Luminița Zaharia - a revelation of the modern literature by Eliza Roha Honestly speaking, “The Acronyms of Pascal”, short stories (Semne Publishing, Bucharest, 2015) written by Luminiţa Zaharia is a real revelation for the reader, out of range, of the common, an intelligent playing with ideas, words and meanings. An alert prose, juvenile, where irony, self-irony are at home, getting less wild until they reach into deep, disappointing thoughts regarding life and human nature, told with humor, in such a way that you can’t be upset, only take heed. Because, beyond all that, we find a very generous soul and a superior optimism, Pascal is, after all, only a masculine image in the mirror of a delicate and discrete feminine nature, as the author herself tells us: “This is my composition about Pascal, and if he will ever read it one day, I hope he sends me at least a postcard, not to thank me – oh, my God, no! – just with a good thought, a smiling thought, an erratic one, a silly one, even an amused thought!” (page 37). A LITTLE BIT OF GREEN (part of “The Acronyms of Pascal”, short stories - Semne Publishing, Bucharest, 2015) translated by Alina Astãluş Turnaround elevator Hikari felt a strange attraction towards elevators, and even though she was a sporty spirit, every time she had the opportunity she would get into one, just for a short ride into the unknown. It never happed that the elevator would get stuck, run out of air, light, crowding and loneliness in the elevator never bothered her. No man had ever hit on her, nobody had ever looked at her shady or with implied hate. It could be considered that, deep inside, she was expecting a great happening, and that was why she didn’t fight the impulse. But no, Hikari just loved the closed box, with her smooth vertical movement, she felt it protected her from the rest of the world, that it offers her, just for a few moments, the opportunity to be with herself, with her thoughts, it was the perfect setting for revealing introspection, it was like a break between two classes at school – she even liked the sounds the elevator made starting and stopping, like a bell that awoke her from dreaming for a second, just enough for her not to fall in the melancholy barrel completely, just enough for her not to forget that outside not all is lost. It felt like she was about to fall asleep and somebody would just put their hand gently on her shoulder, namely to remain at the sweet border between awakening and sleep, between real and imaginary. She didn’t look at the bright panel which listed the floors, she would play at guessing, I wonder at what cloud level am I now, I wonder how high did I fly? She didn’t look at herself in the mirror either, how could she look for herself in the outside? She kept her eyes closed, sniffing, savoring the height. In that Thursday she really crossed the line: the radioprotection course was being held on the first floor, her class mates were taking the stairs, only her, the girl they admired for her figure and muscle tone, was taking the elevator, to everyone’s surprise. Of course, it wasn’t fair to look like that, while being so lazy! The elevator starts, Hikari knows that a pit in her stomach will follow, inherently. A man runs to catch it, Hikari tries to block the doors – too late, the doors close, nervously, her left hand pinky is lightly crushed. It hurts. She tries to see the glass full: At least it’s not the ring finger! And she laughs alone, through tears. The pit in her stomach seems more violent than usual, or maybe the pain receptors are set to maximum sensitivity today, who knows! The elevator doesn’t stop, the bell doesn’t ring. She can’t tell if she’s going up or going down, it feels like time stood still. Same as her heart. Her pinky has started to bruise, she feels, for the first time, the need to crouch in a corner and call for help. Just now the face of the man she glanced for a nanosecond forms on her retina. Her hearts restarts, like crazy. She feels a laceration unlike anything else, as if she had abandoned a child in the desert. She feels guilt, she feels an unbearable lose. Salvation, the bell rings. Somebody called the elevator at the ground floor. The doors open, Hikari takes a step back, unconsciously. The space created becomes a metaphor of waiting. The man stands dumbfounded, amazed, he looks at her with gratitude, as if to say What, you came back for me? and Hikari hears herself say Yes! He wakes up, and hurriedly, he catches both doors with determination, so that no more disasters can occur. Hikari smiles without her knowing and feels all her energy slip away somewhere, in the undergrounds of the planet. They had five seconds all to themselves, five second when neither understood what was happening, but know, together, that something was decided in the stars. Can you fall in love in a nanosecond, almost unseen? And, after this prolog, reach the climax in a few moments, feeling that a lifetime has actually