there for several long seconds, allowing that warmth to pour through me again. I was as shocked by the gesture as he must have been. We separated without another word or a glance between us. He mounted his horse and waved goodbye, and I hurried back toward the barn with the bag of poison, feeling an unfamiliar mixture of embarrassment and thrill.

*  *  *

            You would think that poisoning someone would be easy, especially when the intended victim is a glutton. As exceptional a cook as I was, thanks to Mother, I had discovered early on that I could feed Edgar anything as long as there was plenty of it. When he pulled a chair to the table, it was with the intention of filling his face to capacity and sending that half-chewed mass down to his ever-expanding belly. It was a wonder to watch, but I had learned not to. I placed the food on the table and quickly left the room. When I started my routine with the poison, I would sneak back to the door and watch. At first I watched out of fear, wondering if he would taste anything peculiar. Later I watched for the pleasure, relishing that each meal was pulling him further from me and closer to his end.

            I was mindful of where I put the poison, since I had no intention of killing myself. I was looking forward to a future, one that would not include Edgar. Therefore, I chose one source: his bread. I was not a bread eater myself, and Edgar could easily devour an entire loaf in a single meal. I mixed a half dozen handfuls into a flour bin that I reserved for bread. It was a messy task to get them evenly married. I was covered with the dust of it. Then I used it as needed, creating all of his favorites. He seemed satisfied, although his only method of expressing it was a grunt in a slightly different cadence than the ones he normally used to convey his disgust. I had learned to recognize the limited vocabulary: a grunt which rose in timbre expressed approval. My poisonous breads received many guttural accolades.

            But weeks passed, weeks of passionate baking, and I saw no change in Edgar. Even his sexual releases were full of the same ravenous energy. His routines, rising early and in the fields all day, did not vary in the least. He was a large man, and possibly my doses were too meager. I doubled the handfuls.

            It was a month after I had begun the process that Norma came to visit. Norma, a most unlikely comfort, was now a lift for my spirit. It had been nearly a year since I had seen her, now that she was married and living in Bangor. We melted into one another, and our mutual need was unsettling. We had never embraced with so much purpose.

            “Alice, what’s wrong?” There was a slight withdrawal as she regarded me. “You look…terrible.”

            “And you haven’t changed.”

            But I knew her assessment to be true. I hadn’t noticed the changes until that morning when I was preparing for her visit. I was never one to spend time in front of a mirror, but that morning I had seen the dark circles under my eyes, and the blotches of red that travelled out of my collar and skipped in angry patches across my face. I had been fatigued for weeks, and there was pain in my feet that I had never experienced before, but I had assumed that it was all the result of my increased work on the farm—and possibly from the stress of my unsuccessful attempts with the poison. That had been an emotional drain in itself.

            “Are you ill, Alice?” She held me at arm’s length. With one gloved finger, she gently touched the splotches and circles. The fabric felt cool against the heat of my skin. I closed my eyes for a few seconds and absorbed it. “Have you been around some poisonous plant? Maybe an insect? God only knows what horrible bugs must live here.” She glanced around the bleak kitchen as if the creatures might be lurking in the corners or about to descend from the rafters. “It’s probably spiders.” She shivered at the word and lifted her skirts from the floor.

“Probably.” It was cruel of me to poke at her phobias, but I was in no mood for gentleness. “We have so many varieties and they seem to be everywhere.” I began taking the tea, cake, and plates out to the porch. She hurried behind me, empty-handed except for her frilly skirts. Her heels clicked delicately on the floor that had only known the rough soles of work boots and mud galoshes. The sound was annoying, aggravating a headache that had been badgering me all week and was showing no signs of remission. After I had brought everything out and arranged the table, I settled into the less sturdy rocker and suggested she take the better one.

            “Well? Do you think it’s from an insect or something more serious?”

            In all fairness to my sister, it is possible that she was actually concerned for my health and not worried about the possibility of a contagion. I shrugged and pointed again toward the other rocker. She tested its solidity and checked around the edges for webs and nests before settling in.

            “I honestly don’t know,” I said. “But I’m certain it will clear up soon. Now, may we please talk about you?” I glanced down and noticed that the rash had started on my arms as well. I subtly unrolled my sleeves to cover them. “How is your life in the city? And how is Benjamin?”

            I didn’t care about her husband. He was an arrogant and disrespectful man. However, my head was pounding, and the obvious courtesies were all I could muster.

            She removed the pins from her wide-brimmed hat, and then rearranged the dishes on the table so that she could lie it flat. She did not remove the gloves. I would have been surprised if she had. I hadn’t seen her naked hands in years, not since she was twelve or thirteen, not since either Mother or Father had referred to them as “manly” and “stubby.” The gloves had appeared shortly after, gradually developing into an obsession of colors and fabrics and, most importantly, disguise. How sad it must have been for Norma, after years of praise and adoration, to finally learn that she did, after all, harbor a flaw.

            She let out a dramatic and weary breath, as if the action of settling and rearranging had taxed her. “Now,” she said, “You asked about my life. Well, in a word, it’s wonderful, truly wonderful. It’s so unlike the dreariness of Riverton. They’re starting a symphony in Bangor. An actual symphony. Isn’t that wonderful? I just love city life.”

            “It sounds, as you say, ‘truly wonderful.’ And Benjamin? Is he wonderful as well?” Already I was looking forward to her leaving. I had forgotten how unnerving her presence could be.

            She took a large bite of cake and chewed it slowly, indicating with an index finger for me to wait. Her chewing seemed loud, like the sound of hooves trudging through gravelly mud, plunging and sucking. As it went on and on I felt the first waves of nausea. When she took a long sip of tea to wash it down, it was like the slurping of a barn animal. I swallowed hard at the sour saliva that poured over my tongue.

            “Benjamin is wonderful, of course,” she said, finally. It occurred to me that the large bite and prolonged sip had allowed her time to think. Apparently Norma had something on her mind. Ordinarily I would have congratulated her for it, but this time it seemed to be something for which I needed to keep my cynicism in check. She was worried, distracted.

            “And now it’s my turn to ask. What’s wrong, Norma? Your note suggested an urgency.”

            She giggled, but there was no humor in it. “And you call me direct? Apparently we can’t just chat like sisters do.”

            “I’m sorry, Norma. It must be the heat. I’m suddenly not feeling well, so maybe we should get to the point.”

            “Well, you’re right, it is somewhat urgent. You see, Benjamin has had some recent—how should I put this—setbacks. They’re temporary, of course, but still they’re troubling.”

“Setbacks? I wouldn’t think a man like Benjamin Taylor would have setbacks.” There was a hint of my uncontrollable sarcasm, but Norma didn’t seem to notice. My attitude was gradually being taken hostage by a thumping behind my eyes. All I wanted was to splash myself with cold water and then collapse into a long nap.

“Everyone has setbacks, Alice. My word, I imagine even Edgar has setbacks.”

If only he would, I thought.

“And speaking of Edgar, I understand he’s doing well.” She glanced around the porch: at the poorly mended screen, the missing tread of a step, the worn and splintery woodwork that needed attention. “But he’s careful with his profits, isn’t he?”

A sharp pain stabbed at my insides and I curled into myself, taking short breathes until it eased.

“My word, Alice, what’s wrong with you?” Norma leaned forward and rested a hand on my arm. “You are ill, aren’t you?”

I could feel the sweat collecting on my forehead. I wiped at it with one of the napkins. “I suppose I am. What bad timing this is. I had hoped I would have more energy for your visit today, but I’m feeling as though—”

“How long have you been ill?” Her interest was genuine and I welcomed it.

“It comes and goes. I think I’m just very tired after nearly seven years. Farm life can do that, you know.” I said this to the woman whose only job had been to marry well. The pain relaxed and I straightened myself to take another sip of tea. My hand was trembling.

“How long has this gone on?”

“A week or so.” I wasn’t quite sure. The stomach pain and the aching feet had only started that week, but the fatigue had been increasing for longer.

“Have you seen a doctor?”

I laughed at her naiveté. “The nearest doctor is in Skowhegan, Norma. What would you suggest I do, walk eight miles? I’ve never learned to handle the horses by myself, and Edgar can’t leave the farm just because I’m suffering from a little fatigue. It’s a busy time. I can’t be sick.”

“That’s ridiculous. Everyone gets sick. I’ll take you Riverton. Father will look at you. That way we’ll have plenty of time to talk.” Norma jumped up and grabbed her hat. As she stood there, holding the frilly thing in her gloved hands, I realized how inappropriate she looked standing in the middle of my squalor. She was like an expensive trinket that had been dropped into a privy.

“No, Norma. Please.” I reached toward her and saw that the trembling was getting worse. “Sit. It’s nothing to worry about. Edgar would be angry if we went without his consent. And I don’t want to bother him now. He has a lot on his mind.”

But it was I who was doing the thinking. It occurred to me in that moment that somehow, possibly, Edgar had been poisoning me.

“I want you to promise that you will see a doctor. Soon. Promise me, Alice.”

“I promise. Now let’s get back to why you’ve come.”

