Eat.

It was raining, still raining. It had been raining for over a week and everything was wet, damp, and moldy. The rain beat down ceaselessly on the thatched roof like a herd of horses on pavement.

“Eat.” He repeated.

She lifted the spoon to her swollen lips but could not open them. He reached over and shoved the spoonful of cold corn mush into her mouth.

“You must eat; for Faustino’s sake.”

Maria Raquela looked over at Pagan sleeping; his breath coming in small gasps. She swallowed painfully. She forced another spoonful down and began clearing the few crockery bowls. She went to the water cask and filled the washing bowl with water. She looked out of the small window at the gray sky. Demetrio got up from the table. He grabbed his coat and hat and put them on. He lit a stub of a cigar. She wanted to ask him where he was going and how long he would be gone but she thought the better of it.

“Boy.” He shouted.

“I’ll get him, you don’t have to shout.” She said, surprising herself.

She knelt down by Pagan’s pallet and gently shook the very small boy awake.

“Mi hijo, it’s time to wake up.”

Pagan awoke very slowly, fever clouding his small mind.

“Take this.” She whispered and stuffed two cold cooked yams in his pocket. She took off her ragged shawl and tied it around his neck.

“Come boy.” She heard Demetrio’s shout.

Pagan ran out into the rain and got into the wagon. She watched them drive off.

“If you leave this house while I am gone I will take him away where you will never find him” he said. His words returned to her like the crack of a whip.

How would she buy shoes for him? No shoes, no school and he must go to school, he must.She remembered her fascination with shoes, though she was one of the many Arriaga girls, she, unlike the rest, never went barefoot. During this time of the great war with the gringos from the north, all the men and boys in the village had been taken. Since there were no boys, they had to do the work of men. But she would rather get beat than to dig the latrines or drag load after load of firewood or comb through the mangroves for fat snakes to skin and eat. She bathed twice a day at the spring, so much so that her sisters called her La Princessa.

It was the day of the funeral. It was hot and all she could think of was bathing in the secret spring under the waterfall. Her small eight year old cousin had died of fever and was being buried. There were many garlands to make for the small Church of St Tomas in the village of Cancion. That is why she looked for the flowers. Everyone thought it the height of vanity; instead of using the traditional showy blossoms as was the custom in Cancion, La Princessa had found orchids; delicate, yellow orchids on the hillside of the secret waterfall.

She climbed the hill with care, careful not to scratch her delicate feet. One here and one there, she tucked the yellow orchids into her pockets and descended the hill.

A sound. What was that? She heard it once, then again, not the sound of a large cat, the kind that terrorizes the village when there were wild fires in the hills. There had been no fires this summer, at least not yet. It did not sound like a big cat, more like a moan. She walked to the mouth of the cave, the sound grew louder. She could barely see in the light. As she walked closer she could make out a head of dirty yellow hair, pale eyes stretched wide in fear. Then she saw blood stains on his pant leg. He was one of those soldiers from the north. To her eyes he was a sleeping prince. She touched his face, he grabbed her hand. She spoke quietly explaining that she would help him, she would return with bandages, food and water. She lightly stroked his face.

“Calmate, calmate” she whispered. He released her. She ran to the cave entrance, tore the hem of her dress, wet it in the water from the falls and ran back. She bathed his hot forehead with the cool water. He fell back. She ran home and took what she needed. The village was miles away. She wrapped the things in a small bundle. When she came back she knelt to him and dressed the wound. Her small brown hands patiently stitched his wounded leg with her mother’s finest cotton thread. He did not utter a sound. She sat with her delicate feet tucked under her dress, not minding that she sat on the dirty floor. He grabbed her hands. She came back each day, whenever she had time.

It ended as soon as it began. She came to see him one day and he was gone, like an interrupted thought. Hot tears ran down her face and clouded her eyes. She searched for him as though he could be hiding in the rocky walls. She turned to leave and almost missed it, but it sparkled when the sunlight hit the wall of the cave. A small gold charm hung on a leather chain on the wall. The charm had something written in English letters, she could not read. She clasped the charm to her small breasts and kept it near her heart.

She had always been proud; especially of her delicate feet. She took care to wrap them at night swabbed in goose fat and wrapped in cotton rags to maintain their delicate appearance. She always wore shoes, never sandals, as her abuela had told her.

“You don’t want feet that spread like a duck, do you?

”She had to leave her tiny village of Xochitl once they found out. She tried to hide it but she did not know what was happening to her. Her feet began to swell and her heart beat fast with very little effort. One day her mother looked deep into her eyes and saw something she had not seen before.

“Have you bled?”

“No, I mean yes.”

Her mother slapped her hard across the face, for the first time. She grabbed her scrawny arm and drug her through the dusty streets of Xochitl to the church and threw her down at the door step.

“Don’t come home until you confess all your sin.”

Her hair and clothes were filled with the dust of Xochitl. She had never felt so dirty before. She stood up and wiped herself off and walked the twenty miles to her grandmother’s village of Cancion.

Her grandmother promptly sent her back, but not before she married her off to Demetrio, a drunken mule driver. He never beat her or raised his voice. When they met he looked at her delicate brown feet and swollen belly and smiled to himself. Once they were married he took all of her shoes and piled them in the dirt yard and burned them. He and his friends rode off into the night laughing loudly.

She smiled at the memory of the wagging tongues and the road full of glass. She took her old shawl, the one she didn’t use anymore, tied it around her head and reached beside the coal brazier. She felt along the floor board until she found the loose ones and pulled them apart. Underneath she picked up the tin box and opened it. Inside were all her earthly treasures, her dowry: her silver rosary, a pressed flower, and a very finely engraved small gold coin. Her abuela had given her a small piece of land before she died.

“A fine salve for his wounded pride” she said to Maria Raquela on her wedding day.

She took out the rosary and put the rest away. It was decided. She would walk the twenty miles to Telolo to the large market in Los Coyotes where she could get a good price for the chillies and corn she would harvest. But first, she needed to get the harvest in; by herself it seemed. It was the thought of the shoes that made her stay, having them in her hands, giving them to her son, these things made her stay and simply go on.

She looked down at her large calloused feet and thought of a time when her feet were small and smooth. She knew that without the shoes no school in Mexico City would take her son, he could not be sent to his Tio Abelard, nothing would happen nothing; would change without the shoes.

Demetrio had left on a long dangerous journey to Mexico City and would not be back for almost a month. She counted twelve beads on her rosary and took a loose thread from her skirt and tied it between the twelve and thirteenth bead as a reminder. She went to the wall next to the stove and took a piece of charred wood and marked the wall; 1. She would only have twelve days to harvest the crop and twelve days to figure out how to get the money and to buy the shoes. Her head swam with unanswered questions. She took a small cold yam from the pot and broke it into two small pieces, put half back and put the rest in her pocket.

The wagon sounds died away slowly. She listened. The rain had slowed to a trickle. She went to the shed and rummaged in the dark, then remembering the candle in her pocket; she put it inside the metal wall bracket and lit it. She searched in the back under a pile of unused things and there it was hidden under a tarp, her abuela’s wedding chest. She had learned many things from her abuela; one of them was patience. “Sometimes you must wait for the wheel to turn mi hija; wait for the turning.”

Her abuela would always say this as they were grinding the corn for the meal and the grinding was very hard at first, the wheel would be so difficult to turn it would almost be impossible to move. But as they worked, it seemed the more tired they became the easier the wheel was to turn. She never understood this as a child but she never forgot it either. Now she did something she had never done before. She looked for a heavy wrench and with a few deft strokes, broke open the large rusted lock. The things she saw in it reminded her of the girl she had been when her abuela married her off to the mule driver Demetrio.

“I will marry you because of your delicate feet.” He said.

She knew that it was also because of her dark skin and her green eyes and the fact that she could read and write. Then it all changed – like the changes of the sea from, hour to hour, imperceptible, quiet, and silent like the steps of a caterpillar on wet grass.

And then. He took from her all the things that made him want her. In this box were her last pair of shoes, her comb and her books. He took everything but her memories.

She caught her breath. She reached inside the chest and got what she needed and dragged it outside into the light. The rain had finally stopped. The steam rose from the ground as the sun dried the day. She sat on a three legged stool and took the hat from the chest and tied it around her head with a piece of rag. She picked up a burlap sack and headed toward the corn field. The ears of corn hung in remorse, full and fat, embarrassed by their fertility. She could smell the distant sea.

Most of the corn harvest would be ruined if she did not hurry; perhaps she could save some if not most of it, and the chilies too precious to eat, she could sell at the market in exchange for coins. She would, if she were lucky have enough money to buy the leather to have the shoes made.

She walked in the muddy fields through the rows of rotting stalks looking for corn she could salvage. She found an ear here, one there, even half an ear she threw into the sack. The afternoon sun unleashed its fiery breath on the earth. Her wet clothes steamed in the heat. She patiently checked each stalk and every row. Her ankles sank in the mud. Now she held a full bag. She dragged the sack back to the side yard that she had covered with river stones and laid the corn out to dry. She took out a knife and began cutting the rotting parts of the corn and tossed them into a pile. She would make compost with it later. She squatted down and watched the ants quickly overrun the pile of rotting corn. She clutched the silver rosary and prayed. She walked to the rain barrel, took a cupful of water, rinsed her mouth and then spit it out. She took the bag and returned to the field. She worked until nightfall. The sun fell from the sky and sunk into the earth. She went inside and went to sleep, too tired to eat.

She woke early the next day. She went out to the field to pick peppers. She did not eat; but she drank some goat’s milk and started work.

Night followed day. Each evening she sat in the small chair by the cold kiva and fell asleep holding her rosary, her lips moving silently.

She thought she was dreaming. She shifted in the chair and rubbed her knees. A rustle; footsteps? She could not make out which it was. The small goat cried and then became quiet. She reached for her machete and crept toward the door.

She saw him drinking goat’s milk from his cupped hand. He looked at the machete raised above her head and smiled; his eyes twinkling. His wide grin filled his face.

“I have no money Senora, but if you could put me up for a day or two, perhaps? I will work for food. Look I have already begun.” He pointed at the wood he had already cut and stacked. He had gone into the field and finished harvesting all the corn and laid the remainder in neat rows next to hers.

“Besides Senora, I can help you get this to market. The market in Los Coyotes opens soon.

She did not answer, but she lowered the machete. How did he know about the market? His clothes were filthy as though he had come a long way, but there were many like him fleeing the many battles. Perhaps he was a soldier who had deserted or he had gotten lost or he just grew tired of the reformista.

“You will have to stay with the animals.” She heard herself say. She vowed to sleep with the machete from now on.

They worked until sunset. They worked liked there was no tomorrow.

The Next Morning.

Two eggs appeared on the table. It was already hot, even early in the morning. She set the breakfast table outside. The thatched roof provided shade over a small area to the side of the round mud hut. She set two cups of water, corn fritters, chilies and the two eggs on the small table. She had cooked the eggs in a pot surrounded by beans, wild onions, dried chilies and sauce.

“Senora, if I may. I am Augustin Jose Maria Galeano Bravo. The longer the name the poorer the prospects, they say. But, call me Juan, por favor.” He flashed that wide grin of his. He said this as he sat down to eat. He had cleaned up and shaved. His beard was gone but his shiny raven black mustache matched his black hair, standing out all the more against cheeks that were not burnt by the sun. She noticed small flecks of silver light in his hair that caught the sun as he turned his head.

She carefully spooned out half the eggs and placed a tortilla beside it. She watched him eat. He ate like he had not eaten in a month. As soon as he finished eating he took his plate, wiped it clean with sand and a rag. She put it inside on a small shelf.

He said. “I am going to the river that I passed in the hills for more water. I will return by noon to help with the afternoon chores.”

No sooner had he left than she felt anger bloom in her chest. What was she angry about? Was she counting on him already? How could she be displeased with anything he was or was not doing. He was nothing if not polite and hard working. A warm wind disturbed the dry ground. She made her way to the field to start harvesting the chilies.

She dreamt of a burro last night; indigestion, perhaps. The sky was a bright pink tinged with green and promising a cooling rain that was only a tease. She went to check the tree beside the field. There were five marks already. She made another. Demetrio would be home in ten days. They still had to harvest and dry the chilies and take everything to market in Los Coyotes. Then buy the leather and take it to the shoemaker and have him make the shoes. Would there be enough time? He has to let him go to school, once he sees the shoes. She bit her bottom lip to calm herself. Beside the old hen had begun laying eggs again, surely this is a sign that God’s eyes are upon us.