passed? Not even ephemerides live like this, on fast-fast forward, they at least have the chance of an illumination! Did they saw each other? Did they touch? Did they say a word? Did they breathe? Full darkness! Just somewhere in the stars, the moment was recorded, the dice cast. Periphery vision The first two hours of class have ended, everybody goes down to the terrace, for coffee. Hikari lets her feet take her, without being away of her steps, fully disengaged from her own body, dematerialized, as if her often elevator rides have made her a floating being, a confused angel, anyway, a being over which gravity has no power. A seer once told her that in another life she was a fairy. And that was how she felt, a flying fairy, light as a feather, who had only one idea in her head, to find the man from the elevator, take his hand, and, with a kiss, certainly magic, turn him also into a fairy – and they would both fly on the rooftop of the world, on the edge of the rainbow, anyway, to the land of never-ending tales. I actually believe that tales are lying to us a little, it seems fairies cannot move freely, their neck is stuck, their eyes fixed in one direction, so they can only see with their periphery vision…. Dur dur d’être un ange…thought Hikari. Her sense of humor always saved her from moments of extreme dramatism. But even so, if angels and fairies would be different than in tales – ugly, deformed, deaf-mute, with sores and horrible diseases, she would have still paid the price, for floating she would have accepted anything. On the terrace, there is a bustle, people gather in larger or smaller groups, according to gender, liking, interests. Some take photos near a billboard, other exchange business cards, a busboy walked amongst them with a tray from which the smell of coffee rises invitingly. Hikari quickly takes a cup and retreats to a corner of the terrace, behind a pole. She doesn’t feel like socializing, to comment on the course from which she understood nothing, or ask, formally, people about health. She didn’t find Him in the crowd and asks herself if maybe it’s for the better. The building’s revolving doors turn but Hikari can’t turn, petrified as she is in her new fairy body. All she manages to do is to lean against the pole, otherwise she would collapse. Her heart stopped again, maybe she should see a doctor, she thinks without much conviction. It’s somewhat of a complacency conversation with her own brain – still a form of dissimulation, the self-spoken blah blah – rather than talk with strange people about boring things, better to tell yourself, for instance: it’s raining outside, to smother the true thought: I’m in love, or what should I cook today? instead of what will become of my life? She knows instinctively, who left through the door, without having to see him. She understands the phrase “love is blind” now and tries a corollary, which should, in theory, amuse her, momentarily save her: “If love is blind, it means the other sense are sharper miraculously. As everything you sharpen becomes edgy, it means that love is lethal. If love is lethal, what am I doing here?” But she doesn’t feel like laughing at all, hides her face in the coffee’s steam, absorbs it greedily, so it doesn’t reveal her hiding in it – because, isn’t it so, who has ever seen a steamy pole?! She could, even so, blind and almost fainting, perfectly remake down to the millimeters, His route. She knows he sat, like a bewildered child, on the sidewalk, not caring if he dirtied his pants. His flax shirt, eggshell color, fits perfectly with the flavor of the coffee, Julius Meinl, originally from Austria, which “inspires poets since 1862”, as the slogan goes – and Hikari can almost hear Elvis singing Just a little bit of green… He drinks his coffee and watches the clouds, with enviable wonder. Only children can look that way. In His honor, the clouds tale unimaginable shapes, ever changing. In this way, the amazon queen clouds slides sheepishly into the matchbox girl, then in Cinderella, then into a simple girl from a foreign country, and He suddenly feels the need to visits this country, with the girl as his guide. When the cloud changes shape again, into a sort of map of Canada, something like that, the smile suddenly drops. A poor cloud and the smile. He doesn’t talk to anybody either, although He does not have an air of shyness, loneliness. Hikari feels all these, but she had given up trying to decipher them. She manages a 90 degrees turn, now she leans on the pole only with her left shoulder. Periphery vision doesn’t help much, it’s just a pretext to hang on, still, to normality, to appearances. How to say: I’m blind but I can see him?