Norma relaxed into the rocker again and began rattling on about something to do with Benjamin and their home and their future. But I found it difficult to concentrate. My thoughts were full of Edgar. How was he doing this to me? What poison could he be using and where was he putting it?

“So it occurred to me that Edgar might be able to help us, just a little, and only until Benjamin is back on his feet.” She took another smaller bite of cake and smiled as she chewed. “Oh, Alice. I’d forgotten what a wonderful cook you are. This is delicious. I wish I had the patience to bake.” She dabbed at her lips. “Recipes are so tedious.”

What if it’s in the sugar, I thought. I could be poisoning my sister right now. I considered all the desserts and the gallons of lemonade I had consumed. Of course. It has to be the sugar.

“So what do you think, Alice? Could you convince Edgar to help your little sister with a small loan? Like I said, Benjamin is getting help with his problem so it shouldn’t be long.”

“His problem.” They were the only words I heard, and I repeated them to understand. My head had begun a rhythmic throbbing, and it shivered in my ears, as if I were bobbing in and out of a deep and muddy pool. I rubbed at my temples and closed my eyes. Shards of light ripped across the lids, each one partnered with a flash of pain at the back of my skull.

“Yes, you’re right. It is his problem. But it’s my problem too. I don’t know where else to go. Father won’t help any more. He says that Benjamin is weak, and he won’t throw good money after bad.” She grabbed one of my best napkins and patted at the corners of her eyes. It came away with blotches of pink and black.

“What—?”

“What do I need? Whatever Edgar will allow. I think a few hundred should help. It would mean so much, Alice. You’ll ask him, won’t you?”

“I’m—I’m sorry Norma. I can’t—”

If I could have finished the sentence I would have told her that I couldn’t understand what she was asking for. The heat of the day, my sudden thirst, and the pain in my head and stomach were consuming me. It felt as though I was being devoured from the inside, while my brain slowly dissolved. The world seemed to be getting smaller, as if my pain and I were leaving the shell of me behind.

 “You can’t? Why can’t you, Alice? You and Edgar have all of this, all of this land and those animals. Half of this is yours. I’ve never asked you for help before.”

She talked on, but it was lost on me. A vital cord to the world was being severed. But I was keenly aware of what was happening inside me. My stomach churned and twisted like a sack of angry snakes, while my head held a small animal that had been cornered there. It was tearing and gnawing at my skull, searching frantically for a way out. Norma’s words bounced and echoed and made no sense.

Even now, from my omniscient perch, I am confused by the speed at which things changed then. I have no idea how long Norma spoke to that shell of me while I struggled with the pain that spread into every cell. Into my hair, my skin, and even my feet that throbbed against the bonds of old leather. Even now, I see it in a blurred sequence of moments that end with Norma standing in front of me, her expensive hat gripped roughly in both hands and tears running down her cheeks in dark wet lines. She is pleading. I can see that now, although I can’t, and couldn’t at the time, hear her words.

Whatever animal had been clawing at my skull chose that moment to move south. I could feel it racing down my spine and into my stomach. I could feel it writhing and pushing, searching for a way out. It hissed and growled as it explored the limits of my gut and then, discovering an opening, bolted for an exit. My insides convulsed, and a tsunami flew out of me and onto Norma, covering the gloves and the hat and a good portion of her blue dress in a flood of thick yellow with streaks of bright red. 

*  *  *

            Death by thallium poisoning is quite unpleasant. I do not recommend it. I was wrong about Edgar and the sugar. It seems that I was responsible for my own demise, although he is certainly accountable. If it had not been for his cruelties, I would never have touched the deadly powder, or inhaled it. I had breathed in a good amount of poison in my angry process, not to mention the quantities I had absorbed through my skin. I had handled it carelessly. My only defense is that I was blinded by hate, and possibly love. 

            Norma, even within the depths of her disgust and self-concerns, had tried in her own limited way to save me in the end. I was in no condition to argue with her when she nearly dragged me to her carriage and rushed us to Father’s, scolding me the entire way for not dealing with my poor health sooner. Father was quick to recognize the enormity of my illness and brought me to the hospital in Farmington. By the following day my hair started coming out in clumps, the vomiting increased, and the bottoms of my feet were so sore I couldn’t put weight on them. The rash increased and quickly moved in crimson patches across my entire body. I was dead four days later.

            The autopsy was done at Father’s insistence. He was concerned for Norma, of course. He couldn’t allow his prized possession to be disfigured or possibly killed by whatever dreaded disease had taken me. Although he was certainly saddened, I think he was relieved to learn of the poison, to know that I had not brought some farm-bred contagion into his home.

            Death brings with it a degree of insight. It’s apparent to me now that the size of the rat is more important than I had thought. And the cooking had diminished the potency. I, on the other hand, had absorbed quite a lot. Traces of thallium were everywhere: on my skin, in my hair, on my clothes, and in the kitchen.

            Walter has been very helpful in the investigation. His memory, somewhat flawed and possibly fueled by whatever bad blood had flowed between him and his neighbor, was that Edgar had asked him for the rat poison. My innocent peck on his cheek may have flummoxed him into memory loss. It’s also possible that he understood my intentions with the poison and hoped to assist me now that my efforts had failed. What a sweet and honorable man. Whatever the reasons for his story, it was convincing.

            Poor Edgar. He would have been better off as a bachelor. Men are so afraid to be alone, and when they are no longer alone they hate us for the intrusion. He’s awaiting trial. For the past week or so I have visited him, whispering encouragements that have had quite the opposite effect. He is a less powerful man now. After an entire life of having no control over my future, it has been wonderfully satisfying to have had even a little over his.

            Death is a compassionate transition, not the sad and painful one that we are led to believe. We get to stay in the world for just a little while as we watch the remnants of our lives get packed into boxes or burned in un-ceremonial pyres. We get to wander about, checking on our loved ones and their grief. There was more of that than I had expected. I watched as Mother and Father blamed each other for their part in my marriage. For Father, it was more anger than hurt. He prattled on about retribution and shame, while Mother did her best to ignore him. She swallowed her guilt and lamented in private.

Norma has had too much on her mind to grieve in any way that could be assessed as sorrow, although it must have appeared as such to others. She’s been crying, she’s been praying, she’s spent days in her room. Friends and neighbors have brought her gifts of solace. But it’s clear that her mourning is more for herself than for me. Benjamin has lost nearly everything, due to an affinity for horses and poker and anything else that requires a wager and no skill. Luck, however, has had no affinity for him. I’ve watched Norma with true empathy as she’s considered her future. It seems ironic that the one she will undoubtedly choose will be the one I had been so afraid of for myself. I would love to console her, to let her know that a life with Mother and Father would not be the worst a life could be.

But as my time wears down, I have chosen instead to return to Edgar. After all, he had been, for a portion of my life, my master. I wanted to leave him with something that would demonstrate my feelings, some memento of our life together.

            I am about to pass along a secret to you now. I feel as though I should complete the story of my life and death, and this is integral to it. It’s a secret that you will learn soon enough anyway, some of you sooner than later. You see, Nature is quite generous at the end, allowing us to let go without guilt or sorrow or worry. She allows us a sense of finality, something more than just the blunt end of life.

And the secret is this.

The most precious gift of death is the one we pass along to the living. It’s a lovely ability we’re allowed before we dissipate into the firmament. We make this last decision on our own, without judgment or suggestion by any deity or deity’s helper. It’s our last act, and then it’s over. No more wandering, no more spying, and no more whispering.

            Every one of us, no matter our station or belief, is allowed to place a single thought into the head of someone dear: some image, real or imagined, that will remain with them until their own deaths. Most souls choose a special day that was shared with the recipient. Others lean toward the imagined experience, one that the living can feel over and over for the rest of their days as if they had actually lived it. It’s a lovely gift, or at least it’s intended to be.

            The gift I initially chose for Edgar was not so lovely. It was not of our wedding day, as horrific as that day was. And there were no mutual hopes and dreams, no beautiful days that I wished him to relive, since we had none of those. No, the experience I originally chose for Edgar was the one that had dehumanized me the most. It was the one that had ripped my head from my heart and had reshaped me into an angry and vengeful woman. It was the one of him and me in the throes of coitus in that sixth year. It had been an important function of our marriage, and I hoped for him to know it as I had. But this time it would be his face pressed deeply into a sweat-soaked pillow, barely able to breath, pleading with me to stop. And it would be I who took him in the way that a dog takes a bitch: angrily from behind, again and again, relentlessly. I wanted so much for him to experience my humiliation and pain. It would have been a just bestowal.

            But it seems that our hearts soften as the world releases its gentle grip. In my final moments, I have weakened toward Edgar. I have reconsidered that seed that had made him the way he was. I can now see that even he must have been a victim of some injustice along the way. So I have thought of something that might serve his ailing spirit.

            Instead of that spiteful gift that would have tortured him and given me momentary satisfaction, I have chosen better. I am giving Edgar the memory of my friendship with Walter. I am planting in him that moment when I touched Walter lightly on his shoulder and felt a surge move through me like fresh warm water. And I am willing him the thrill of when I pressed my lips to Walter’s cheek, that joyous sensation of when I stood perfectly still, my lips attached to his coarse, warm skin, while my heart raced, with no restraints, through fields of fragrant wild flowers.