She retied her hat on her head and squatted down to pick the chilies. She worked all morning and afternoon picking peppers, carrying basket after basket to the end of the rows. She laid them on a sisal mat that she made last winter. She went back and forth in the hot sun. Her hands turned red, stained with the fiery pepper juice. She stood and bent over at the waist, wondering if she would ever be able to straighten up again. Women in her home village of Cancion became small gremlin like creatures after many years of picking peppers. She had promised herself this would not happen to her. The memory of that promise made her wince. She worked through the noon day heat; pausing only to sit in the shade and sip a cup of water while she eat a cold yam.

Her eyes followed the ridge line of the foothills. She could barely make out a shape. Her heart stopped. It was too early; he couldn’t be back this early. She saw a shape, then two shapes, a man, no an animal and a man walking down the black hills toward the stone field. A man leading a burro.

“I have a way with wild things.” She thought she heard him say. She kept her head down as much from the sun’s glare as from anything else. Augustin Jose Maria Galeano Bravo led the burro, speaking softly to it; it didn’t resist him.

“Corn fritters; makes all the difference.” And then the smile, his face dripping with sweat as he fed the burro a piece at a time. He led the burro by a rope and tied him to the side of the shed. He followed her to the chilies and began picking them with his bare hands.

“This should be finished by tomorrow. When is the market?”

She replied before she could stop herself. She held up three fingers.

“I better hurry then. They must dry and then we have to account for the trip to the market. Juan hurried, finishing the remaining rows in no time.

“Come Cielo, pull, pull.” The burro dragged the woven mats one after another to the shed. She carefully went through each one, discarding those chilies that did not pass muster and separating out those of the highest quality from the rest. Her fingers were swollen and felt as though they were filled with needles but she knew it would be worth it to get those shoes.

They cleared the field. She went in to prepare supper. It was late and already dusk. Her body twisted in pain that arched through her back in wave like spasms. She lay on her back to ease the hurt.

She heard hammering. She sat straight up. She rushed to the door. There he was; hammering the broken wheel on the discarded pony cart.

“Bueno Senora. This small cart should do; verdad?”

There was wood strewn on the ground and pieces fitted for the broken wheel and nails. She couldn’t imagine where he got the nails. First the hen lays eggs, then a burro and now nails? The burro stood patiently eating small leaves, its ears flicking the sun’s dying light.

“Augustin, Juan, dinner is almost ready.”

She went to get more wood for the stove. She heard the tapping beat to the rhythm of her heart.

Market Day

Market Day came. They loaded the small cart with baskets of dried corn and chilies and with basket of husked corn. Everything must be sold. She walked up into the foothills and prayed at the small shrine.

Dear Virgin, I am a sinner, I am weak and vain and have been less than faithful but this one thing I ask. This one thing only.

She walked back to the hut.

“Senora. Venga, listos?” Juan asked.

She had never been more ready for anything. She went inside to put on her shoes and her hat. Then she filled a small jar with cold yams and a jar with chili sauce. She prepared four eggs and a small bucket of precious charcoal for cooking. She took these outside to the cart.

Juan held out his hand and helped her to get into the cart.Juan drove carefully so he would not upset their goods. They arrived at the market early enough to look for a good space.

“Let’s set up near the church. It will bring us luck.” She told Juan.

“We still have to pay the patron.” He said. She had not thought of this.

“What will you use to buy our ticket?”

“No te preocupes.” He said flashing his smile. He got out of the cart and walked through the crowd that was already forming. She held her rosary and counted the beads with her swollen fingertips.

She saw Isabella Mendoza watching as she flipped tortillas.

“Maria Raquela, como estas? Where have you been? I thought I heard Demetrio complain to mi marido Pedro that these markets are worthless.”

Isabella Mendoza let her eyes wander over the wagon taking a quick but thorough inventory; her lazy eyes drinking it all in. Maria Raquela watched a scorpion crawl across Isabella’s foot unnoticed. ‘If the scorpion bit her the scorpion would die.’ Juan waved a red rag to signal her he had found a spot.

She drove the cart forward leaving Isabella open mouthed. She wondered how Juan paid the fee but didn’t ask. They unloaded the cart and set up their stall.

They sat and waited. She watched Isabella Mendoza slither from stall to stall whispering and laughing and trailing contemptuous arrogance behind her like snail droppings. One hour passed and then two with no customers. She held on tight to her rosary.

“Get some water and fill up that large pot.” She heard herself say. “And set up that hearth with the charcoal from the wagon.”

Juan did as he was told. She opened her precious portion of handmade tortilla wrapped in a once damp cloth. They were now old, dry and curled at the edges. She could not make the chili stuffed tortillas she planned. She would have to make something else. She could feel the eyes of the other women on her. She had been in this village for four years and had never been invited to anyone’s baptism, christening or funeral. She knew she was a Moreno, a dark one, but she thought it had to be more than this. Perhaps it was because Demetrio had a good trade as a muleteer, or because they owned their own land or because they had their own mule or shed. There were too many reasons and none made sense.

“Senora?”

She looked at Juan. He had lit the hearth, brought the reserve stores from the wagon, the charcoal as well as sugar and lard. Somehow he knew what she would need and had gotten it all. She had seen him move amongst the crowd but did not realize what he was doing until now. She had no time to waste. If they could not bring people over to their stall all the work for the past few weeks would come to nothing. Juan tended the fire and she went to work.

She laid out all the things Juan had traded for; lard, honey, cinnamon, black pepper, salt and chocolate. She shaved the chocolate very thin and placed it in a small bowl to melt in the sun. In another bowl she mixed the cinnamon, salt and black pepper. And finally the sweet honey she had been saving for her son’s birthday and for the unborn one’s christening.

The women feigned disinterest. They had each brought their own specialties from home, things they had learned from their mothers and grandmothers, things they had made since before the Spanish landed. She ignored their antagonism and concentrated on the task. She prayed as she shaved the bitter chocolate. She prayed while she mixed the spices.

“Keep the fire hot.” She said to Juan.

She crossed herself and began dropping piece of broken damp tortilla in the hot lard one at a time. The grease sputtered. They floated slowly, blistering and floating to the top of the pot.

“Juan, I need another set of hands.” She showed him what to do.

“After you finish, lay them on this plate around the bowl of honey. Keep going and make sure you coat each piece with the spices before they cool off.”

The smell of fried tortilla filled the air with a familiar smell. But, once the aroma of cinnamon, salt and black pepper were added the aroma was intoxicating.

A little boy, no more than four watched at the edge of the long wooden plank they used for a table. Juan handed him a newly cooked chip dipped in honey.

The hungry boy filled his mouth with the hot tortilla. His eyes opened wide, surprised at the flavor, he chewed the mouthful slowly enjoying every bite.

Just as quickly as he appeared he disappeared leaving Mara Arriaga speechless. It was not just the one, but Juan gave the small boy several chips wrapped in a corn husk. She continued cooking and said nothing.

“You know we have nothing to spare.” He heard her say without speaking. He had read it in her eyes.

All around the market the women’s eyes grew wide with haughty insult; their hair curled in contempt. The men began to form a line. The men who had dug the drainage pit for the church had come to the market to see what was going on. They were tired and they were hungry. They came and stood quietly in a long winding line under the glaring eyes of the women; their wives. It was a many headed caterpillar stretching across the market.

She cooked. He served. By nightfall the pennies grew and grew until they filled three pots with coins; coins that would pave the road from the village of Xochitl to Mexico City.

They cleaned up and packed the wagon. The cart trundled slowly by the river using the moonlight as a guide. Juan had affixed a torch to the back of the cart for the journey back to Xochitl. They reached the farm several hours later, dog tired.

She did not stop to rest. She carefully put everything away and cleaned all the pots and utensils that were used. Then she sat down to weave by candlelight.

“Senora.”

She turned to face him.

“There will be trouble if I stay. A seasonal man can be explained; one who overstays the harvest cannot.”

The candle flickered on the walls. She nodded. She went to the small shelf and took a long piece of hand woven cloth and put it around his neck.

“The nights will be cold.”

Juan fell asleep looking at the stars overhead. She stayed awake looking at the moon. He was gone the next day.

The Following Day

The sun came up later than usual, or so it seemed to her. She ran to the knot calendar to count out the days since Demetrio left for Mexico City. “Tomorrow, no today.” She put the three pots of coins on the table covered in a cloth.

He will know. Isabella and her husband travel the same post road as Demetrio. The word will spread like a drop of ink on a white sheet. She knew Demetrio would be enraged. She had thought of everything but how to explain the money.

She heard the wagon pulling up to the house. She went to the wagon to get Pagan. Demetrio was busy unloading supplies. She watched him work untying large crates marked “peligro” and placing them in the shed.

“I have to leave tomorrow for Tlacoa They want this delivered to the mining camp by tomorrow night.

“Where is Pagan?”

“He is with a friend.”

“Who?”

“With Ramirez. Ramirez has a tannery in Mexico City. He will learn to work hard, he’ll learn a trade; perhaps one day he will have his own business. Why so many questions?”

She was overcome with overwhelming exhaustion. Her stomach ached and her head began spinning. She went to the water bucket but did not drink. She held onto the side of the house. She fell down on her knees clasping her rosary.

Months later.

They did not speak that day, or ever again. She prepared his food and washed his clothes and kept his house but she did not speak. Her words were gone. He left for Tlaco that night and returned, as promised the next week. Each week she went to market days, wherever they were held around the village. She came home with jar after jar of coins that she hid in a cave with the rest. Word spread about her success.

Demetrio came home smelling of Isabella Mendoza’s cooking and unwashed sheets.

“People are talking”

He flew into a rage and slapped her across the face and arms. She did not feel anything, she could not feel anything. She fell next to the cradle and held the recien nacido, Faustino; only a few weeks old. He drank himself to sleep that night. She held the baby in her arms. Demetrio was snoring like a freight train.

“My fate is to be tied to the devil in hell”

She wrapped the baby up warmly and took the cart into the hills. She went to the cave and put the ten jars of coins into the cart and drove on.

Demetrio had fallen asleep dreaming of pulche. He thought that he must remind her to refill the large jar. The next morning Demetrio noticed the water had stopped running; even though he had discovered a spring and created an irrigation pipe for the field. The money he made for delivering the “Peligro” loads paid for these improvements and paid for his pulche and nights with Isabella Mendoza. But the spring had to be cleaned regularly. He climbed many hills to get to the spring. He paused to wipe his brow. The trail had become overgrown since he was here last. Has it been one month, perhaps two? He could not remember. He was losing track of time. Why did she no longer speak to him? He never asked her about the second wagon, or the two burros or why the hen had begun to lay eggs again after days when she wouldn’t lay any. He climbed and climbed. He reached the spring after two hours. His legs felt like lead.

Demetrio cleaned the spring of mud and leaves and walked slowly back down to his house.

“Maria should be back from the market by now.” He almost said aloud.

He had done what needed to be done. They had barely enough food for the two of them and now with baby Faustino; there would never be enough for four. He fell asleep to the sound of her weeping night after night until he could stand no more of it. He would tell her so the moment he saw her. He tended his fields and made his meals of beans and corn. He cleaned his tools and did repairs for his neighbors when they asked. But. He had stopped seeing Isabella and he drank one jar of pulche instead of his customary three. He made special trips to the spring just to have something to do. He sat outside in the evening in the harsh dry wind to get away from the wall of loneliness that closed in around him.

It took two weeks for him to realize that she was gone. Bewildered; he crawled into a jar of pulche, covered his face and eyes in the biting liquid and never emerged.

Karen Frederick is an avid reader, active runner and teacher. She has converted her lifelong joy of reading into a commitment to teach very young children from economically disadvantaged backgrounds to read and write. Her stories have appeared in Scriblerus, The Paragon Press and the Book Smugglers Den. She comes from a musical family and grew up singing Bach and playing classical music.

I am the guy in the car behind the car that hit the deer. This is a story of the events that unfurled from that momentary lapse in the survival instincts of a 4-point buck, which misjudged the speed of a clapped-out 1986 Ford Taurus headed south. In the deer’s defense, the Taurus was moving well given its 193,000 miles when the odometer broke years ago and its perpetual cloud of burnt oil that suggested a need for a new set of rings. These are the moments where Oscars are born, apparently.

For the previous 18 months, I had been working in Pittsburgh, and commuting each weekend the four-and-a-half hours each way to my wife and youngest son in the Southern Tier of New York. My wife had an excellent teaching job, the opportunities for an archaeologist at my level were limited, and my son was soon to start college. As awful as this arrangement may seem, I had previously been working in Michigan for three years, with an 8.5-hour drive to get home.

It was a strange way to live. I had a basement apartment in Natrona Heights, about 15 minutes from work. I had a lot of free time in the evenings during the week. I read, ran when my asthma allowed, carved my own set of duck decoys, built my own row-boat, and started to dabble in creative writing.

The initial leg of my commute home was State Route 28, from the PA Turnpike to I-80. The road traverses the hilly terrain of Armstrong, Jefferson, and Clarion Counties, and passes through a number of small towns. It is two-lane for most of the distance, with an occasional passing lane on the most severe climbs. It is an exciting, winding road when there is not a truck in front of you. When I told a co-worker how much I enjoyed this leg of my drive, his wet blanket response was “I’d be worried about hitting a deer.” I responded with completely fake data that your odds of hitting a deer do not change appreciably whether you are going 50 or 65 mph. On the purely theoretical level, I continued, the less time you are on the road, the lower your chance of hitting a deer. The faster you travel, the less time you spend on the road, ergo the lower your chance of striking a whitetail. I am not sure he bought the argument, and I left the conversation with a tiny worry lodged in the back of my skull. That worry did not change my speed on State Route 28, but it oh so slightly lessened my enjoyment.

So, anyhow, by working extra time on Mondays through Thursdays, I was generally heading home by 2:00 on Friday afternoon. Depending on weather and how early darkness fell, I would leave Corning on Sunday afternoon or evening for the return trip. On the day the guy in front of me – okay, let’s just go ahead and identify the driver as Joseph – hit the deer, it was about six o’clock on a clear summer evening. By conventional wisdom, it was probably still a bit early to be worrying about deer.

In terms of wrecks, it was not spectacular. Joseph hit the deer with the front-center of the vehicle, and the deer was flipped to the side of the road. Joseph made a slight bobble upon impact, and then calmly and smoothly guided the Taurus to the shoulder. I had braked when I first saw the flash of the deer, and I pulled over 50 yards behind the Taurus. I ran up to verify that nobody other than the buck was hurt. My employers at the time were very safety conscious, and I had in my car two or three Day-Glo safety vests and a hard hat. I pulled on a vest and hat, and grabbed a second vest for Joseph. I then checked the deer, which was dead, not suffering.

Joseph’s car was a mess. The front grille was pushed deep into the radiator, and steam and coolant were spewing forth. This car was not going anywhere anytime soon. Even if a replacement radiator existed somewhere in the county, Joseph was unlikely to find a mechanic working on Sunday. I suggested he carefully roll it downhill to a church parking lot.

Now, let’s be perfectly honest here. Much of western Pennsylvania beyond the Pittsburgh core is Appalachian in its history, demographics, a Christian-based worship of firearms, and a simmering racism just below the surface. The old joke is that Pennsylvania is Philadelphia, Pittsburgh, and Alabama in between. You still see a lot of Confederate flags flown with pride in western Pennsylvania. As Joseph’s car was clearly not going to be repaired any time soon, if ever, I had two thoughts. One was simply here is guy who has had a moment of bad luck, and I should help him if I can. My second concern was here is a black man — from Ohio, no less — that might likely run into further bad luck if abandoned in the front of a church in small-town Armstrong County. There was no guarantee that the local police would help. Indeed, the police might view Joseph as one of those uppity folks (they would not use that exact noun) who kept disrupting the rallies of their next President. As a good Christian – in the Golden Rule, macro-sense, not in the verse-twisting, OCD, fanatical sense – I offered Joseph a ride to Pittsburgh. I had seen his Carnegie Mellon parking sticker.

I explained that I was headed that way regardless, and that I was not on a tight schedule when I got home. I pointed out the obvious that he would be sitting at least an hour-and-a-half if he could rouse a friend in Pittsburgh to come get him. I gently (and unnecessarily, upon reflection) implied that there were much better situations in which to be a young, black man.

You could almost see Joseph running down a checklist. Any NRA or Trump stickers on my car? A gun rack? Is Chris a conceal-carrier? Does he sound rational? I think when he saw a copy of Wake Forest Magazine on the front seat, he was reassured he was dealing with only a harmless liberal.

The magazine was handed to me by Linda as I was about to depart Corning. It was the annual Writing Issue. Linda has an unshakable commitment that I should be a writer in or before my retirement, and she felt that the Writing Issue might provide a little nudge. As I have now written this story and many others, Linda has been once again proven correct.

The magazine became a prop for conversation once Joseph and I had dispensed we brief bios. He was an MFA student in film at Carnegie Mellon, from Cleveland, but did not know LeBron personally, thanks for asking. I was an old archaeologist limping toward retirement.

“I was accepted” he said “at Wake Forest. I decided was not ready for such a huge change.”

“Yep, it is a hard school for a black man. It is unimaginably white and rich, but unapologetically liberal. I mean, I came from a Middle-Class family, but it was a whole different world, even after spending two years at UVA, part of my tour of the whitest colleges in America. Wake loves its athletics, and black student athletes are often smothered with good-intentioned — read paternalistic — attention. It reminds me of a project years ago, where we had to get a crew across Lake Jocassee. The client got us in touch with a boat driver, who has obviously an American Indian. One of our not-too-bright, not-too-sensitive crew asked, “so what kind of Indian are you?” The response was an eloquent “Lonely.” I think that probably is a good adjective for the few blacks at Wake Forest. Wake was a weird place, but I guess the education was solid.”

“And they have kept track of you” Joseph noted with a nod to the magazine.

“Yep, they keep track of anybody who might someday contribute – nope — or send another generation to attend –nope. That usually goes straight to the bin, but I read the Writing Issue.”

“Do you write?”

“Well, I write gobs of technical reports and articles for professional journals, keeping the resume fresh. I think I am a decent writer, and in the past year here I have started submitting some stories to literary journals and web sites. Submittable.com has become somewhat an addiction. I get periods when I really like writing, and then it goes away.”

“So, what are you working on these days?”

“Well, uh, I don’t want you to react badly, but I have been working on a piece tentatively titled Why I Had to Kill Bill Cosby.”

“Alright. Okay. Tell me more.”

“It is a confession to be read upon the author’s death. It tries to very carefully explain that this was not a racial crime, although the author was white, but instead a basic act of justice. He acknowledges that vigilante justice is not generally the answer, but argues quite convincingly — or so he thinks — that Cosby’s acts of rape, his acts of arrogant denial of responsibility, and his godawful fucking hypocrisy cried out for extraordinary action. He argues that it was important to all races, especially the females of all races, to show such crimes will not go unpunished. The killer acknowledges how the murder has changed him for the worst. He explains that this was not a ploy to gain world notoriety. And the story gets into the gun control debate. I have him kill the Cos with a bow and arrow, to avoid clouding the message with partisan bickering over gun control. A rifle would have been much simpler, but the debate would have gotten side-tracked. He points out that several states changed their statutes of limitation for rape in the aftermath of the killing. The confession talks about how he knew he could get away with it. The cops would not look too hard to find the killer, he had no direct ties to any of Cosby’s victims, and he was not aligned with any fanatical racist or super-feminist groups. He was simply one guy who had reached his breaking point and who was particularly sickened by the Cosby situation.”

“Can I read it? I’d like to see it.”

“Surely you can’t be serious.”

“I am, but don’t call me Shirley.” I think I fell a little bit in love just then.

“Sure, but … well, it is still kind of evolving. Ugh, doesn’t that sound like something you might hear on Oprah or Dr. Phil? Still evolving? How about: I finished, it sucked, and I am trying again? I had the basics fleshed out, but then had the idea what if this guy finds he likes it too much, and then has to change all of his self-justification? The reader would go from understanding – if not fully endorsing – the Cosby killing to revisiting this guy’s real motivations. Is this just a psychopath looking to obscure his pleasure motive? If that is true, am I, as a reader, still allowed to applaud his actions? So, I have this guy next killing Joel Osteen, one of those money-hungry, self-worshipping, manipulative, false-hope-peddling televangelists. Stones him to death.”

“Stones him?”

“Yep, and here we’re almost getting into murder as performance art. The method resonates with the faithful. Reinforces the message that this guy Osteen was a false prophet. You might find this interesting. I did a flash fiction version of Why I Had To Kill Bill Cosby. . ., in part because I wanted to try writing flash fiction. I know. I had the unmitigated gall to think that my first work ever of flash fiction would be worthy of publication, that I should even share it with anybody.”

“Cojones.”

“Yep, my wife just shakes her head. She is from Scotland, and my too frequent acts of I-will-give-it-a-try are not what she is used to. So, it was like 300 words on the contradictions going through Bob’s mind as he aims his bow at Bill Cosby. In the original version, Bob does the deed and then looks ahead to hunting down Joel Osteen. Now, understand, I did not know if this was a good or bad piece of flash fiction, but I figured various editors would clarify the situation, so I responded to 6 or 7 calls for flash fiction. The first journal to respond — keep in mind that the journal only published fiction — included summary remarks from five of their readers/reviewers. All five took issue with the fictional stalking of Joel Osteen, but none had any problems with killing the Cos. I actually double-checked, to make sure I had not accidentally submitted to The Driven Snow, you know, the literary journal of Bob Jones University.”

“So, that set of comments; was that racial, or some sort of ranking of egregiousness or venality of the sins?”

“Egregiousness? Venality? Damn, somebody nailed the SATs. No wonder Wake Forest wanted you. But I digress. I was not sure which it was. It was just bizarre.”

We were doing the mandated slow down, coming into New Bethlehem. 55 to 45 to 35 to a ridiculously slow 25. And they have their own police. I allowed “I’m always careful here, and I’m white.”

“Damn, you are. You sneaky mother fucker. I hadn’t noticed.”

The trick through New Bethlehem is to stay tight to the vehicle in front of you, because you go from 25 to 35 to 55 with a passing lane of limited length just south of town. If you let a bit of a gap to open up, you cannot close that gap and get past the slow poke(s) before the passing lane disappears. You drive this route 50-75 times, you learn all the tricks.

“You’re not too big on religion I take it?”

“Don’t get me wrong just because I advocate stoning some phony preachers to death. I think the problem with religions – plural, and I think this is true of all our major religions – is that they have lost touch with the core messages, which are shared by all religions — be a decent person. Treat people with respect. Be tolerant. Support you community. Help those less fortunate. Those are pushed aside when folks began to use the minutia of their religions to create and maintain power for an elite few. That is yet another story I am working on: the establishment and growth of the Community of Common Good as a non-religious vehicle for pursuing being a good person. That idea, in turn, came out of a series of T-shirts I have yet to produce including “Who would Buddha shoot?” “Where is Jesus’ sister?” “Is your prophet all profit?”

“Well, fuck me.”

“I am not crazy. Don’t reach for the door handle. I don’t hear voices, per se. I just have ideas that can bounce around my head for a long time. Maybe my wife is right – she usually is — that I have spent my life getting ready to write. At times I feel back in high school, at the start of a cross country meet, with real loathing for the starter. Just fire the pistol god-damn it. As Marvin Gaye would say, let’s get it on. I find any conversation is improved if you work in some wisdom from Mr. Gaye.”

“Oh, a student athlete. Track too? What distance?”

“The longest possible. 2-miler in high school, 6-miler in college. But the marathon and half-marathon were my best races. You? Not to assume every black man was an athlete, but you’ve got the look.”

“800, occasionally the 1500. Once I even ran a steeplechase in college because . . .”

“the team needs the points and there are only two other people entered. Done that.”

“And it was your worst experience ever on track, I bet. For me, the 1500 was pushing it, and then to throw in barriers and the water jump. And you know black folks can’t swim for shit. Thanks Coach”

“Oh yeah. I was lapped by a Kenyan from the University of Richmond. But, hey, I got third place points.”

“That race just ain’t right. It’s just unnatural.”

“Oops, a moment of silence please, while we see what type of killing device Veronesi is selling this week. I wish they would just be honest in their advertising. This tactical shotgun will shoot the junk clean off the buckroe intent on raping your women and livestock.”

“That would be a tactical testicle shotgun then.”

“I mean look at this place. Do you think he really needs the LED motion sign? You don’t think these folks can find this place when the Attorney General gets them all hyped up on the latest fear. El Salvadorian gangs, messed up on pharmaceuticals and looking to help blacks rape white women. I’m sorry, all their fears have an element of rape or possibly the need to someday overthrow the government, probably because the government has allowed too much inter-racial rape. But I digress.

So talk to me about film. How did you end up chasing that dream?”

“Well, I know I am supposed to say something about the first Spike Lee movie changing my life forever. Or Sidney Poitier in To Sir, with Love. But, I gots to admit, and I recognize that this is a little unusual, it was Blazing Saddles that blew me away.”

“Stand back while I whip this out. . .”