            They are the most treasured moments of my life, and I hope they will give poor Edgar a small understanding of the wonders he has missed.

Clif is a visual artist and writer who has recently returned to his home town in Maine after spending most of his life in Brooklyn, N.Y. In 2017, he received his MFA in creative writing from Stonecoast at the University of Southern Maine. He is working on a collection of short stories and novellas titled “The Stones of Riverton.” They are fictional tales inspired by the gravestones in a small town in Western Maine, and they are based on the rumors of the questionable deaths of those who are buried beneath them. He spends far too much time in graveyards, and not nearly enough time with his sweet dog and best friend Ollie. They live in a small cabin in the mountains of western Maine. It’s a long way from Brooklyn.

The Violin

The violin was shaped 
with pride and skill 
by her Maker
Not the most expensive 
wood nor as much varnish 
as her sisters, but her shape 
was practical and her strings 
designed for glorious music
So she wondered, day after day
as every other instrument 
in the shop was chosen
Bright, shiny trumpets 
slender clarinets 
wide bass drums 
all found their mates
no one picked up the violin
“Violins are difficult” 
On rare occasions 
when a stringed instrument 
was called for, a flashier model 
was always chosen
Dust gathered on the lonely violin
Until one day the Customer came in
He’d been through several instruments 
but decided this time 
a violin would do nicely
“That one, behind the counter” 
The violin’s strings 
trembled as he held her 
beneath his chin 
cradled her bow 
between his fingers
The sound that came forth 
was far from beautiful
She was out of tune 
from years of neglect
She tried so hard 
to please the Customer
He rewarded her 
with a smile
paid the Man behind the counter
“For a trial run” 
Every day the violin 
tried her best 
every day she sounded better 
The music that poured 
from her strings began 
to sound like symphonies
Until the day the Customer 
closed her lid
Through the thick case
she heard the bell 
of the shop door ring 
He laid her on the counter
“I don’t think violins are for me”

Hands that Have Always Held Me

Father, where is the lamb?
The servants say you always bring a lamb
bleating and crying
spotless and pure
following guileless in your wake.
It cannot recognise the blood-stained knife at your hip
sharp enough to slice bone and sinew 
with a single touch.
It doesn’t know the sticks 
piled on the servant’s back that snap and creak 
with every upward step.
They didn’t say this mountain would be so steep, Father.
Did the lambs stumble too?
The ones that have come before?
Father, where is the lamb?
Is it waiting at the top?
The Lord will provide, you say
but now I see no lamb
only the trembling of your hands
strong hands that have always held me.
Did the lambs feel the cold mountain wind 
through their tight, curly fleece? 
Did they realise their inevitable end?
The kindling, the knife, Father, now I know.

Kristina Heflin is an Arizona State University English major, based in Northern California. She has served on the editorial board of the literary journal Flumes and is Activities Coordinator for the Yuba College Literary Arts Club. She has been published in the literary journals Flumes, Canyon Voices, and Diverse Minds, the websites 2Elizabeths and the write launch, as well as the anthology The Beckoning. Future publications include Canyon Voices and the Same. When she’s not writing or tutoring English at Yuba College, she enjoys horseback riding and Marvel comics.

Anne should have stuck to her decision and insisted Failen, her daughter, remove her purple rain boots instead of explaining how although it was drizzly now, the clouds would break by mid-morning and her feet would get hot.  But she started crying, ruining the first day of school picture.  So the boots stayed. 

However, after Anne dropped Failen off, she had a moment of inspiration.  What if she surprised her daughter by painting the front door the exact same shade of purple?  That would make a wonderful picture. 

But the paint store didn’t have the exact same shade.  The closest was too dark and not enough blue.  If you could lighten it just a bit, Anne suggested, and make it bluer, slightly.  The paint man said he could try but unless he had a color to match it would really be guessing and she couldn’t return it.  So Anne picked the closest match from the swatches and drove home.  She painted the door three times, running two fans, to hasten the drying.  Then she picked her daughter up.

Failen pointed at the door when she saw it from the street.  After Anne let her out of the car Failen immediately ran to the house and stood right in front.  She looked down at her boots then up at the door and smiled.  “Just like my boots,” she exclaimed, although her boots needed to be darker and a bit less blue.  Still, before she could run inside her mom said, wait and snapped a picture of the child sticking her boot out and pointing at the door, smiling like only five year olds smile on the first day of school.

***

When Failen was twelve a friend, Molly asked, “Why is your door purple?”

She answered, “That’s the color my mom painted it on my first day of school.” 

“But no one else has a purple door,” Molly said.  She pointed at each house in the neighborhood.  “And it’s not just these houses,” she added, “I’ve never seen a purple door on any house except in cartoons.  Have you?” 

Failen was silent.  She looked back at her front door and then the others. 

“You should paint it white like the others,” Molly said.

After Molly left, Failen asked her mom if they could paint their door white, but Anne told her the door didn’t need to be painted. 

“But when it does, you can choose the color.  But pick something other than white.”

“I think I will pick white,” Failen said.

“Not very creative,” the mom frowned.

“I don’t care.”

“Well-”

“People think we’re cartoons,” Failen yelled.

***

Looking back, Anne always believed that argument was the catalyst for Failen’s rebellion.  Or maybe the argument was the actual chemical reaction and the purple door the catalyst.  She recalled overhearing her daughter tell her friends about her magical purple door.  “Doesn’t make a sound, even in August when I really have to push to get it open.”  But only when Anne discovered her past out on the porch one morning did she realize what she was referring to. 

***

Then she stopped returning. 

***

Sometimes Anne took the picture from her dresser and thought what if her boots had been white? 

Would she have painted the door white?  Of course that would be stupid.  There would be no picture because there would be no reason for a child to run up to a front door painted white. 

But maybe there would have been a white gown for graduation.  Of course, graduation gowns are usually black, but maybe hers would have been white because when she was twelve the argument between Molly and her was deciding which private school to attend.  Wonderful, adopted, Asian, Molly.  Failen was such good friends with her in elementary school.  They could have been friends in high school.  And attended prom together.  Not together, of course, but with their respective dates, in the same group, or however teenagers attend proms.  Her corsage could have been a yellow rose, with a sprinkling of baby’s breath. 

That might be the picture she kept on her dresser, now. 

If the door had been white the officer wouldn’t have had trouble finding their house because his sergeant would have told him the exact address.  Before he removed his cap he wouldn’t have had to explain that the sergeant only told him the street name and the house with the purple door.  “Can’t miss it, Sarge told me.  But this isn’t purple.  This is really gray.”  He wouldn’t have had to say this as he touched the crinkled paint.

And, perhaps he would have knocked on her door because her daughter had been involved in a silly high school prank.  A prank that wouldn’t make Anne feel like she was floating, nor contort her mouth and gasp as if she had just vomited.  The officer would have no reason to help her sit and ask if there was someone he could call that could stay with her. 

The next day, she wouldn’t paint the door white.  There would be absolutely no reason to apply coat after coat after coat.

Roger D’Agostin is a writer living in Connecticut.

No one tells us to keep it down, to stop stomping around, shaking the chandeliers beneath our feet. They left last night, an exodus. We heard the front door opening and closing and opening and closing and then slamming. SLAM. Their baby was crying in the driveway.

We’re dancing in the living room, eating Eggos with our hands and hopping like mad. We’ll have pizza for lunch and leave the box on the porch, because we can. Because there’s no one below us to huff and complain about attracting flies or to call animal control on our dog when we let him pee in the yard without us and he wanders and roots through the garbage bags that won’t fit in the bins. We’re wild and haven’t even put bras on yet.

Even the dog is dancing.

When we were in junior high, we tipped over mannequins in JC Penny and ran the entire length of the mall and burst out the doors with our lungs burning. We were so high that we ran all the way home, flew like kites, laughing with sun on our faces. When we reached her house, her mom stood from the kitchen table and shook her head. We’d been gone so long, hadn’t we thought of her? How worried she would be?

We just let her talk and didn’t even tell her that we had made a mess with the mannequins all over that aisle of JC Penny. She wore a dark purple sweatshirt that said ESPRIT in bold white print and she called my mom. You need to start thinking of people other than yourselves, she hissed with her hand over the receiver, you should have called for a ride. But we never were the people who thought of things like that.

When we’re done dancing, we collapse on the couches and Sam suggests we go and see what their apartment looks like, what they might’ve left behind. Maybe there will be some beers in the fridge. The door is locked, but she finds the window by the side porch is open and is so small, she can fit right through. Whoa, she says. I hear the lock turning, the door opens. This place.