“So you know it? I mean, it was genius of social commentary without losing the humor. It was just saying ‘this is how good a movie can be, even without taking itself seriously.’ I knew then, I wanted to get into film. I wanted to be making that.”

“Well, let me ask the obvious question. Do you feel pressure that the films you make have to be, gots to be, must be relevant to addressing questions of race? I mean, has Spike Lee set a bar for all aspiring film writers and directors of color? Do you ever wish that, like Steven Colbert, nobody saw color?”

“Shit, that sounds like an exam question. No, no. I mean, I would not want to be complicit in continuing the under-representation of black talent in the industry, but I do not think that black directors can only make black movies.”

“Under-representation of black talent? Wait a second, I saw Car Wash.”

“Oh, fuck you. You asked the serious question. Now you are going to run down that list of Blaxploitation movies? That Shaft, he’s a bad mother . . . hush your mouth.”

“So you’re a film guy: you might enjoy this. Linda and I were sitting on the couch this afternoon when an advertisement for the new Roots came up. The tag line for the advertisement was “Roots Reimagined for a New Generation.” I told Linda, if they want to reimagine Roots for a new generation they should have blacks play all the white roles (a la Hamilton, the musical) and have whites play all the black roles. Linda immediately imagined the outrage when white folks saw blacks whipping whites, and rich blackmen raping poor white servant girls. “Excellent, you should do that” she said. I am not a film maker, producer, or anything, so I just filed it away with ideas I would probably never pursue. I mean, how would I do that? Oh yeah, when I am back on the studio lot tomorrow, I’ll run it by one of the Warner Brothers.”

“Mother Fucker, he exclaimed at the risk of sounding like a stereotype. It could be done. I think the Alex Haley estate might even give us the rights for free. And talk about prompting a re-energized conversation about race. I’d love to see it.”

“I would really like to see it from behind the screen in a large movie theater. You know, so you could see who cringed and who fought to hold back a little bit of a smile. If you had a cringometer . . .”

“A cringometer?”

“Okay, so some people might pronounce it ‘cringe-o-meter’ but let’s not quibble. Something to gauge discomfort. You know, all humans should cringe at the sight of any other human being flogged or raped. But I bet there would be patterning by race. I bet a lot of white folks would cringe more than when they watched the original, and . . .”

“I bet a lot of black people would take glee in Denzel Washington whipping Matthew McConaughy. Talk about this in your car ads, Matthew. Oh yeah, we have to do this.”

“Now you’re sounding like Linda. Joseph, you go ahead and do it. It is all yours. I release all rights to the idea with this hand shake. Just invite me to the opening night.” And he did.

Roots 180 opened four years later. Joseph had filmed and presented a sampling of the most famous scenes as his MFA project. The scenes went viral, the response had been huge, and he was able to find financial backing from several of the expected sources, including Oprah, Spike Lee, and Rob Reiner. Yes, Spike “Do The Right Thing, Jungle Fever” Lee. I guess the right thing in this case was to back an obvious winner. I even received a screen credit as a creative consultant, which means I once talked to Joseph about the idea while driving the Trump gauntlet.

Joseph and I spoke often, either face to face or on the telephone. I would pick up the phone to “Where the white women at?” Or Joseph would be greeted with “as a dedicated Ted Cruz supporter. . . .” An ongoing bit was that the MFA after Joseph’s name must mean he was officially a Mother Fucking Artist.

I wish I could claim that I realized similar success in creative writing. I did not do terribly. My first year of really trying, I had three pieces accepted for web publication, one published in an actual printed, bound journal, and one in an issue of Georgia Outdoor News(watch out Pulitzer, I’m coming for you). I eventually made a little money at it, and, I think, I got to be a tolerably good writer (“think again” murmurs the Editor). I have not quite made The Community of Common Good into something editors should see, flash fiction Bob has been declared dead, and I do not see the Cosby piece coming together. It turns out that creative non-fiction is my strength, so either I become Bob or I let both of those ideas die on the vine.

So many ideas. It is most appropriate to quote Hedley Lamar here: “My mind is a raging torrent, flooded with rivulets of thought cascading into a waterfall of creative alternatives.” Some have worked, most have failed, and a few are in limbo, to be revisited eventually. It is doubtful that any of my creative ideas will ever match the success of Roots 180. What does this say about ideas, and how we can know which are really good and which are simply different? I haven’t a clue. I just keep pitching unabashedly, in hopes that Linda or Joseph or some as yet unidentified editor will say “this one works.” I just keep pitching unashamedly, hoping that Fate, a 4-point buck, and a clapped-out 1986 Ford Taurus headed south will find me again if I have a real winner.

An archaeologist, Chris Espenshade branched into creative writing in 2017. He’s had more than 30 works accepted for publication including flash fiction, creative non-fiction, humor, political satire, fiction, and poetry. Chris lives in Wellsboro, Pennsylvania.

After I toss out my fishing line, I push the bottom of my cane pole into the soft riverbank, so I can sit on the ground and hold it with my knees. My pole is special – green and blue paint swirled around three yellowy bamboo pieces. Daddy bought it for my seventh birthday last summer. He even put on a blue and yellow bobber to match its colors instead of a white and red one. But, the bobber hasn’t moved all morning; not even one nibble. Its shiny yellow top floats on the dark water where two pale green dragonflies hover above it. I wish they were fairies who’ve come to take me far away from this place.

When the dragonflies move to the opposite bank, I raise the bobber to check my bait. The once pink worm is now yucky white. Some bugs skim across the river’s surface, daring the fish to snatch them. They skittle away when I swing my line toward them and the bobber plunks on the water. Secretly, I hope no fish tries to eat the worm because I feel bad when their mouths tug on the hook.

Everyone knows when the sun rises high in the morning, the fish stop biting. I tried to explain this to Momma earlier this morning when she said she was taking us to fish in the river behind Grandpa’s tavern.

“Nonsense,” she said. “You’ll be in the shade. The fish don’t know where the sun is.” She has frog eyes that pop out of her face. When they look like they’ll burst, I know she’s ready to spank us kids. “Put on your sandals and get in the car.” I moved before she could swat me.

Even though the tavern is just an hour’s drive from where we live in the city, it seems like it takes a thousand years. When we arrive, Momma covers us with greasy bug-spray that gets in our mouths and makes our lips puff up. “Stay out of the water, and don’t come up to the tavern until I call you for lunch.” Then she pushes us out the back door.

Time goes so slow when we fish without Daddy or Grandma. “I told you not to say anything to Mom. Now we have to stay down here extra-long because of you.” Kelly, my older sister, flares her Ferdinand the Bullnostrils when she smirks at me. She’s ten and thinks she knows everything. Ryan, our five-year-old brother, parrots her. “Yeah, because of you.” He looks at Kelly for approval. She flashes her fake smile at him – those giant front teeth of hers look like pieces of Chiclet chewing gum.

Kelly uses one of Daddy’s rods. The river isn’t wide enough for casting. Each time she throws out the line, the lure lands in the grass on the other bank. When she reels it in, mucky green and brown stuff covers it. She didn’t ask Daddy’s permission, but she lied to Momma that Daddy said it was okay. Why Momma believes everything Kelly says makes me mad. Maybe it’s because they look alike – they have straight dark brown hair, and brownish-yellow eyes, just like Grandpa.

When Daddy’s with us, he always makes us laugh when he calls to the cows in the pasture across from us. If he whistles, they hurry to the water’s edge to see what we’re doing. “Those are the most curious cows,” he says. They’ll watch us until something else grabs their attention.

Grandma only comes here from the city on the weekends; I think she’s afraid of being alone at the tavern with Grandpa. She doesn’t like to fish either. Instead of a hook, Grandma takes a slice of Wonder Bread and wads it into balls around the sinkers – small weights – attached to the fishing lines below the bobbers. “The fish can eat without hurting their mouths,” she says. Sometimes, she gives them Velveeta cheese.

Most of my fairy tale books are birthday and Christmas gifts from Grandma. If she were with me, we’d look for mushrooms near rotting tree trunks because everyone knows elves live near mushrooms. I could walk through the trees by myself, but I’m afraid that I might become lost. Plus, I don’t want Kelly or Ryan to touch my cane pole.

Ryan’s using just the top part of a cane pole that Daddy rigged for him because he’s too short to handle a real pole. He’s antsy and starts to pester Kelly to let him try Daddy’s rod. She gives him a big shove. When he starts to cry, she whispers to him, probably something about me.

“Hey, dork!” Kelly’s voice is so loud that the cows look at her at the same time I do. “Go get some candy from Grandpa, but don’t let Mom know you’re in the tavern.”

Kelly puts down the rod; she’s already made a fist with her right hand. She’s ordering me to go because if Momma catches me, Kelly will fib and say she never told me to get candy. I may be afraid of Momma, but Kelly scares me more. Every kid I know – cousins, neighbors, classmates – does what Kelly commands because she can knock over anybody with one punch. Sometimes, though, Kelly can be nice. She’ll put the worms on my hook for me.

I stand and wipe the black dirt from the back of my shorts. Kelly catches me looking at my fishing pole.

“We won’t touch your stupid pole,” she says. “We promise. Right, Ryan?”

Ryan, her stooge, says, “Right.”

I don’t believe them. I have no choice but to trudge up the dirt path that leads to the trees and into the open field behind Grandpa’s tavern. Instead of going in the back door, I’ll walk to the street and use the front door, so Momma doesn’t see me.

This town is so tiny – just one street with a church, a Post Office, and some beat-up looking houses. The tavern is next to a small grocery store that smells like old cheese and cabbage. On the other side of the street, there are two bars that we’re not allowed to go in. I don’t know what the difference is between Grandpa’s tavern and those bars. The same drunk people weave in and out of all three.

The bell on the tavern’s door jingles when I go in. Grandpa is behind the large wooden curved bar washing glasses from last night’s customers. Only one man sits on a stool. He looks like a drawing of a grimy Rumpelstiltskin– a goblin man – from one of my books.

“Hey, girl! Sit on the floor and spread your legs.”

The man smells like cow manure and dirty clothes. His stink hides the tavern’s spilled beer and toilet odors. Instead of running to Grandpa, I stare at the stranger. His eyes are almost closed; he chuckles and lifts his jigger of whiskey to his mouth. It isn’t even lunchtime, and he’s “boozing,” as Grandma would say.

“You watch your mouth.” Grandpa moves toward him. “That’s my granddaughter you’re talking to.” I can’t hear what the man says to Grandpa because I’ve gone through the swinging door that separates the tavern from the kitchen. Momma is at the table reading the newspaper with my baby brother on her lap.

“Momma, that man told me to spread my legs.”

Her back goes straight, and she stares at me with those frog eyes. They look as if they’re going to explode out of her face. Instead of saving me, she’s going to yell.

“What were you doing in there? Why aren’t you fishing?” She grabs my arm and squeezes it hard. “I told you not to come up here until I called you for lunch.”

Momma’s fingers left red marks on my arm, but I won’t tell her that Kelly demanded that I get candy and I won’t let Momma see me cry. She doesn’t care.

I go out the back door, hating her almost as much as I hate coming here. Daddy would have punched that man. Daddy would have hugged me. Daddy would be fishing with us.

I cross the field to go to the path that leads to the river. The grass is so high that I could hide; no one would find me. If Grandma were with me, we’d pick wildflowers and watch butterflies. Insects buzz around the Queen Anne’s Lace and the Purple Flox; their hum is friendly – not like Kelly, who’ll shout when she sees me without candy. I won’t go back to the river; I’ll lie in the grass and look at the clouds until Momma calls us for lunch.

Someone’s muttering. I push my back hard against the ground. The dirty goblin zigzags past me looking at the trees that lead to the river. “Little bitch,” he says, “she’s gonna spread her legs.”

Only when he’s gone, do I breathe again. I’ll get Grandpa, but Kelly’s screaming something. He must have her. I stand and dash toward the trees.

“You have a fish!” Kelly’s yelling about a dumb fish. She doesn’t know that danger is coming. The man is at the top of the slope. He slips and falls, and then rolls the rest of the way down. My brother and sister turn when they hear his grunts, but they don’t see me.

A sound like a police siren fills my ears. It’s me, screeching as loud as I can. I leap like a teenage ninja warrior from the top of the path. As I float in the air, I become as powerful as the evil fairy Maleficent. The cows stop grazing and run toward the river, but I have no time to look at them.

The goblin stumbles toward Kelly – mud covers his pants and hands. He grabs her and starts to drag her toward some trees. Her face is icy white like the dead worm on my hook. Her mouth freezes open in shock. I’ve never seen Kelly afraid before. I will save her because I am Maleficent – and the drunk has no princely powers.

“Get Grandpa!” I yell to Ryan, who drops my cane pole and scampers up the path.

My pretty pole’s tip bends into the water; the blue bobber dances up and down; Daddy’s power is in the pole. I yank it upward. A small carp dangles on the hook.

“Let her go!” My Maleficent voice’s might surprises me, but now, I am armed. The man stops; Kelly kicks at him and forces her heels into the soft ground. She will not go without a fight.

“There’s two of you.” Confusion crosses his unshaven face. He drops her arm and staggers toward me. He will not touch me.

I swing my pole at him. The fish falls from the line. The hook, free of its burden, whips through the air. It catches the corner of his eye. I pull hard.

“Goddamit!” He yowls like a cat. “Goddamit!” Blood dribbles on his face. Kelly runs to me. We sisters will battle him, together, until Grandpa comes.

“What’s all the hollering?” The cows’ owner stands across the river. “Earl, what the hell are you doing with Joe’s grandkids? Do I need to come over there?” His voice comforts me; he wades into the water. His cows follow.

“I was just having a little fun.” Earl, an ugly name for an ugly man, starts to slink away.

“Get the hell out of here.” Grandpa is at the top of the slope. He sounds out of breath from running.

The farmer stands with my sister and me. “You girls okay?” We nod, yes. Grandpa walks over to us.

“Joe, maybe it ain’t such a good idea to let your grandkids fish by themselves.” The farmer’s hands are on his hips. His overalls are wet up to his waist. “And, maybe it ain’t such a good idea letting Earl get drunk like that.”

Grandpa ignores him. The farmer picks up my cane pole. “That’s one pretty pole.” He wraps the line to keep the hook from swinging and hands it to me. “Now you girls go on up to the house. I need to talk to your grandpa.” He pats us on our backs. We don’t know what he and Grandpa say to each other.

For the rest of the summer, Momma doesn’t take us fishing again. Sometimes, on the weekends, Daddy loads us into the car for the hour drive to the tavern. One day, I saw the farmer in his pasture. I waved my cane pole at him. He waved back.

                                    *                                    *                                    *

When I was old enough to stay home alone, I refused to go to the tavern. I don’t know if my mother ever told my father about the drunk who intended to rape her daughters – we don’t talk about such things in our family. As for Kelly, she kept going to the tavern and met other kids who lived in that town. She married Earl’s son. She claims that I made up the story about Earl, that it never happened. My cane pole hides among Dad’s other fishing poles and rods. If Kelly ever has daughters, I will give it to them along with my fairy tales; there’s still power in both.

When Cheryl Sim was a little girl, her father gave her a cane pole. She stopped fishing with him after she became a diplomat and moved overseas. She met her husband in Somalia. They live in the Washington, D.C. area.

When I was fourteen, my mother told me we were going to move to Los Angeles. She was tired of waiting around to get tenure at the university she taught at, and she missed California. My father had died three years before, and since then the apartment that I had grown up in had begun to take on a life of its own. Right after his funeral, in fact, it started having plumbing problems, causing water, smelling suspiciously like shit, to flow down our hallway, which made my mother cry. A year later, we got a note from the city saying that they were going to be revamping the sewage system on our street, and the noise made it impossible to sleep properly for months on end. The final straw was when our upstairs neighbor died in his apartment.

Nobody knew who he was, or where he went during the day, and so nobody thought it unusual when they hadn’t seen him for weeks on end. Eventually, the smell became so bad that my mother called the police, and they carried the guy out on a stretcher. “I’m tired of this city,” my mother said. “I don’t want to die that way.” I had to agree. I had lived in New York my whole life, and I was tired of the endless complications that we had with our landlord, complications which would have been solved had my lawyer father still been alive, but which now so overwhelmed both my mother and me that we acquiesced to whatever demands the owner of the building made of us, big or small. Compromise. This was how we got by in those strange years after Dad–or Daddy, as I had still been calling him the year his health began to fail–died.

My mother got a job at U.C.L.A, a tenure track position, and we decided to make the best of things by driving out there instead of taking a plane. I tried to be cheerful during the drive, but the truth was by the third night I was both restless and cranky. My rear end hurt from sitting for so long, and I had decided I didn’t like the southwest–it looked like the surface of the moon. This may have accounted for the fact that, when my mother took me to look at the Grand Canyon in Arizona on that five-day journey, I failed to grasp how impressive it was. Instead what I was thinking of–amidst red rocks, vast sky–was how nice it would feel to jump. My death would be ruled an accident, and I would become part of the legions of tourists who died in idiotic ways, out of their own ignorance, their cocksureness, their belief that they could actually stand up to the landscape they were in. But then I thought, what about my mother? And so I smiled and pretended to be impressed. I don’t know how convincing I was, because Mom gave me the silent treatment that evening in the hotel, probably on account of my sullen attitude. I was already seriously regretting leaving everything behind in New York.

Originally, I’d been happy about the move. I felt that New York had nothing left to offer me, and I did a lot of research about Los Angeles, actually. I read about William Mulholland and the aqueduct and the St. Francis dam disaster, and I watched Chinatown, although on principle I refrained from watching films directed by men accused of rape. At any rate, I thought very highly of the movie, and I was pleased by the fact that I was going somewhere that should never strictly have existed in the first place. This was California, the place where my mother had grown up and had fled from, shortly following the O.J. Simpson trial. It wasn’t because of the trial that she’d left L.A. but talking about it still upset her.

“A failure of justice,” my father would say. “When the law isn’t better than the people, nothing gets done.”

“He killed her,” my mother would say. “And they couldn’t pin it on him because the LAPD was racist and all they wanted to do was put a black guy in jail. It mattered more to them to lock people like him up than whether or not that woman was actually murdered.” The possibility of such a thing happening again, however unlikely, both repelled and intrigued me. For in L.A., perhaps, there was that possibility. The dark and winding roads, the palm trees, the silent sprinklers, as if all at once the residents of the city had agreed that drought only occurred during the daytime. Still, terror could not be rare, even in the most pristine of environments; hadn’t I heard of the Mansons?

But it was 2017 now, and I was only fourteen, and Los Angeles, to me, was defined by La La Land and #MeToo, so I wasn’t too concerned. I should have been, but when my mother sang to me, L.A is a great big freeway, put a hundred down and buy a car; In a week, maybe two, they’ll make you a star, I felt something approaching hope, although I would soon miss public transportation, and I had no intention of going into show business.

We settled into a neighborhood of condominiums not far from campus. They were pale orange stucco and had red tile roofs. There were palm trees everywhere, and I didn’t realize until later that the name of the complex–Hacienda Apartments–was redundant. Later, the building, with its faux-mission architecture and its strategically placed cacti, seemed to me to be a spectacular example of the poor taste and confused goodwill that were the making of white Californian aesthetics, that predominated in the west simply because people didn’t know any better, because no one had taught them that counterfeit could never be real, that make-believe was just that.

But in that moment, I was glad for the sunshine and glad to forget the silence of the journey my mother and I had made across the country. While she set the place up, I went and swam in the pool–absenting myself, as usual, when she needed my help. Unpacking boxes and pushing furniture around, I would become sweaty, I would feel heavy and lumpen and useless, and I thought it better to let Mom do things to her liking. I did that a lot in those days, partially because I felt that unhappiness was contagious and also because I really was quite lazy, even for a teenager. The pool had indigo tiles at the bottom, making the water look unnaturally blue, and the sunshine was so blinding that my eyes hurt. I slipped in and held my breath until my ears began to pop, then sprang upwards, knowing that something still compelled me to surface no matter the troubles that occupied my mind.

Floating in the water, I remembered my father–lovingly, with one of those huge and completely unprecedented stabs of pain I’d become used to in the past few years. It was he who had taught me to swim and to lie on my back like this, he who’d taught me to look at the sky once in a while–just so you know your proportion, he’d said. How tiny we are in comparison to the cosmos. He’d always been fascinated by outer space. I, on the other hand, was not, and had been terrified watching Apollo 13 with him, long ago. All that empty black space, a silence encircling the earth as a permanent reminder of your own nothingness.

Was that what it was like to die? To stare into the abyss, to know that not even your sense of self could prevent the fact that one day your existence would mean nothing, would come to an end as unceremoniously as, say, a palm frond snapped off from the tree above me and fell into the pool? Thoughts like this disquieted me. For years after Dad’s death I had to avoid the films he’d loved, the places he’d loved, because I found that when I saw them or went to them it seemed to me unjust that he wasn’t there. Like a fool, I’d keep expecting to see him, and when the film was over, or when it was time to go, it was as if he’d died all over again.

A little while later I started school, and immediately found that my jeans and black t-shirts made me look even paler than I actually was. I seemed to be the only dark-haired girl in a sea of blond heads, and I thought I’d never felt more out of place in my life. This, as I was soon to learn, would be a recurring sensation. Indeed, my first great failing my freshman year of high school was almost entirely due to my lack of California social capital. On the first day, a girl named Julie Bazos was assigned to show me around and to make me feel welcome. She was pretty in the way that girls are supposed to be: blond hair, blue eyes, L-bracket figure. She was wearing a paper flower crown on her head. I thought this might be for a celebration of some sort, but in case it wasn’t I kept my mouth shut. In New York you could only wear such things ironically, and even that was pushing it.

“Julie,” a boy said as we sat down at the lunch table, “You look fresh from Coachella.”

“I’m not, though,” she said, grinning. “I’m actually so tired of it. The line-up last April was kind of lame.”

“When one is tired of Coachella,” some smart-ass sitting near us said, “One is tired of life.”

“Samuel Johnson,” I said.

“What?” Julie said.

“When one is tired of London, one is tired of life. That’s the guy who said it.”

“This one’s pretty smart,” the boy who had complimented Julie said, eyeing me carefully.

“What’s Coachella?” I asked. The spell was broken.

“It’s a concert,” Julie said kindly, and by that time both boys were snickering. “It’s the biggest in SoCal, actually.”

“Oh, cool,” I said.

“It’s expensive,” she said accusatorially. “The only reason I could afford it is because my brother’s in the music industry and has connections.”

“That’s interesting,” I said brightly, but I knew immediately afterward that I would be unable to salvage the conversation. As a result, I found it impossible to eat; I was actually afraid I would end up vomiting if I did so. This probably didn’t contribute positively to their impression of me, but what the hell. Anyway, Julie must have decided then and there to ignore me. Our interactions after that were quite limited. She always greeted me in the hallway, though, and she was never rude to me–not outwardly, anyway. I was already familiar with people like her, and I was able to assuage my disappointment in the ordinariness of L.A. high school students by making a parody of her to my mother. I often did this, just to make her laugh. The more outrageous I became in my description, the prouder she became of me. I was careful to leave out the fact that I hadn’t been able to eat my lunch in Julie’s presence–I didn’t want Mom to worry, or to know about the extent of the embarrassment I had already experienced on my first day of school.

I was careful not to make it seem like I was complaining, because I wanted Mom to know how grateful I was to be in California at all; also, leaving New York, I had made it my goal to be less categorical in my assumptions about people. No matter if my assumptions did happen to be right, as they almost always were in L.A. I thought I’d never seen so much plastic surgery in one place, and made it my business to be gravely disappointed by the new home I found myself in. I was accomplishing the extraordinary feat of being unhappy in California; I yearned for red brick, rain-stained buildings, narrow streets, the grounded world from which I came.

My mother’s job was going well, however, and for the first time in three years she had begun to sing again. They were Dad’s songs, of course. Hate California, it’s cold and it’s damp, she’d croon over our weekly pot of pasta, and I’d feel an abrupt wave of rage–for how dare she steal something he’d always sung to me?–before realizing that I was supposed to be enjoying myself. But I wasn’t. I spent most of my time inside, complaining that the sunshine hurt my eyes, or that I was tired, or that I had a stomachache. After school began I started to get excruciating headaches, which, to my disappointment, weren’t severe enough to be migraines and which my doctor concluded were signs of stress.

My mother decided to take me to see a shrink, an affable, vaguely narcoleptic old gentleman who was a far cry from the energetic grief counselor we’d both had in New York. He was a good listener, but he never offered anything more constructive than, say, a Bob Dylan quote, or a recommendation to “pound the hell out of your pillow.” Or he would say things like, “You need to confront the fact that you’re angry with your mother,” and I pitied him for his illusions, his belief that problems could really be worked out through conversation. As if people had time to sit around and talk about their feelings all day. As if my mother, euphoric in our new home, could ever be persuaded that there was something wrong with me, apart from the obvious fact that I was fatherless. These were both givens now, and the fact that there was some new unhappiness in addition to those twin sorrows made my cheeks burn with shame and the sheer knowledge of my own cowardice.