It’s our apartment, exactly, only white. Completely white walls. There isn’t anything left, except some candles on the mantle, burned down to uselessness, and a baby jumper hanging in a door frame between the living room and dining room. It’s like they were never here. Like they never tried to set up a home and fought in shouting matches over whose fault it was that the laundry didn’t get to the dryer. Like he never spent hours in the garage in thrift store t-shirts with hacked off sleeves, cranking and banging and fixing a motorcycle that I never saw him ride. Like she never paced around with her heels clicking all over the place, or leaned her head out the bathroom window to blow smoke from her lips. Like we couldn’t smell their bacon on the stovetop or see them that time she chased him into the road and he told me the next day that she’s just hormonal and paranoid. Like they weren’t always setting off the fire alarm and their baby wasn’t crying and crying.

Wait, Sam calls out from the kitchen and I find her, leaning on the wide-open fridge door. Jackpot. White wine and so many boxes of leftover take-out. She grabs a bottle and we take turns taking swigs while opening every cabinet, pulling every drawer. We can hear the scratching of our dog’s paws, walking over our heads and Sam tells me, you should go upstairs and dance around, I want to see just how loud we are.

Lena, from the diner the next block over, has frizzy brown hair that she puts up in a ponytail for waiting tables, but she had it smoothed out the time I saw her here. It had a sheen that reflected the sun and her boots were to her thighs. I was jogging up the driveway when she was leaving and the man from downstairs met me at the front door. My cousin, he said, clearing his throat. His eyes are gray-blue or blue-gray or maybe they change, depending on the light.

When he called me to the garage weeks later, as I was lugging in bags of groceries, I shouldn’t have gone. I should have skipped right by, put the milk away, emptied my fruit into the bowl and not let the ice cream sandwiches turn soft and melt in their cardboard box, resting by the porch steps. But, instead, I stepped into the cool shade of garage, where he only wanted to thank me, he said, for not ruining his life, for not telling his wife about Lena. Lena who, on some Saturdays, refills my coffee and brings me my scrambled eggs and pancakes. He didn’t mean to be an asshole, didn’t mean to make the terrible mistakes that he did. His gray-blue or blue-gray eyes rimmed with tears. He lost his first wife the same way. He thought he was going to be better. He loves his baby boy. Loves his wife. He just kept talking. Pouring out a confessional that wasn’t for me to hear, and yet I stood still against the garage door and let it crash all over me.

He walked around the motorcycle, wiping the grease from his hands onto his t-shirt. I should have nodded and said no problem and turned away, gone into the house with my bags of fruit and milk. But there was a dull ache growing and my feet were immovable. I thought of running, of how it feels to run until your legs shake and you’re miles away from where you started and your lungs burn, red hot. He came close enough that I could smell his skin, and I let the ice cream melt.

Upstairs, I take the dog by her front paws and she stands to dance with me. I don’t jump this time, just spin in circles and tap my toes. I pull out a dining chair and walk from room to room, opening drawers, closing cabinets. Nothing that could be worth complaining about, the movements we make, how we live our lives. Can you hear me now? I whisper, then again, but louder, can you hear me now?Then, I shout CAN YOU HEAR ME NOW! to the walls, to the universe, to the couple that left in the night, to my best friend drinking wine alone in the apartment underneath me?

YES, I CAN FUCKING HEAR YOU! Sam shouts through the ground below my feet.

I’m perfectly still for a moment, the silence ringing in my ears.

And then, I burst out laughing, a huge guffaw that borders on tears.

We lay on the wooden floor and look up at the chandelier that we surely were shaking just an hour ago. I close my eyes and open my mouth to speak. I…

Sam sits up and finishes the wine in a long swallow. She tells me she heard everything. Even the toilet flush before I came back down here. But I’m not surprised at all.

We could hear everything, too, the year that they lived under our feet.

Melanie Haney is an author and photographer, living in Southern New Hampshire where she homeschools her four children and writes to preserve what sanity she has remaining. Her work has appeared in Family Circle Magazine and numerous literary journals and magazines, including Blue Earth Review, Clockhouse, Berkeley Fiction Review, Fifth Wednesday Journal, The Ernest Hemingway Shorts and more.

I am six. I still have one blond lock that curls down to the crevice between my shoulder blades. It is not a uniform blond. It starts dark at the root and quickly lightens to brown before shocking itself a true sunny yellow. My best friend calls it a rat-tail, and so does his sister. It’s not braided, so I know it can’t be a rat tail, and they are just being stupid. We have a neighbor who calls it a reverse bang. But he has a mullet so nothing he says we can take too seriously. But that’s what I think of it as. A reverse bang. My friend is a little taller than me and he is all blond. Other than the one lock, my hair is short-cropped and dark. He is also a little bigger and a little stronger than me. And in our territorial fights, over the crescent of land that separates our houses, he tends to win, but not always.

We fight a lot at six, even more at seven, and stop when we get big enough to really hurt each other at eight. Our first fight is over the removable red light saber from my Darth Vader toy that fits the hand of his Luke Skywalker. He wants that, and I want his Luke Skywalker. We always call action figures guys. It has been this way for as long as I can think. Even Princess Leah is a guy, even though we almost never play with her. In this first fight, it is grey outside, rainy and cold, so we have the benefit of many layers of protective padding in sweaters and thermals. There is a large rock in the center of the crescent. It is probably twenty or so feet long, and rises from the ground like a stegosauruses spike. It is smooth and wide enough on the top that we are able to stand facing each other on a square footing. We imagine this is what the Jedis must have felt like. Or what Indiana Jones and the French Nazi archeologist would have felt like if they’d got a chance to go at it in the movie. For fifteen feet or so, we know our parents can see us if they happen to look out a front window from either house. But we also know that the tree downed in a storm last year in front his house, and the mound of mulch that my dad gets each fall at my house, provides several feet of cover at the lowest plateau in both directions. This is plenty of room. He kicks me in the shin. This hurts because there is nothing but my jeans protecting my legs. I call unfair and, because of his dishonorable act, swipe at his face. I mostly miss, but land enough nail to get the small bloodless fluff of skin one gets from minor scrapes, like peach down, to puff up on the bridge of his nose. All of this is bad. We learn that when one of us breaks the unspoken rules of childhood combat, and the other one breaks the same rules for fairness, there can be no more fairness. He swings. It’s a real closed fist punch, a tiny knotted, knuckly fist aimed right at my face. He chips my left vampire tooth, a canine, very slightly, but it is his hand we both become pale over. His connection has ripped a small tear down the pinky side of his hand, and there is blood. Real blood that keeps coming. A panicking red. We both run to get my mom, because she will yell least, and we are not sure if anyone else is home. He is crying. I am about to too, as soon as I realize it is probably my fault, because it is my tooth that did it.

*

I am twelve, and he is almost twelve. Both of our houses are surrounded with woods. These woods belong to neither of our families, but because it is so big, we are allowed to play in it without fear of trespassing. There is a large clearing about a quarter mile back that we call ‘the meadow’. It is wide and hilly and we can see all the way to the interstate at the highest points. We are following the large electrical towers that follow each other in a straight, regular line across the meadow until they disappear over the last hill opposite the highway. There is a constant hum of electricity in the meadow that turns to vibration when you are closest to any of the towers. It is too cold out to look for salamanders under the rocks in the damp near any of the small ponds. We have already roamed the junkyard another quarter mile back, nearer the large pine forest that marks the end of the meadow and the beginning of a second woods. It is dangerous to spend too much time there. There is a small trailer that is occupied and many wild animals that make their homes in the piles of scrap metal and discarded farm equipment. We don’t know who lives in the trailer, but there are a few of them, and they yell if they hear us making too much noise, sometimes even coming into the surrounding woods to look for us. That has not happened in a while, but we are wary.

In the tall browning grasses that rise in patches over the otherwise mostly rocky, dust- yellow surface of the meadow, we hear a hissing that we would never mistake for electricity. It is a thick, longish snake the same color as the grass, and it wanders from its home out towards open land. It moves funny for a snake. It stops sometimes and turns in small, lazy circles before ambling crookedly forward again. We get close. It doesn’t seem quick enough to be dangerous. There is a small break in its scales near its tail. We think it has bitten itself, or else it is drunk on the cold and its blood is getting thick and soupy. My friend is afraid of snakes, but we’ve never seen one like this so he comes as close as me. I pull it from its tail to straighten it for better inspection. It is longer than I thought. My friend flinches at my movement and tells me to stop. I pull once again on its tail to bring it closer to us, just to scare him, but its head jerks towards my hand this time. It is still much too confused to aim properly, missing by several inches, but I draw my hand up anyway and figure I shouldn’t press my luck. We return home later and tell his father what we have seen. We learn it is called a copper-head. And to never approach one again.