It wasn’t until my end-of-trimester math exam that the panic really started kicking in. I had always been a good student, and yet during the test the numbers began to swim in my head and blink at me in the bright whiteness of fear. I worked on the exam long after I was supposed to, staying until even after the students with extra time had gone. Finally, my math teacher told me to leave, and when she gently put her hand on my shoulder as I left the room, my knees shaking, I realized that my skin was ice-cold. I was also short of breath. At home I told my mother how terrified I was of exponents, how nothing made sense to me, not even the variable x, and she decided that I needed a math tutor. I didn’t think it would help, especially since I still had an A in the class and hadn’t actually done that badly on the exam, considering. But being a lawyer’s wife, or widow, my mother was driven towards the tidiness of such solutions, and so within a matter of weeks she’d found someone to work with me.

His name was Steven Rylance, and on both the private and public-school circuits he was known as the math whisperer. He was short, at least for a man, not much taller than I was, in fact, and I never saw him wear anything other than a flannel shirt and stove-pipe jeans, which always looked the worse for wear but which had probably cost him about a third of his rent. Within days of our first session–in his home, not too far from where we livedthe panic I’d begun to experience in the math classroom had already begun to subside, and I was filled with unadulterated relief. When he sat next to me at his desk I would study the hair on his arms and on the inside of his wrists with what I thought was a complete absence of sexual curiosity.

The most terrible thing was that, if our hands happened to brush, or if his knee knocked against mine, it was as if I had touched the stovetop. I would withdraw immediately, and then scold myself, because I feared that my aversion to accidental physical contact would be a clear indicator, to him, of the embarrassing attraction I was enduring. When he spoke to me, he called me kid, which not only shattered the idiotic fantasies I had about him but prevented me from doing anything too stupid. I never knew whether or not I looked forward to or dreaded seeing him.

“You’re a funny kid, Amelia,” he would say. “But your humor can’t save you from this math problem.” And so on. Because of him I started to do better in school, and because of him a lot of the panicking on tests started to go away. Both my mother and I were relieved, chiefly because this meant that, surely, there was nothing really wrong with me, I was just an ordinary fourteen-year-old struggling to adjust to a new academic environment. Or something like that. Steve also offered to start tutoring me for the PSATs, which my mother took him up on. These, too, were sessions I enjoyed. The problems were hard at first, but once I got the hang of them I started to whip through them, and both he and I were confident that I would be ready, come the end of sophomore year–eighteen months away–to dive into the scholastic hell of standardized testing. During these sessions, I made note of his physical attributes. Eyes: green. Hair: light brown. Beard: well-trimmed. Smell: Axe body spray. De rigeur, but what could you do?

I found it strange that I was interested not in the boys at my school but in a man who was far older than me, and who almost certainly had a significant other. But who was she? I was almost entirely preoccupied by this question. I looked at his hands–no wedding ring. No pictures around the house. Even his screensaver was merely the marbled underside of an ocean wave, as green and unfathomable as his eyes were. Yes, I really did have thoughts like this, I’m sorry to say; it was quite uncharacteristic for me. A year before, in fact, I might have ridiculed him, might have dismissed him among my friends as a hairy old man. While secretly wondering, as I’m sure we all did, about his life story, about whether he’d always intended to be a math teacher, or, like many people in L.A., had wanted to be in the music or the film industry and had then found out that it was an unbearable way to try to make a living.

Because of Steven, breathing began to hurt a lot less, and a delightful peace, if not happiness, seemed to come over me then. I don’t have to tell you that this didn’t last long. One day at the end of the tutoring session he went down to talk to my mother in the foyer, as he often did. Restless, I walked to the window overlooking the broad, sun-bleached street, where my mother usually parked her car. I saw him approach her and watched with mild interest as he put his hands in his pockets, almost modestly. There was a springiness to the way he moved, an eagerness that seemed boyish. My mother, shorter than him, lifted her face up to his, and he kissed her. Mom, lovely and dark-haired. Kissing my math tutor. Okay. I tried to ignore the dropping sensation in my stomach, and when they came upstairs to fetch me I pretended to be absorbed in making sure I had everything in my backpack. My mouth was dry, and when he said goodbye my reply came out hoarsely; I had to clear my throat.

“See you soon, Mr. Rylance,” I said.

“You can call me Steven.” I had already decided that I wouldn’t. Not out loud.

“You alright?” my mother asked me, as I slid into the passenger’s seat.

“Yup. Just tired.” She lifted her hand up and touched my cheek so gently that I couldn’t bear to say anything. I didn’t for a while, actually. I was afraid of the terrible thoughts running through my head. An unrealistic, completely childish feeling of betrayal. Stupidity. How could I not have gauged that they were sleeping with one another? At the end of our sessions he almost always sprang out the door to buzz her in, like a boy. See you soon, kid.

I told myself that, after all, my father had been dead for more than three years now, that Mom had a right to it. But I started working out a plan gradually, tried to figure out how I could taper off the lessons without making it apparent that I knew about them. I used the success of my next two math tests as a reason to stop seeing him. I said that I felt confident, that I was prepared to study on my own now–this was true. I also joined the tennis team, which delighted my mother, who thought I was making friends. Incredible, the lengths to which I was going to hide my knowledge. I knew that as soon as she brought it up, I would utter the unforgivable. Her unhappiness had once been a burden to me; now her happiness was. Suddenly I was the negative one, she the ray of sunshine. Things were not as they should have been. Also, she was older than him. By a lot. (Actually, she was forty-four to his thirty-six, but in my fourteen-year-old mind they may as well have been Brigitte and Emmanuel Macron. I realize now that this line of thinking was probably sexist).

When Mom finally did tell me about them, I had to pretend to be surprised. I could tell she was taken aback by how mature I seemed to be about it, and I was proud of my deception. She looked at me differently after that, she trusted me more. Let me learn to drive. Celebrated when I got my permit, then my license. Whenever Steven came over, I made sure I was out of the house. I thought, too, that as long as I avoided seeing him, I could follow the “out of sight, out of mind” maxim that had previously worked for me. Sort of. With thoughts of my friends in New York, with thoughts of my father’s death. In the evenings, I’d drive to the Griffith Observatory or the Getty Museum, two places which continued to utterly charm me, and I’d look out at the huge and sprawling skyline and try not to imagine Mom and Steven having sex. Still, I eventually got used to his presence–for you can, after all, get used to anything–and I became accustomed to his leaving his belongings around our house.

Indeed, I was getting ready to take my shower one morning when I saw that Steven had left his phone on the toilet seat. I picked it up and looked at it–couldn’t help it. He was stupid enough not to put a lock on it, so what did he expect? I stared at the screensaver for a second, and then I pulled up his contacts. Which is when I saw it.

Madeline Gresham. (Wifey).

Madeline Gresham was not my mother. My mother was named Lynn Becker. My brain was so frozen in that moment that I hardly realized when Mom came barging in, when she saw me with his phone. Ready to reproach me for invading someone else’s privacy, she snatched it from my hands, and saw what ought to have been obvious to both of us, saw what I’d secretly hoped for but was now shocked by. Yet when she burst into tears, something turned over inside me, some knot in my chest which I’d been ignoring for months seemed to uncoil. I am ashamed, even now, of my own cruelty.

“What did you expect?” I hissed. “Come on, Mom, he’s practically a–a boy compared to you. Didn’t you think it would come to this?” She slapped me then, something she’d never done before or since. I’m sorry to say that I slapped her back. She shoved me, and I fell back against the toilet, had my arm jammed between the whiteness of the seat and the whiteness of the counter. She started crying, and instead of pitying her tears, instead of rising to the occasion as I should have done–for when had I ever done that? Certainly not when my father was dying; I’d been completely useless–I stormed out of the room.

Mom found out, in short order, that Madeline Gresham was indeed the wife of Steven Rylance. According to him, she traveled a lot for work. They hadn’t been getting along, not in recent months. He was thinking of separating from her. He was in love with my mother, Lynn Becker, not his wife(y). He wanted to be a part of her life. Couldn’t she understand that? My mother, being a moral person, could not. Son of a bitch. Fucking dick. Little shit. I’d never heard her say those things before, and I never did again. In spite of my anger, I was impressed by the ferocity of her emotions, and I felt guilty for underestimating how hard she would take the betrayal. And yet she marched off to work in the mornings, did my mother, ever elegant in her suits, her dark hair perfectly blown dry, her makeup gently applied–elegant and simple, not frosted on like most of the other mothers I saw in Los Angeles. They stopped seeing each other. He called her a lot, for about a month, and when, her mouth flaming with legal jargon–no doubt picked up from her years married to a lawyer, and from her own not inconsiderable knowledge of the law–she threatened to report him to the police for harassment, he stopped.

I was struck, then, by how suddenly helpless my mother appeared to me. At the time, fool that I was, I refused to pity her. I sat in front of her–hard, withholding, cruel–as she told me of her anguish, as her sorrows poured out in front of me. I couldn’t help thinking that I ought to have been in her place: that it was my heart that should have been broken by Steven, in one way or another. If only I’d been ten years older. The acute shame of my crush, I think, prevented me from expressing my own disbelief that he could have done something like that. Instead I was cold, I was dismissive: I hardened myself to her. My behavior astonished both of us. I still regret it. I think must have been angered by the adolescent quality of her love for him, perhaps because, being comparatively young, I had never fallen for anybody. It seemed to me that such schoolgirlish desperation was not befitting of an educated, successful woman like herself. Such childish sorrows ought to have belonged to me. It was I who should have been felled by the indignity of love.

After that disastrous year came to a close, I began to make friends at school–quite suddenly. We listened to records together and pretended to be ironic when we agreed that vinyl really did allow for a better listening experience when it came to music. We bitched freely about Donald Trump, pretending that we didn’t know anyone who’d voted for him, and watched with idle awe as Hollywood mogul after Hollywood mogul was “taken down”, as people said in those days, by sexual abuse allegations. I thought that they made Steven Rylance, the gentlest of philanderers, look like a day at the beach. Some of my friends’ parents knew those men, too. How fallible everybody had suddenly become: I didn’t realize that this was because I was growing up. I thought myself cynical, and behaved as if the scales had really fallen from my eyes. They hadn’t, of course–they wouldn’t, not for some time yet. For I was young and did not understand what it was to be in thrall of a man, to be in love with somebody and then have your existence together jerked from beneath your feet.

Around that time, just as I was settling in, my mother began thinking of moving us back to New York. Partially as compensation for the hell I’d given her the year before, I acquiesced to this. My heart was full at the prospect of returning, and yet when we emptied the apartment out until it was the airy little cube it had been when we first moved in, I felt disturbed. It was the part of change that I hated the most: the physical incongruities, the spatial uncertainty. But I was happy, too: that was undeniable. I didn’t belong in the sunshine, I thought; didn’t belong among people who went to Coachella and believed that non-Californians were living in homespun darkness, who believed that the idea of happiness being marketed to them by movies and music and advertising was a truth that they genuinely deserved. I was, and am still, a snotty New Yorker. On the plane going back home, I didn’t look back at the skyline of L.A. I refused to look at the Sierras, rippling upwards like great brown gouges in the earth; refused to admire the snow-capped Rockies. It wasn’t until Kansas that I realized I was crying.

Rebecca Bihn-Wallace is a studio art major and professional writing minor at the University of California, Davis. She has previously lived in Maryland and North Carolina, and moved to San Francisco with her family when she was fifteen.

To: All Staff

From: Dr. Marlene Tan

Date: September 23

Re: Eleanor Magno

Memo # 18486

Greetings!

I would like to make it clear that Mrs. Eleanor Magno had asked for a lethal dose of Secobarbital since the first day of her confinement. She was adamant about it.

The rumors aren’t true. The hospital didn’t murder anyone. In light of recent events and our sudden popularity in the public eye, I advise everyone to do the ff. things:

• Do not talk to any of the press.
• Avoid talking to other staff in public areas.
• If asked by family or friends, remind them of the new law regarding assisted deaths.
• Do not disclose to anyone what room she was in.
• If you have questions, ask your department head.
• Do not say her name out loud in hospital premises.
• If asked about her ailment, change the topic.
• Do not approach me when you see me.
• When a family member demands to see Mrs. Magno’s records, tell them their mother left specific instructions to ignore them. (If they become violent, direct them to my office.)
• If hit by a protestor’s sign, report it to your department head.
• Do not bring the Ouija boards you find on the main steps inside.
• For the people who were witnesses, do not describe her appearance before and after she died to anyone.
• Remember, she didn’t have any chance of recovery.

Her last words were, I don’t want to talk about dying anymore. I suggest we do the same.

Sincerely,

Austere Rex Gamao is from the Philippines. He has self-published zines of flash fiction and observational cartoons.

Cassandra “Calamity” Simms was a dead woman. Quote unquote. To be sure, she still had her faculties intact. All of them. But she was dead. As a door mouse. Oh yes, she ran every morning before breakfast, laughed at sitcom reruns every evening, at and photographed delicious food (not in that order), and enjoyed all the trivial and mundane activities of a living person in their thirties, with one key difference. Namely: She was not living. She had kicked the big one. Shuffled off the morbid coil. She would sleep to sleep no more, except the recommended eight hours a night if she was lucky.

She discovered she was a dead woman by accident one sleepy, dim, faded brown autumnal evening while sitting beside her laptop in her spacious office cum living room. Someone or other had managed to track down her data mining account of choice and invited her to a high school reunion. Her high school. It was a hastily put together event put together by people she couldn’t remember. It was to be held in a town she fled fourteen years and nine months earlier and was to be attended by people who were long since strangers in her mind. A perfect weekend.

How this revealed her status as a deceased person was she replied to the invitation with the following message:

“Sorry to be the one to tell you this, but Cass Simms will not be able to attend this little soiree on account of the fact she snuffed it this summer. By which she has crossed over to Jordan. To be blunt, she is pushing up lilies and counting worm food. This is her boyfriend by the way. I am very tall and handsome and funny. I won’t be coming to the reunion either due to my never setting foot in that horrible podunk school.”

Of course, this alone was not enough to expose Cassandra’s true position as a member of the dearly departed. Oh no. She truly learned she was no longer with us when the condolences came in. And came in they did, like a flurry of rushed letters to the editor after yet another national tragedy. A blizzard of white noise signifying nothing except that Cassandra “Calamity” Simms was an ex human. And she was flattered.

“Oh no, that’s awful. She was such a bright, funny girl in school. Definitely one of my best friends. Always wished we kept in touch. Such a shame. Is there anything I can do?”

Wrote a woman who once inspired a slight eating disorder in Cass’ formative years. The first of many people pretending their history was something else.

The next was from a man who as a child had few redeemable qualities. Every grade had at least one child bereft of strength or cunning or wit, who nevertheless insinuates themselves into a bully’s inner circle. By all accounts, he was not much different as an adult. He worked as a lobbyist, and for an obituary he wrote:

“Absolutely gutted to here this. We always got on really well at school. I remember me and Cass hanging out at my mother’s house while she made us ice cream. What a loss for us all. I was so looking forward to seeing her at the reunion because of this amazing new opportunity to actualise your dreams.”

And more classmates of old appeared with their own damaged recollections of their time together. Not just from high school but college too. By Monday the following week her inbox was littered with such limpid platitudes as:

“Oh no, Cat-Cat! (NB: never one of Cassandra’s nicknames) What a terrible thing to find out before my trip to Mauritius. One of a kind. One of my best friends growing up. Will be missed. #deadfriend #glowupcosmetics #mauritiusofyouaintus”

“Always had a huge crush on Cass, Cass the Lass with the Ass. We all did. Sorry if that’s not PC enough for some of you, but if she was still around she would approve of this comment.” (She was and did not)

“Another great fire snuffed out too soon while greedy fat old men will live another thirty years before dying and leaving me my inheritance. There is no justice in the world. RIP in piece Cassandra.”

And she assumed that was that. No more reunions ever and a helpful reminder the people she’d spent her life avoiding were insincere revisionists. But her imaginary boyfriend’s letter uncorked something that weekend. Like the part in Genesis where everyone is busy with begatting, people were busy talking about their dead classmate. Whether a reflection of their own mortality and increasing age, or else, like, something really bummy they just heard, the news of Cassandra’s death was greatly exaggerated and repeated at length by a long line of people. By Tuesday’s foggy dusk, her old boyfriends, all five of them, had come for her. Also one man, Dylan, who totally thought they were dating even though they only went for coffee once and he ended up going home with a barista he sort of knew.

Young men with Marxist ideals and Led Zeppelin tattoos, now married middle management, lamented “wasting those few nights (they) had together on meaningless debates when (they) could have been out seeing the world.” One boyfriend, a mistake in human form, wrote a seven page, single spaced poem about their unbroken love “despite the years of grating separation,” neglecting to mention the various betrayals and debts she’d endured thanks to his mawkish attempts to be the next Kurt Cobain.

Yes, the men from her past seemed to ruminate on her passing in ways she did not expect. She had no idea she meant so much to Luke, a man who ghosted her after six months, but who sent private messages seance style to her memory lamenting his cowardice and emotional dwarfism. Where was all this while she was alive? Her last lover left after her thirtieth birthday and she’d grown accustomed to living alone (and dead) forever. Enjoyed it even. Without the expectations of marriage or relationships plaguing her existence, she got a lot more work done and had more time for hobbies. Yet in becoming a dead woman, she remembered how much she missed three of the six, how nice it had been to curl up on couches and have someone to talk to beside the indifferent and swirling void of the internet. In baseball terms, she’d done pretty OK for herself.

Of course, as a dead woman, her concerns weren’t only of old lovers and Dylan. Nor was it how much higher she was in the estimation of her school peers now that she had taken her last bow. By Friday lunch time, an unpaid hour no less, she was ushered into the HR department of her office. It was a cold, unforgiving room, where sexual misconduct allegations were ignored and minor timekeeping offences were punished with the severity of an angry god. Cassandra wasn’t sure why she was there, having never done much of anything beyond the bare minimum, but there she was. The abbatoir of the corporate world. Her manager and an HR rep sat her down.

“We hear you’re dead now,” said the manager.

Cassandra laughed.

“We just wanted to say how much we will miss you now that you’re dead. We really valued your work. You were one of the best employees in your division and we will be setting up a memorial garden in your honour. We will really find it had without you and a psychologist is here if you need to talk about being dead.”

“I’m not really dead.”

“I know this is hard for all of us, but in this difficult time its best to move forward with a clear head and a stiff upper lip. It’s what my dad taught me when he got me this job.”

Cassandra stood up and was about to leave.

“Oh, and Cassandra,” the HR rep said.

“Yes?”

“Please make sure you clock out on time on Monday, we’ve been getting complaints.”

Over the next several weeks at work, people would lament the loss. Praise that was never given while she was alive was handed out like parade candy. People who had never talked to her brought in flowers and cakes and went on meandering speeches about the impact Cassandra had on their wellbeing. It seemed that Cassandra was a far more integral member of the department than she was told while alive. All the commendations and raises and bonuses she could have acquired if people were as open and grateful for her while she was still breathing.

Except of course she was still breathing. She was just dead. Her landlord began showing her apartment. Letters kept showing up from tangentially more obscure associates expressing their remorse and sympathy and loss. Friends would meet her in the street and hug her. The book she tried to self publish when she was going through her bucket list began to sell exceptionally well all things considered; something that would have been very helpful when she was still inspired to pursue such ignoble things as dreams and ambitions. Her data-mining social media accounts of choice, a sad desert of anything real while alive, were now full of both old acquaintances and strangers alike engaged in thoughtful, motivational dialogue. New relationships were formed over Cassandra’s passing. Relatives got over old feuds. A charity she had tried to get funding for in her mid-twenties was set up by old room mates. It was the life she should have been living all along. But she’d wasted it all by being alive. If only she’d known how liberating and empowering death was she would have died much sooner.

On Christmas Eve she visited her mother. Her mother lived alone in a ramshackle townhouse in Lower Manhattan. When she entered, the walls were stripped, mirrors still covered in black towels. And when her mother had ran out of black towels she instead used blue drycloths or oversized burgundy hoodies. Where there should have been a giant and genuine fir tree smothered to death by gold tinsel, there was nothing. Where there should have been a tapestry of photos leading up the stairs to the living room, there was nothing. Her mother must have been cleaning.

She found her mother sat on an old recliner. It had been in storage the last time Cassandra visited. It was mangled and mangy and held together by tape, but her mother couldn’t stand to lose it. While Cassandra was a child, they spent many a night wrapped up in each other on that recliner. Reading stories. This was before Cassandra stopped talking to her mother much. Because. Because why? Time? She couldn’t remember when she’d ran out of time to talk to her own mother, but she had, and she did, and now she was standing over a mournful wraith of her first best friend who sat crying over a black and white photo of a baby and a younger her.

“Cassandra, you’re here?”

“Yeah.”

“I wish you could have come while you were still alive.”

“Well, you know…”

“You were such a happy girl. And then you were such a talented young woman, full of drive and ambition. What happened?”

“I was busy.”

“Busy doing nothing. I know. I was the same. And now you’re dead and I might as well be. It just makes me sad, Sass. You had so much to give and you just sat on a pedestal of isolation and smugness. Did I fail you? Did I let you get hurt? Is that why you gave up?”

“You were the best mother I could have asked for.”

“Then why did you waste your life? I’ve read all these messages you’ve been getting. You had so many friends and people who loved you, and you hid from them. You hid from them and you died and now you’re gone and it’s too late.”

“They’re just saying that stuff online to look good.”

“How do you know? You never bothered to talk to them. Even that man, that man who loved you like no other, you drove him away because you wanted to be safe. It’s my fault. I should have motivated you more. It doesn’t matter any more.”

“Mom, I’m happy. I lived a really good life.”

“Did you?”

“I…” Cassandra stopped. She couldn’t answer. The truth was somewhere along the way she’d stopped caring. Her mother was right. She’d distracted herself and began to see other people as disposable stories for her to tell, and nothing had mattered to her at all. And now she was dead and the people who had been rooting for her all along had come out not out of obligation but because of loss. Or maybe they hadn’t. Maybe it was all posturing. Yes, it was all posturing. Nothing to be learned from it at all. Unless. She needed to walk to a lake or something.

“I’ll miss you, Cassandra. But I’ve missed you for a decade now.”

“Goodbye mother.”

Cassandra made a slow, three day return back to her home and sat down beside her laptop in her living room. Death had reminded her she wanted to be alive. Perhaps for the first time since. Since. Since. She turned to her laptop for the first time in a week and saw a message.

“Oh man. Now Walton Simmons is dead too. Terrible year for all of us. He was the best friend a guy could ask for. See you in the next one, brother.”

She hadn’t spoken to Walton for more than a few minutes while he was alive, but she remembered his goofy smile. His legs too big for his body. His John Cleese gait. He was a nice guy growing up and judging by his profile had gone on to be a good man. Charity work, small business owner, happy family man, dead. Really dead. Not Cassandra dead. Dead dead. Cassandra felt a tear form in her left eye and her fingers found the keyboard.

“So sad to hear this. Walton was always a highlight in any class we had together and I wish we’d have spent more time talking growing up. Sorry for your loss. Seems like he did some amazing things.”

David once walked across the Andes in a leather jacket because his super special Kickstarter hiking jacket didn’t get delivered in time. It was an experience. Other than that, he enjoys ruins, sugar, and Japanese horror films. Follow him @EldritchLake and enjoy one Tweet a month.

I was standing at the upstairs bedroom window staring at the lake, figuring out how to make another day pass, when I saw something floating trapped in the rushes near the shore. It didn’t take me long to realize it was a body, gently bobbing face down with the movement of the waves. I didn’t react other than trying to ignore it, but something about the body drew me to look at it. I kept peering down and wondering whether it was a man or woman, young or old, neighbor or visitor. From the size, I guessed it had to be a full-grown man wearing a muddied white tee-shirt resting in my lake.

The thoughts that go through your head at a time like this–was it just last week an old raccoon was digging for snails two nights in a row? She was by the dock scratching in the mud, one place and then another, a little tipsy at times. I didn’t actually know it was a she until later, when her full useless nipples were clearly visible. After teetering once again, she rested across the bleached wood of the willow that fell into the lake four years ago. The next morning, I went down to the water’s edge to clear some weeds, and there she was with her head turned sideways limply floating near the shore. I suspected some bird or fish would make a pleasant meal out of the old raccoon, so I left her to let nature take its course, which it did in a different way. By the third day, her body was bloated and putting out a more putrid odor than I thought appropriate for my summer home. I decided to scoop her up in my big fishing net and drag her with my motor boat to the deep end of the lake. Funny thing, even with her body puffed up unnaturally, she still had four dainty paws dangling down in the water, dark rings around her eyes and a thick striped tail. That’s when I noticed her teats poking out from her swollen belly. I thumped her with an oar to dump her out of the net and my heavens, you never smelled anything so vile. All that gas distending the raccoon’s body belched out and found my face before I could pull a rag over my mouth and nose.