*

I am fourteen and he is fourteen and we are at a neighbor’s house in the late afternoon. The house is behind my friend’s, separated by a row of old oaks and bits of an older rock wall. No one is there but us and the daughter of the neighbor. She is about two years older than us, but we are the closest to her age on either street. We watch Cinemax and HBO and find the on- demand channel with all the headings for all the different types of shows. One is ‘late night’. We are both on edge because we don’t know when her parents are coming back and we don’t want to get caught watching when they do. We may not be allowed to come back. She assures us that they are out for a while and not to be worried and that it’s not like we haven’t seen anything like that before, right? We are nervous and laugh and say yeah and go ahead we were just making sure. But she hears something in our voices. You haven’t had you, she asks, and laughs in a way that sinks us to the bottom of the ocean. My friend protests, says no, he has, but when asked who and when, he falters, his blush a bare lie on his face. We forget about the television and ask what she’s done. She only says stuff and laughs more but moves onto the same couch we are leaning against. She says we have to swear to god we won’t tell but we can, if we stop as soon as she says, touch under her shirt one at a time. She is pretty and tall and both of us have thought about this and we are nervous. We agree and nod at each other over her head to make sure we both heard right. She takes turns bringing us each into the kitchen. When it is my turn I am too afraid but I know that I’ll never let myself forget it if I don’t. I go to the kitchen. She giggles that my hands are cold and squirms but says I can keep going. But it is enough and I pull back in dumb wonder. We all decide to watch Aladdin in the living room.

*

I am fifteen and he is fifteen and we are roaming the junk yard with large branches, knocking exposed muffles and exhaust pipes, trying to break off either the part or splinter the wood. We see the exposed grill of an old Mack truck peeking from a shallow gulch. We go closer. The front of the body is still attached to it, along with the Mack dog front-piece. The part is loose and whole, only pocked with rust on the underside, and we think we can knock it off with our branches. I swing first and miss, cracking the windshield. We laugh; he swings next, and tears it almost from the hood. There is a shrill whining sound as I wrap my sweater around my hands and pull it from the hood. As I clasp it to my chest in triumph, I catch sight of something leaning above and behind a crumbling, rain-cracked concrete embankment to our left. It is the top part of a man and I am not so sure he is alive at first. He is so still but his eyes are open and he is not blinking, and it is as if he is staring straight at me. My friend follows my eyes and goes rigid when he sees him. The man looks old, is thin, and very hairy, mostly concealed but wrapped in several large coats caked to a solid brown-blue, stiff like a turtle shell. His chin lifts first and his body follows as he hurdles the embankment, which is not that tall, but he does so very quickly. He bears his teeth and hisses. It sounds more cat than snake-like. We hold our branches close and vertical. They are thick and sturdy but we are scared. We speak loudly and forcefully to fortify our nerves. As we do so we edge away, always facing him, until our backs face roughly homeward. My friend yells run and we do so, dropping the branches. We hurtle through familiar trails, somehow aware of our feet as we crash through brambles and bushes, until we realize we are in my backyard. We keep running until we are elevated on my back porch before we finally turn. He is nowhere in sight. We rush downstairs to tell my father who tells us we should never have wandered into the junkyard anyway and who knows what kinds of things are back there. I realize I am still clutching the Mack dog in my hand and my father asks where I’ve gotten it from. I tell him I found it. I later hear that the man was arrested trying to steal someone’s dog late at night on a street not too far from our own. It is on the local news which my television is tuned to on a low volume throughout the day. They don’t show a picture but I know it is him. I tell my friend later and that the report called him unstable and unidentified. We agree that we could have handled him if we had too, but neither of us is really that sure. I let him keep the truck ornament.

*

I am sixteen and he is sixteen and we share five mike’s hard lemonades on a large mound of upturned earth close to the interstate, but hidden behind a wall of pines. We call this place ‘bum mountain’. It has existed for only a couple of years, and there is a large bulldozer rusted and nearly sideways not too far off. It creaks in the wind like something that’s alive but will not be for too much longer. We heard there was supposed to be a housing development. Now they are working a piece of land farther into the second expanse of woods. We recognize when they are working from a distant grumble that starts as a throb and finishes as a brassy whine in a tireless cycle. The mound has become a real hill over the years. There are coarse, scraggly bushes that claw at us when we are climbing to the top. At the top, it is flat but indented, so we can lean low and hide from whomever passes by, which is usually no one. We know we are not the only people to know of this spot, or even the first. There is almost always something new each time we climb up. The first time we come up we find old chip packets, foil inside out, capping the taller growth up and down the sides. And in a space dug between an upturned root, we find beer cans, bottles, and cigarette butts. The leftover liquid and ash has pooled together, making a greyish paste in the dust. We cover it with more dirt to get rid of the smell. Another time, most times afterwards as well, we find limp condoms strewn across the lowest naked branches of pine surrounding us. Other times we find magazines, mostly porn and auto-trader, but rarely intact. They are usually just several pages collected and held from the wind under the rock. When we finish three of the lemonades we feel good and tired and lean on opposite sides, listening to the reedy drone of not too far off cars like hissing waves. We will wait until there is just enough light to make it back before night comes. Then we will drink the last two bottles as fast as we can and race home through the dull orange dusk of early autumn.

Garrett De Temple currently lives and works in New York City. His work has most recently appeared in Buddy (a lit zine), After the Pause, and Permafrost. He is a lyricist for the songwriting duo The Point (ThePointSongs.com) and one-half of the occasional glam-americana band SkyMagik (@SkyMagikBand).

 Basically, I’m writing this in case something happens to me.

            The address for the interview is halfway between Durham and Chapel Hill, and then north a ways.  It’s a bright, clear day.  There’s no neighborhood, just farms, and the house is in the middle of a huge lawn with fields on either side.  One’s planted with corn, and the other I don’t know.

            I knock and the most beautiful woman answers the door.  No hair at all.  Enormous brown eyes.  Her name is Jane, she’s my prospective employer’s niece, and I decide right then and there that if I ever get a shot I’m asking her out.

            “You’re the gopher,” she says.  “Come in.”  I follow her.  She’s wearing a frilly skirt and galoshes.

            My first indication that something is strange is when, on our way to her aunt’s office, she stops to get an umbrella from a row of pegs on the wall, and hands one to me too.

            She opens the door to the basement, and I see the source of the sound I’ve been hearing this whole time: there’s a kind of waterfall just inside the door; or, that’s how it looks from outside.  We open our umbrellas and start down the stairs.  I stop halfway.

            Imagine a big room, maybe 40 x 40 feet, with a ceiling at least fifteen feet high.  The entire thing, floor, walls and ceiling, is covered in square green ceramic tiles like in a bathroom, and on the ceiling there are rows and rows of pipes with sprinklers every few inches that shower the entire room, wall to wall, with an even and constant rain.

            In the center is a raised cement platform with a huge umbrella on a pole.  Under it there’s a desk, and sitting at the desk is Samantha, my new boss.  She’s wearing a purple floral print dress, her white hair is in a bun, and she’s reading when Jane brings me over and sets me in a chair on the platform.  The niece’s skin is darker than the old lady’s, like she has some Asian parentage.

            Samantha just wants me to call her ‘Samantha’, not Mrs. anything, and she doesn’t give a last name.  (The W-2 says S Trust LTD, which was registered by Abernathy & Abernathy, Attorneys at Law, who have an office in Durham.  So no help there on the name front.)

            Jane used to do this for her, but she just graduated from nursing school and is starting full time at UNC Medical Center, so I’ll be taking over.

            Odd jobs around Durham, better money than retail.  I get a beeper and I get paid whether I have gopher tasks that day or not.  No health insurance, but who has that anyway.

#

            For three days I sit at home, shirt and tie, waiting.  Then I buy a webcam and a microphone and start streaming Call of Duty—check it out, k1LL_spot_TV on Twitch—and I’m climbing the rankings pretty well on Tuesday of the next week when the beeper finally goes off.

            I’m writing this that evening, the evening after the first task.

            I call and Samantha tells me there’s a book she wants me to find.  She thinks it’s somewhere around the Triangle.  It’s a book of poems called Sunshine and War, and it’s bound in human skin.

            “I’m sorry, human skin?” I say.

            “Yes.  Leather bound.  It’s a book of poetry.  Peter Pumpkin Press, 1973.  Write this down.”  She sounds exactly like somebody from Gone With the Wind.

            “Is that legal?”

            “Poetry?”

            I look around my living room, like I’m on a hidden camera show.  “Binding books in human skin.”

            “The skin was donated.  Start at The Book Exchange.  They won’t have it, but they might know where to look.  The manager is a very knowledgeable man.  Last time I sent Jane there, they had quite a few Peter Pumpkin titles.”

            I copy down her list of ten used or antiquarian bookstores, hop in my car and get underway.  Feel like a bloodhound.

#

            The human-skin edition of Sunshine and War hasn’t passed through the doors of The Book Exchange, Wentworth & Leggett, Nice Price or The Bookshop.  Eventually, I find a lead in the labyrinthine corridors of Fifth Street Books in Mebane, which, I can tell you, is the middle of nowhere.

            A woman with a cat perched on her shoulder pauses from shelving books just long enough to give me a detailed history of the store, a complete three-generation genealogy of the owner’s family, and the name and phone number of the man they sold the book to back in the 90s: George Palmer.

            I thank her, use their restroom and go out into the sunny day.  It’s about 12:30, so I decide to call Mr. Palmer after lunch.

            I don’t know whether what happened next is the kind of thing that’s been going on all along.  Maybe this is normal.  But I think not, and it frightened me a great deal.

            When I park at Biscuitville—I’ve got a hankering for sausage gravy—I get out of my car, look around and get right back in again, because there is a lion out there.

            I know a female lion when I see one.  I’ve been to the zoo.