That’s what I thought about for five minutes, maybe more, while watching the man’s body from my window. I hesitantly picked up my phone to dial the emergency number. Mid-way through the number, I asked myself, “Why hurry, the body won’t be less alive because I waited a few more minutes.” Once someone picked up on the other end, I knew what would happen. The body would no longer be mine. The dead man would belong to the system of laws, autopsies and crying family members, assuming he had some.

Wanting a closer look at my find, I put down the receiver and stepped away from the window. The pine floorboards creaked, reminding me of yet another chore I didn’t get to last summer. But, I couldn’t be too hard on myself because it did end up being our last summer. I walked half-way down the steep hill to the lake and edged crab-like a little further to get a good look. My suspicions were confirmed. It was a man. No swollen nipples on this one and not too old either. His thick brown hair spread like the rays of a halo around his head as his body gently swayed as if a babe in his cradle. I imagined he was probably one of those weekly renters staying in the white clapboard house down at the narrows. Maybe he was the same idiot whose boat ran out of gas in the middle of the lake and, of course, he hadn’t thought to bring any oars to get back to shore. That one was wearing a navy baseball cap, Red Sox if I recall, so I couldn’t be certain they were one and the same. I didn’t have my binoculars with me at the time to get a good look at his face. Around here you need a good pair.

Most days I relax on our screened porch after lunch, sitting in the rocker passing time, watching with my binoculars. Watching the lake for changes. Watching neighbors. I see two or three of these idiots a season. They go out on the water without oars, with lightening in the distance, and can’t tie a knot for nothing. Just last week, I towed in a vintage Old Town canoe. She was a beauty, red canvas and wood construction, fully restored, out in the lake drifting along without a soul in sight. It took half my day to find the owner, a flabby, sweating weekender. He swore, “I had it all secured last night.” I’m sure he thought he did. More likely he had his expensive canoe tied up with a tangle of rope that he called a knot. She probably slipped her moorings before he huffed and puffed up to his air conditioned house.

Two half-hitches. That’s what I always use. I never had a problem holding onto a canoe or my fishing boat. Angela. That was a different story. She slipped away in the spring long before the ice on our lake receded and white trilliums poked through the snow to call us back. She always looked forward to the smell of fresh pine needles shedding their winter dampness. I begged God to let me keep her. Here, beside me. Maybe I should have used a half-hitch.

It’s an easy knot once you get the hang of it. You take the rope in your left hand and make a turn around the post or through the ring on the dock making sure you have enough extra rope for the next step. Bring the end in your hand back over the rope already tied to the boat and back through the loop you made in the same direction. That’s your first half-hitch. Then, you go ahead and tie a second one. Pull that baby tight and your boat isn’t going anywhere.

I learned this knot seventy summers ago, that’s how long I’ve been coming to this lake. I could write a bible about this place, if anyone had an interest anymore. Swimming, boating, fishing, catching tadpoles; I passed on everything I knew to Angela. You learn how to live on the lake from the old ones like me. This guy floating near the shore didn’t know how to live, or he wouldn’t have been face down in my lake.

One of the chores on my list that day, which I didn’t get to, was to drive to the hardware store in town and buy a piece of glass for the downstairs window that cracked over winter. I don’t spend much time downstairs anymore, down there where Angela played the piano. It can get cool some nights at the lake. We used to stoke up the Franklin stove until it got so hot we had to open windows. Angela played on the old spinet we bought right after we married. We sang songs together. Old Broadway tunes. Sometimes a song from the radio. Neighbors from other houses along the lake came over. Adults. Kids. Everybody laughing and singing. We were in the moment, living our lives. Loving.

I decided downstairs could wait. The cracked window wasn’t too bad. Nothing a little tape couldn’t hold for another year. Anyway, I’d worked up an appetite walking down to the water and back.

After an early lunch I settled into my rocker on the porch, binoculars in hand. The body was still there caught in the rushes. My mind drifted back to the old raccoon. You would think a dead animal bobbing in the lake would move on down the shore as it was lifted by ripples hour after long interminable hour. I watched the raccoon after lunch the first day. Actually, it was the first two days. Would you believe, that critter hardly moved an inch, like the rushes were holding it there in its coffin. Waiting.

The phone rang about then. No one ever calls me at the lake any more. I don’t know why I keep the phone, except it’s the same number we had when I was a little tyke. At first it was a three-party line, meaning three houses shared the same one. We had to pick up the receiver to see if Mrs. Norris was still talking. Sometimes we waited an hour for the line to be free. Now it’s just me, so the line’s never busy. I hurried to the phone wondering who thought to call me on a Tuesday afternoon.

“Hi, this is Christy calling Mrs. Jordan about her annual Lake Association donation. Is Angela available?”

I slammed down the receiver. I didn’t mean to be rude. Angela isn’t here this summer. I stared at the quiet phone, in our quiet house, by the quiet lake. We used to love reading books in the rocking chairs on the porch, hoping no one would interrupt our solitude. Now there are too many uninterrupted hours in a day.

By the time the sun was setting behind late afternoon clouds, I convinced myself to give up the body floating in my lake before dark. No need to inconvenience anyone by bringing them out at night. Maybe that’s why Angela slipped away before noon. She never wanted to be a bother to anyone. If she had waited, I would have held her one more time. Her soft, warm body was never a bother. Not to me.

Once again, I picked up the phone to dial the emergency number. Remembering. I brushed away the wetness from my eyes. Enough. Tears never helped anything.

Hesitating before each digit, I dialed the complete number, knowing they would take away the body. Away from me. Like before.

Deni Dickler writes short stories and poetry. She was published in “Ripples in Space” and her poems are displayed at Cathedral of the Pines. She is an editor of “Smoky Quartz Online Journal”, judged for the Poetry Society of Vermont, and founded the Rindge Writers Group. Deni lives in Rindge, NH with her husband and four-legged companion, Willy Waggins.

Benches

Cold as ice in the deep of a winter night
concrete and rebar make up the cozy bed
to lovers in search of a forgotten home.

Shining with the showers of a breezy March
metal as lace impossible for a brief rest
with only memories of a dying Valentine.

Into antique days of primal artists
as if the flesh of naked Adam and Eve alone
marbled by the weary stance at battle.

Knight for his lady under the heavy shade
in a fortress of century oaks he builds a shack
armor to silk tunic to travel to Avalon as one.

Now among the fields of red clay and fashioned greens
molded by the white safety of science, they melt
in the heat of August abandoned for the false safety of distance.

Resting upon the clouds of heaven ancestors ponder
lines of Sappho, Petrarch and William with a sigh
for the moments too ephemeral vanished into eternity.

What has happened to the gentle locus they sought
makeshift benches, masterpieces molded by fiery passions
it is time to leave the tower filled with the sorrows of winter.

Crimson blade

Must the blade be of crimson shades
For the lady to feel safe in the cold tower?

Should the steed be of noble white
To find his way home to the gentle squire’s?

Will the magicians of the deep forest
Stay put in their dens while waiting for their dwarves.

Why is the quest for adventure to the death
When one must remain to mend so many scars.

What will the maiden find beneath the armor
But a hollow chest abandoned of the lion’s heart!

Can the blade not keep its pristine spark
For the kingdom to be the safe heaven she sought?

Fabrice Poussin teaches French and English at Shorter University. Author of novels and poetry, his work has appeared in Kestrel, Symposium, The Chimes, and many other magazines. His photography has been published in The Front Porch Review, the San Pedro River Review as well as other publications.

Grandma died. This was a number of years ago, and she’d achieved one hundred of them herself, so I’m not searching for sympathy. I was not Grandma’s favorite.

I was my already-dead Grandpa’s favorite. He spoke nonsense, I laughed; that was the foundation of it. But Grandma didn’t deal that way. Her love was a cliff face, undeniably large but unapproachable and unchanging. Anyway, Katherine was her favorite.

When Grandma died her estate was divided between the four children and ten grandchildren. Her last-will-and-testament was only about the money, and the things that could be turned into money, but there was a lifetime’s accrual of stuff – the accurate word for it – that had to be dealt with. And among this stuff was a thing that had been left to me: an elephant’s foot.

The actual foot of an actual elephant.

It wasn’t left officially. Never one to employ euphemism, Grandma would tell me: “You can have that when I die.” This made it more binding than anything witnessed by a lawyer. Grandma’s own wish! And, understandably, none of my cousins argued.

So: an elephant’s foot. How could any child resist the complete fascination? It was short and squat, about my height from the first time I remember it, grey and wrinkled of course. It was stitched together at the back, very poorly and loosely, as if the elephant had unlaced it, slipped it off, and put on a larger, more comfortable one. At the front were the big elephant toenails you always see. On top was a wooden cover. Inside was Grandma’s knitting.

There’s an angry elephant wandering around the Congo with only three feet, my Grandpa would tell me, speaking nonsense.

I’d never seen a complete elephant, still haven’t outside a zoo. So here was this foot, one part of a larger something that only appeared in my storybooks. And I could touch it! Have you ever touched an elephant’s foot? It feels like you imagine. Then years began passing and shading in the steps that led to the actual foot of an actual elephant standing in the corner of my Grandma’s house in Wales. None of those steps was good, for humans or elephants.

The real origin, though I never remember hearing it directly, was that it was a gift when missionary friends returned from some years in Africa. “Africa” was amorphous and exotic in the minds of all British people then. Still, mostly. It was full of dangerous tribes and wild animals that needed no protection, because they were dangerous and wild. I presume these missionaries did not hunt the beast themselves, but maybe they did. Maybe they returned with a whole elephant, distributing it among their nearest and dearest.

With Grandma’s death, this elephant’s foot belonged to me. I collected it from the cold and unlit house, and returned the keys to my aunt on her farm down the road.

I was living in the United States now. How does one go about carrying an elephant’s foot from Wales to the USA? It wasn’t a question I wanted to ask. Instead I asked my brother-in-law if I could keep it in his attic. I didn’t give him the opportunity to say no.

Then, very recently, the President of the USA, in a week between avoiding porn stars and meeting dictators, quietly and with no publicity decided to allow big game trophy imports from overseas. His son likes hunting, you see.

A path was suddenly opened for my elephant’s foot, my connection to my Grandma, her love and my childhood! My brother-in-law wanted his storage space back too; no one likes having someone else’s elephant’s foot on their hands.

This is where I am now, and no decision has been taken.

I want to suggest that it is all a metaphor, for original sin or something, but for me a metaphor needs to be a whole lot more metaphorical than the actual foot of an actual elephant, home decor from an era of barbaric plunder so bad that we ignore it. See? Now it’s original sin and colonialism. What would you do if your grandparents gave you an elephant’s foot? Only bring it out when they visit? Store your knitting in it?

Justice has progressed to punishing the crimes of yesteryear by today’s standards, as it always does. All well and good, but that’s never come with personal repercussions, with material remains, like a civil war statue in your yard. Did I ask for this elephant’s foot? Of course I did, with the fervor and fascination of a child. Did my grandparents? No, but in post-World War Two Britain it was hard to turn away an elephant’s foot. Am I asking for it now? Of course not, but it’s too late, like every dying wish.

I suppose I might trace it back to its country of origin and return it, which would end in failure but be ointment for my guilt: I tried. Perhaps give it to the local museum, which seems happy displaying stuffed rhinos, giraffes, and other Victoriana. Is there a tax deduction for gifted elephant’s feet?

Maybe I should bury it, employ some spiritual-ish person to commend the elephant’s soul. My Grandma could meet it in heaven and answer some of its questions. Or cremation, relinquish to ash my problems and this vestige of my grandmother, and convince myself that it’s the memories of her that are most special. “You can have that when I die”.

Why not own it? There it is, daring you to comment when you visit. Yes, that’s my elephant’s foot. Problem? I keep my knitting in it. Then explain everything, and nervously check it can’t be seen from the street. Who drives around looking for elephant’s foot owners to persecute? Someone, I’m sure.

But really, doesn’t every family possess their own elephant’s foot? Figuratively, I mean. Maybe some do have skeletons in their closets. Literally, I mean. Probably not, but I could convince myself that other people are less honest than me, and just don’t talk about such things.

If I had to guess, I’d say the foot will be left in my brother-in-law’s attic, taking up space in his conscience, waiting for his daughter to deal with when I pass away and (officially, this time) leave it to her. A problem evaded by blaming a generation before me and gifting it to one after.

No. Admission of responsibility is the first step, a step that I can take for an elephant that can’t. I just have no idea what the next step is. Until then, I remain the sole owner of an elephant’s foot.

The actual foot of an actual elephant.

David Davies is the member of a large Welsh family with plenty of legends, including this one about a grisly heirloom left by Grandma. What to do with a grisly heirloom but write about it?