            An overweight white man in a pink polo shirt comes out of the restaurant, wiping at a stain on his pants with a napkin.  The lion’s right there, standing on the asphalt, crouched down.  Plain view.

            Just like in a nature documentary.  It jumps on him, bites his neck and drags him, twitching and bleeding, into the square manicured bushes they put around fast food restaurants.

            It’s lunch time.  There are people everywhere.  Nobody sees.  Like, nobody sees the lion at all, and 9-1-1 doesn’t pick up either.  I blow my car horn a bunch, trying to signal danger, danger! and people definitely notice that, and shush me.

            What are you supposed to do in that scenario?  I get lunch at Bojangles instead.

#

            George Palmer lives in Saxapahaw, not far from Mebane.  I have a flashback to Samantha’s house when I get there, because Mr. Palmer’s house is also located in the middle of an expansive lawn, except that he has pine trees to either side instead of farms, and a broken fountain in the front yard.

            I sit in the car until I stop trembling, then go and ring the doorbell.

            The man himself is stooped and weathered, dressed in a red flannel shirt and gray slacks with suspenders.  He looks like an old time fiddle player.

            “Happy to talk turkey, young man, though I got out of the antiquarian books business a long time ago.  Sunshine and War is in my personal collection.  Not a favorite.  Just thought it was worth holding on to.”

            He leads me out through the back door and over a small rise, to where a huge dirty greenhouse stands, not visible from the front of the house.  The panes of glass flash white fire as we approach, so that at one point I have to shield my eyes.

            Inside, there are thousands of stacks of books, where you would expect plants to be.  No shelves, and considerable amounts of dust.  It’s already a hot day, and the inside of the greenhouse is almost unbearable.  But I put up with it long enough to see that his copy of Sunshine and War is indeed bound in creepy pale human skin and was printed by Peter Pumpkin Press in 1973.

            I call Samantha, and she walks me through the process of evaluating the book’s condition.  When she’s satisfied, she has me hand the phone to Mr. Palmer and they, as he says, talk turkey.

#

            “Jane,” I say, back at Samantha’s house and squeezing water from an umbrella into their kitchen sink, “I saw a man die today in a Biscuitville parking lot, and it made me think.”

            It’s 6:30 pm and Samantha has her book, because a lady’s word is good enough for George Palmer.

            “Mm-hmm?” she says.  She’s a vision of paradise in watermelon-themed scrubs.

            “I think you’re very beautiful.  Let’s go see a movie tonight.  What do you think?”

            She laughs and says thanks but no thanks.

#

            I’m looking this all over, now that it’s written, and a lot of it doesn’t seem as strange as it felt when it was happening.  Except for the part with the lion.  Maybe I’ll be okay; maybe no police detective will need to read this off my PC with my dismembered body lying in a heap in the corner.

            But I’ll tell you one thing.  It’s 2018 and I was doing some Googling to make sure the details I put in this story were accurate, and the Book Exchange closed down in 2009, after 75 years of business.  It’s gone.  Nice Price closed in 2016; the Edward McKay branch in Raleigh that I went to this morning was shuttered in April of last year, and The Bookshop, in Chapel Hill, went out of business last July.

            Wentworth & Leggett is still there, though, as is Fifth Street Books.  The ambulances—which must have come after I left—at the Mebane Biscuitville parking lot this afternoon were there, officially, for a stroke victim.

            So I’m just going to save this in a folder on my desktop called READ IF I AM DEAD.

Matthew Talamini has an MFA in Literary Arts from Brown University, where he taught fiction workshops. He lives in Providence, RI. Visit him at matthewtalamini.com.

   It was a quarter to noon when the oven caught fire—the peak of the lunchtime rush. Apparently it had been the work of the rats. The vermin had eaten into the wiring, perhaps, or built their nests too near the heated bits.

            The old cook Sunday didn’t much care how it had started for it had wrecked half the kitchen and frightened the customers, and would take, according to the repairmen, at least a week to set right.

He looked on in dismay as the dire appraisal was made. A week’s worth of wages. Forty dollars up in smoke. And however would he spend the next five days? He was weary and cranky, and his back ached something awful of late, and it might indeed do him well to have a rest—but not at such expense.

            Still sulking, he sauntered outside to catch the Magazine Street bus, sweating in the heat of the Louisiana summer. There were few folks riding midday; most were still at work, where he ought to be.    He thought of Leodice, waiting at home, not expecting him back till well past 8 o’clock. How would he break the news to her? A whole week lost, and with Athalie’s birthday coming up and Jenny Bee’s baby on the way! Leodice would fret. And when she fretted, she yelled. And after she yelled, she repeated, for the umpteenth time, that infuriating saying of her mama’s. How did it go? “What the good Lord borrows, he returns, and always with a dollar’s interest.” She’d say it with such optimism, such certainty, that one would believe she’d never been worried at all.

            Presently Sunday became aware of eyes on his back. From two seats behind and to his right, a girl was staring—a white girl in a sky-blue dress. Covertly as he could, he peered at her over his shoulder. She could be no older than eighteen, and her strawberry blonde curls, bound into two loose pigtails, made her appear far younger.

            Their eyes met for a moment, then she looked beyond him out the window, as though having done so the entire time. Was he imagining things? But no, she was at it again. Staring. Likely she was offended by his choice of seating—or perhaps by the fact that they were sharing a bus at all. He resolved to ignore her. Confrontation would be the height of foolishness, rude though she may be, and for a while he succeeded in training his thoughts elsewhere. But the girl continued to stare, all the way past Jackson Avenue, First Street, and Third—and Sunday was feeling uncharacteristically ornery that day. Somewhere around Washinton Avenue, his temper got the better of him.

            “It’s legal now, you know?” he said.

Silence. Perhaps she couldn’t tell he was speaking to her. Then: “Pardon me, sir?” Her voice was high, like a child’s, with a hesitant, tremulous quality that served only to embolden Sunday.

            “It’s legal, me bein’ on this bus… right here in the front. I ain’t breakin’ no laws so why you got to stare that way?”

            “Is—is that what I’m doing, sir? Forgive me, I never meant… It’s just… well, it’s your hair, sir.” Her accent was odd. Unfamiliar. Perhaps she’d come from up north or somewhere overseas and had never been taught proper manners. 

            “My hair?” said Sunday, patting dubiously at his head. “There somethin’ wrong wid it?”

            “It’s beautiful, sir.”

            “Beautiful? You pullin’ my leg, child?”

            “Oh, no, sir! The way it fades ever so softly and gradually from black at the crown to grey at the temples. It is splendid—a perfect gradient. I—I would very much like to paint you, sir.”

            “Paint me?” Sunday stared at her, searching the pale, freckled face for evidence of amusement. She was having a joke at his expense—he was sure of it. But there was no laughter, no guile. Like a hopeful puppy, she stared back at him, her blue eyes wide and earnest behind huge tortoiseshell glasses. She’d have been a pretty girl, he thought, if only she were not so skinny.

            Beside her, in the empty window seat, was a large leather case. An artist’s portfolio.

            “Where you from, miss?” he asked.

            “Belfast.”

            “Where’s that, up north?”

            “Ireland, sir. I’ve been visiting my cousin, Patience. She lives over on Joseph Street with her husband. They have a big yellow gingerbread house with a garden and the most beautiful light. If you like—I mean, if you’re not too busy—you can come with me today and I’ll paint you. Would you, sir? Please?”

            “Well… I don’t know, miss. I ain’t never had my portrait done before. Not sure I’d make a good subject.”

            “Oh, there’s nothing to it, sir. All you’ve got to do is hold still for a while. Not to worry; I’ve been told I work fast.”

            Still, he hesitated. The idea made him bashful. “This goin’ to be alright wi’ your cousin, miss? Bringin’ home some strange fella’ you met on the bus?”

            “She won’t mind at all. She gets so bored in that big house. And I’ll make it worth your time, of course, sir, if that is your worry. They give me an allowance—” And she extricated a little floral pocket book from some compartment in her dress, and thumbed anxiously through the billfold. “I have forty-one dollars here, sir… if that would suit you.”

            A dollar’s interest, thought Sunday, staring at the bills in her hand. He could never tell Leodice of this. Ever. It’d make her head grow twice its size.

            “Why, yes,” he said. “Forty-one dollars will suit me just fine. What’s your name, miss?”

            “Eppie. Eppie Dooley.”

            “Mine is Sunday,” said Sunday, and they shook hands on the deal like two old tycoons.

            And so Sunday got off at Joseph Street, and followed his new acquaintance straight to the door of the sunny yellow gingerbread where he was welcomed by kind Miss Patience. They led him out back to the garden gazebo where Eppie’s easel stood, and he was set on a comfortable wicker sofa beneath a rose trellis, and given chilled white wine and petit fours from a silver tray. Eppie sketched and then she painted, and Sunday did his best not to move, except to lift his glass every once in a while. The two women chatted and giggled and they all got rather tipsy, and Sunday passed the best afternoon he’d had in some time.

            It was nearing 7 o’clock when at last he set out for home with forty-one dollars in his pocket. Eppie had indeed worked fast, but portraits take time, and oh, but it was a fine one. The little artist was some sort of genius. A painting prodigy. Leodice would like her. But he couldn’t tell Leodice. Ever. She was already insufferably smug, that woman.

            The smell of gumbo greeted his nose as he climbed the rickety porch steps and made his way into the kitchen. Leodice stood by the stove, ladle in hand, her broad hips swaying in time to an old jazz number.

            “You’re home early,” she called. “Everything alright?”

            “Baby,” said Sunday, “you ain’t never gonna believe what happened to me today!”

Ellery D. Margay is a freelance food and fiction writer currently residing in New Orleans, LA. His work has previously appeared in The Paragon Journal, Tigershark Ezine, the poetry collection Untimely Frost, and in multiple FunDead anthologies. When not dreaming up tales and the occasional poem, he can be found sampling and reviewing the newest restaurants and wandering the world in search of weirdness, wonder, and misadventure.

There had been rumors going around at school that Landry Collins had run off. Fled north to New York leaving behind his family. And his girlfriend Jules, who he had knocked-up a couple months prior. At least, that’s what people were saying.

Now, I don’t know if I believed it.

As far as I knew, Landry had no reason to leave town. He’d had a decent life for himself, and things were only going to get better.

But I don’t blame him for leaving.

Dundalk wasn’t his kind of place. There wasn’t anything here for an intellectual like him, a New York University bound teen. He managed to have a play win a prestigious award, along with $250 towards the tuition. That wasn’t much of a prize though from what he told me.

So, when the rumors started a few weeks before graduation, I ignored them.

It wasn’t any of my business.

It was too hot outside to care about much about anything aside from keeping cool.

Sweat dripped off my chin and into my mashed potatoes. They looked more like Play-Doh than anything eatable. Often I used my spork and plastic knife to recreate a potato Rushmore. Or shape them into tiny mounds meant to look like boobs or balls and a penis.

Erik spooned his into his mouth without taking a moment to consider what it is he might be eating. He could eat without thinking about what he was putting into his body. Or act without worrying how it may affect him in the long run. It seemed that the only thing he cared about was whether he could play this song or that song on the guitar. He had no other concerns. This kind of nonchalance about the world is something that I often admired in him.

“Do you believe all that about Landry?” Erik said, shoving another mound of potatoes into his mouth, a bit of gravy seeping from the corner. “I mean, you knew him better than I did.”

“Barely. We didn’t talk about much else aside from the lesson for the day.” I told Erik, which was both the truth, and not.

It wasn’t that Landry and I didn’t talk about other things during the tutor sessions we started. My ma told me I’d amount to nothing and would be out of the house if I didn’t try harder to do well. So, we started with the tutoring to ensure I graduated. I did know Landry. But I didn’t want Erik to know about all the details. Or anyone else for that matter.

Truth is, Landry wasn’t someone you’d want to be hanging with if you wanted some kind of social life. He was, well… different. But he was one of the smartest people that I’d ever met, and I respected him for that.

I mean, what kind of kid from Dundalk manages to land a spot at NYU, and for playwriting of all things? Not many, I can tell you that much.

Meanwhile, I was struggling to hold my D to graduate from this shit hole.

“Well,” Erik started, wiping his mouth on the bottom of his shirt. “You spent a lot of time with the guy.”

“I don’t know. I mean, you think Landry had it in him to get a girl prego then leave her behind? Let alone his family? It don’t seem like something he would do, you know?”

“Crazier things have happened. Remember Cecil?

“I think so, yeah. The kid who always wore gloves?”

“That’s the one. Did you ever hear about him?”

“Nah.”

“Get this.” Erik leaned across the table, “He has some kind of disease that makes his hands turn colors.”

“Seriously?”

“You better believe it.”

“How would anyone find out about something like that?”

“His sister told everyone about it.”

“Why would she do that?”

“Don’t know. But she spread it around like the herpes that Sara Allen had.”

“Well, supposedly had.”

“Yeah,” Erik said. “‘Supposedly’,” he said, air quoting the word as he allowed the word to be slowly drawn out.

“But what’s the big deal about his hands turning some different colors? That seems pretty harmless…”

“It’s fucking weird. That’s what the big deal is. The guy probably makes a rainbow when he whacks off.” Erik laughed.

My eye started to twitch. I tried to keep my cool. “That’s pretty crazy stuff.” But all I could think of was how my ex, Nellie, had recorded videos of me before we broke up. Videos of my soft body, jiggling. Walking around in that cold basement of hers, shrunken and shriveled. Videos of me finishing on her face, of her sitting on mine. Videos of her rubbing a dildo she’d stolen from a sex party her ma hosted over my lips, down my soft body.

Those videos could be shared at any time. That made my stomach sour.

The bell rang. Erik gathered up his tray and moved it to the trash. I followed, trying not to think about Landry, or Cecil, or the videos that Nellie had.

“You feel like skipping last period and hitting Bob’s Guitars?” I asked Erik, almost certain that he’d be willing to skip class with me.

“Sure,” Erik said after putting not more than a moment of thought into it. “Let’s go.”

I wish I could say that I didn’t know why I didn’t hangout with Landry. It’d be easier than knowing the truth, which was that I thought he was a loser. A social landmine that would go off if you got too close. It wasn’t that I was popular by any means. But I had it rough growing up. Bullies got the best of me in middle school. And any kind of acceptance, even passivity, was comfort enough for me.

Growing up in a town like Dundalk, walking down the street was something I couldn’t do without being harassed. If you were one of the sixth or seventh graders, and you wandered into eighth grader halls, watch out…

Worst of all were the Geeks. They were the ones who did most of the mugging, beatings, and occasional stabbings once we got older.

One in particular, Mikey, was especially cruel.

What set Mikey apart from the rest was his long, obsidian hair. It was never tied back or swept off of his face. Only one eye and half of his face ever showed.

He wasn’t the biggest of the Geeks. But he was the most brutal. The most unpredictable.

I’m not sure where he was from, or what school he attended then. He just showed up and started hanging around the place. Popping up here and there when you’d least expect him. Our interactions with each other were far and few, and with good reason. He didn’t give a shit about anyone’s well-being, not even his own.

In the winter, on my walk home, I decided to take a short cut through the woods. It took me over a small, wooden bridge that shaved about twenty minutes off. I was in seventh grade at the time.

Everyone always talked about avoiding that bridge at all cost. The Geeks ruled that bridge. Charging people to cross it, or beating them if they couldn’t pay the often too-lofty sum of money. At some point, someone had spotted a dead body in the water next to it.

This was something that many of us questioned whether it was true or not. Though the disbelief didn’t last long after we saw police officers carrying a large, black bag up the bank of the river.

None of us figured out what was in that bag.

Or who.

I’m not sure the police figured it out, either. Some things just go that way, I suppose. More often than I’d like to admit.

Anyway, call it stupidity or laziness, but I took the route.

When I’d reached the bridge, my chest tightened. It was hard to breathe. With the lower half of my face wrapped in a scarf, my glasses began to fog.

By the time I had cleaned the lenses and put them back on, four Geeks stood at the far side of the bridge. Mikey was near the middle. The Geek to his right, a girl with black makeup around her electric-blue eyes, flipped her pocket knife open to closed. Closed to open.

Mikey smiled, and took a couple of steps towards me.

I couldn’t swallow. My legs felt like pilings nailed to the bridge. I wanted to scream, but my throat wouldn’t allow passage.

“It’s twenty dollars,” Mikey said. “If you want to pass.”

I breathed in an unsteady way through the nerves that pulsated throughout my entire body.

“You hear me?”

I nodded.

“So,” Mikey said, pulling a cigarette out and lighting it. “You got it?”

His one eye glared at me. I nodded. I didn’t know what I was going to do. There were four of them and one of me. But I had to try something, anything, to get by, or else I was toast.

“Hand it over then.”

Trembling, I took one step towards Mikey. Another. Another. Another. Each step felt like my last. I couldn’t comprehend what could happen even one second into the future. All thought of predictability had fallen away.

When I was within arm’s length of Mikey, I reached into my back pocket, and pulled out my checkered Velcro wallet. I started to hand it over to him, knowing that I didn’t have even a single dollar in it.

Down in the shallow water next to the bridge where Mikey left me, I saw the silhouette of a girl lean over the railing. She looked down at me for a moment before Mikey called her away.

The price for tossing my empty wallet inside of trying to run the other way? A severe concussion, fractured wrist, cuts and bruises beyond counting, and a brief feeling of bravery.

Bright, white light reflected from the ruby-red surface of the Fender Erik held. Each of his fingers ran over each string, plucking them to produce a low hum. He held it out in front of himself, then repositioned it as he took a seat to play a few chords.

And I watched him. As much as I tried to learn the guitar, or any instrument for that matter, I could never seem to pick it up.

When I was in elementary school, I’d started playing the saxophone for the school band. But once middle school became a reality, I’d stopped. The band nerds were too easy a target for bullies, and I didn’t wish to be a part of that crowd. Which is the same reason that I had quit rec sports as well. Only the cool kids didn’t play sports or care about school. Or so I thought.

It goes to show how much of nothing I knew.

Erik played a few parts of different songs: “Smells Like Teen Spirit,” “Smoke on the Water,” “I Miss You,” and another that I hadn’t heard before. Though it didn’t seem like he knew it all that well, butchering chords here and there.

“Did I tell you about the time that Mikey cornered me in the bathroom?”

Erik paused his playing. “When he got you suspended?”

“Yup.”

“Oh, yeah,” Erik said, laughing. “I remember that. Your mom was pissed at you for weeks.”

I ran my finger over the wooden body of a Les Paul acoustic. Strummed the strings one by one, wishing to be good enough to play.

“What about it?”

“Well,” I started. “I wasn’t completely honest about what happened…”

Erik put down the Fender guitar and we walked back to his car. I told him what happened. How I walked into the bathroom that day and heard someone crying in the stall. How the person who emerged was Mikey. How he told me that his mom has passed from brain cancer. How he felt alone. How he’d beat the hell out of me if I told anyone about this. How he then thanked me for listening as he lit a cigarette. How I’d taken a drag when Mr. Wallcroft, the Econ teacher, came in. How I took the fall for it so he wouldn’t have to suffer.

The green of trees blurred past the window as Erik droves us down the highway, towards his house. We didn’t speak. There was nothing to say. Erik was one of my closest friends. There wasn’t much that the other didn’t know. For some reason, this seemed to bother him more than anything I’ve noticed before. Or I’ve never paid close attention to him when he’s been bothered in the past.

“You haven’t told anyone else about this then, have you?”

I shook my head.

“Do you think that Mikey had anything to do with Landry disappearing?”

“How would he? The guy’s mom died a few weeks back. He didn’t seem angry or crazy. Just, I don’t know… lost.”

“I mean, what if Landry saw him in a state like that? Think he’d try to keep him quiet? Maybe he beat him so bad that he ended up in the hospital? Or killed him…”

“I don’t think so… no.” Truth was, I had no idea what to think. Mikey wasn’t someone who I could peg for one kind of person. He seemed to me to be many different people crammed into one.

“There’s something I have to tell you”

I looked at Erik as he focused on the road. An eighteen-wheeler was driving under the speed limit in front of him. Erik pushed the pedal down, accelerating. The momentum applied pressure. I felt myself pressing back in the seat. He jumped into the oncoming traffic lane.

In the distance, another car approached. The car’s horn howled. Erik applied more pressure. I tried to speak, tried to tell him to slow down, tried to tell him how I felt, but my words were being held in my throat. I glanced over at the speedometer: 102 mph. The car in front laid on its horn. Erik jerked right, missing the car while bypassing the slow truck we were stuck behind.

The car slowed. My words came up.

“What the hell, Erik? Are you trying to kill me?”

“I can’t stand slow drivers.”

“Jesus…”

“Where was I?”

“I don’t know… I can’t think straight right now.” My hands trembled. I crossed my arms to hide it from Erik. “What the hell were you thinking?”

“About swimming. That’s all.”

I huffed and looked out the window, embarrassed by how terrified I felt. My nerves were rattled, and the shaking of my hands worsened.

Staring straight ahead, a smirk on his face, Erik didn’t seem phased in the slightest by his own actions. There was more to be said; something in me still wanted to speak out, to tell Erik to care, to try to care, at the least, but I couldn’t. Nothing would change. We’d get into his car, skip class, smoke another joint, drink another beer, follow through with whatever Erik felt the compulsion to do, and it would all end the same. I would be embarrassed about how I reacted, or handled it, or felt. Erik would be thrilled, alive, laughing, walking forward in life without the weight of any decision. And I would become a victim of the violence of insecurity as I covered up my naked body as he pulled up his swim trunks, proud of what he was, what he had, and walking out of the locker room, towards the pool.

As I watched the trees pass by the window, the ground fell away from me as the we drove over the bridge. The marshland below looked still. Water did not move. The cattails did not move. It was this stillness that reminded me of the time that Landry and his parents had given me a ride home after our tutoring session.

Landry had found out that he’d been accepted to NYU. He told his mom while I sat in the backseat, waiting for the inevitable explosion of excitement.

Instead, all he got from her was a question. How was he going to pay for a school like that? And a demand that he go to the local community college instead. There’s no money in writing plays. Those things aren’t how you make a life for yourself. Stop daydreaming and be real about this. Landry didn’t say anything back to her. He turned his and head mumbled something under his breath that neither me or Mrs. Collins could make out.

And I remember looking out the window. Rain began to fall. Yet as we drove down the road, it didn’t seem to move or ever touch down to the ground. Instead, the rain halted in its whirl, frozen in the midst of its movement.

We stood on Erik’s pier, observing the stillness of the creek.

Across the way, houses, most of them run down or abandoned, lined the waterfront. That’s what Erik referred to as “the wrong side of the river.” At first, I tried to correct him that it was a creek, not a river. But he didn’t care. It was for the sake of his saying, and that was that.

“What was it you were going to tell me in the car?”

Erik seemed distant. He stared across the creek as if he were waiting for something.

“Erik? What were you going to tell me?”

“It’s… it’s nothing.”

“Are you sure?”

Erik hocked a loogie and spit it into the creek. Ripples traveled out into the distance, across to the wrong side of the river, if there even was such a thing.

Erik started. “Well, it’s about Landry. A couple weeks back I saw him talking with Mikey.”

“Yeah?”

“I couldn’t hear what they were talking about. But I saw them get close and dap each other at the end of whatever conversation they were having.”

“You sure it was Landry?”

“I’m sure.” Erik spit again, sending out more ripples. Disturbance echoed throughout the water.

“I wonder what they were talking about?”

“Don’t know. But I’d heard another rumor that Mikey had started dealing drugs.”

My tongue felt swollen, dried out. It was hard to swallow. “But that’s just a rumor. I haven’t heard of anyone buying drugs off of him.”

“Maybe. But you know how these things work. There’s middlemen everywhere. Look at Harley or Taz.”

Harley was a fat linebacker for the school football team. He was our weed guy, but we’d never guessed it until Taz, one of his clients, ran out and couldn’t sell to us. So, he gave us Harley’s number, and that’s when we knew. Even Taz—whose real name was Tony Azaletti—was a bit of a shock. We’d known him since freshman year, but only when we were juniors did we learn that he sold weed on the side here and there. A computer science guy who took all AP classes. Who would’ve thought?

It’s hard to say the kind of person someone is. Mostly we only ever see the surface of each other.

I looked at Erik.

He looked away.

Across the creek, a man walked onto the pier of one of the rundown homes. Followed by another. And another. Erik had his shirt off, and stood on the piling, ready to jump into the brown water. Since the flood a few years back, the water never looked the same. Always brown, dirty, with pockets of oil that floated on the surface. Dead fish often drifted along the creek, becoming stuck on the bulkheads during high tide.

Today, there were no dead fish. At least, none that I could see. Death had seemed to rescind its hold on the creek.

And it was hot outside. Anything would be better than this heat.

I pulled off my shirt. Exposed my soft body to the sunlight, to Erik. Erik’s thin, tight frame, made me feel ashamed of my own. For a moment, I thought about putting my shirt back on.

One day this will end.

A strong wind carried with it the smell of rot. The sun held high in the cloudless sky. Summer would soon begin, and high school would end. All would change. At least, it was meant to change. Often it felt like it never would, and looking at Erik, his long limbs balanced on the piling, head held back as he breathed in deep, only served to reaffirm that feeling.

So long as he remained, things would never change.

But they had to.

I had to.

A police car parked in view between the two houses of the wrong side of the river. A congregation of people seemed to be gathering at the house of one of the Geeks, though I wasn’t sure of which ones it was. They were always together, grouped up. Like a pack of ravenous wolves. Or a flock of crows.

Those people, all of them were waiting for something to happen here, at this moment.

Men—police officers—flooded the yard. A woman, small and bent forward with gray hair, stood along the bulkhead. She cried into the palms of her hands as one of the officers held her back.

Erik bent at his knees, readied his jump.

I stood, watching the show across the creek.

A police officer walked to the end of the pier, knelt down, and looked into the water. Something emerged from the water. A man in scuba gear. He pointed down into the water, then went under again.

There was a splash when Erik hit the water. Small waves traveled outward from where he’d hit, forming whitecaps as they moved towards the spot where the man in scuba gear had went under.

I stood, still and calm.

A body was raised up by the man in the scuba gear. Hoisted by the officer on to the pier. He struggled with body that was smaller than a man’s, but larger than a boy’s. Three others came and helped pull the body onto the pier, letting it lay atop like a dead fish drying in the sun.

Coty Poynter is Baltimore-based writer and editor. He was the lead fiction editor for the 2016-2017 edition of Grub Street, Towson University’s literary and arts magazine, and is an managing editor at Charles Street Research. Currently, he focuses his creative endeavors to the exploration of memory, past and present, and the resilience of the human spirit through poetry and, more recently, short fiction. His second collection of poetry, Delirium, was published in October 2018 by Bowen Press.