She doesn’t know how He fakes normality, what methods he uses. Maybe he doesn’t need it – whoever sees him, sees him, whoever not… But Hikari knows he can only be seen by her. A clear sign: his green laser glance reaches, first in straight line, to the pole (and she doesn’t even care that it will melt, that it will crash on top of her!), then it circles around, evading every know law of physics. It reaches her, it investigates her, it appropriates her forever. Now she’s sure: He is also a fairy. Imaginarium The scene moves in time, the place stays the same. We don’t know how many days have passed, months, years, nothing betrayed the change. The building has the same modern air about it, the courses are still taking place on the first floor, the elevator was in capital revision, tulips still eternally in bloom, in crystal vases, in each room. At the bar, the same fat mustachio waiter, dutiful and well natured. The smell of coffee tied together memories better than the scenery, hence resulting that one should never trust in fixed objects, in their state of solid aggregation, on the ground. The ties memories do not endure slavery, they explode all on their own. Hikari feels them smell her, whispering around her, in a witches’ dance and doesn’t know how to defend herself. She cannot guess their intentions, her telepathy doesn’t work here. An elder professor hails her ceremoniously, congratulates her on her big mark on the license exam, and asks her if she found a corresponding job. She stares at him in amazement, as if an occult force plunged her into the future and mumbles something formal, she doesn’t remember what. She calls the elevator. The elevator comes, invites her inside. Her feet take the leap, while her heart has stopped. As usually, she doesn’t push any buttons, she lets herself be taken. She hears a metal voice, vaguely feminine: What floor do you want to go? Will you look at this technology how it evolves, almost suddenly. She doesn’t reply, it seems stupid to talk to a robot. The voice repeats the question. So, she won’t get away! A little irritated, Hikari says: To the land of fairies, as if the robot understands jokes! The pit in the stomach. The dizziness of taking off. It seems like the elevator is faster now, or maybe the technical revision is to blame. Or her weightlessness. Hikari, the girl without a body. She feels His presence, that unmistaken magnetism, the shape of His occupied air, back then. Maybe a hundreds of people have taken the elevator since then, but nobody and nothing managed to change his allotted space, his enchanted space. To distort his shape. She feels his aroma of child on the beach, the green of his eyes engulfs her unexpectedly. She hugs him, with reckless courage. She understands that nothing is lost. She caresses his lower jowl, his left clavicle, his youthful bicep, his irresolute knee cap towards maturity. He is not too tall, if she stands on her toes, she could even kiss him. She traces his profile with her pinky, almost healed now – and is certain that no, she didn’t imagine him. It’s Him, as she foresaw him, as she dreamt him, as she saw him. As she waited for him for a lifetime. She runs out of air, knows that will pass out. As a sign, the elevator doors open. This floor didn’t seem to exist before, she remember nothing of the scenery. A welcome sign. Instead of the traditional tulips, multicolored freesias with a maddening perfume, everywhere. Live freesias, let us be clear, in pots, on alleyways. Not in vases, not in buttonholes. Directional signs: To fairygondola; To Lost Fairy restaurant; The Miracol Tavern; Little Dwarf Café; Spiritual Fairy Café. It amuses her, it bewilders her. She stars towards the café, she would give anything for a good coffee. It’s like she arrived in munchkin land, everything is lilliputian here, the tables, the chairs, the silverware. She almost hits her head on the ceiling. Nobody is sight. To get used to it, she thinks, they want to take me slow, so I don’t have a shock. Of course, it’s a prank, but she can’t figure out who the author is. Her classmates? They wouldn’t have this much imagination! The owners of the institution? Not even! Of course, it could only be Him, but she didn’t dare hope. He left for his planet, he would need two hundred earth years to come back. The bartender finally arrives. It’s an actual fairy, no person could disguise himself this way! Small, ugly, but cute, dress like in a fairytale! “What will the young lady have?” he asks with a smile, in a high pitched voice. “A… coffee…” It seems like she spoke in her own mind – but no, the coffee appears. Its steam and aroma are so familiar! As if she were reliving a moment passed, only the setting is different, if this matters at all. She sips from the magic potion – and the taste is the same, as back then! A sweet warmth engulfs her, a dizziness, as surrounding a great happening. The things around her start to grow, the tables now are normal size, the chairs as well. The coffee cup seems enormous, but she drinks it, greedily, until the last drop. The bartender looks at her curiously and laughs: “Now you’re talking! I recognize you, you are Petite Lumière, welcome back.” To her left, a mirror. She tries to turn, to look, but she can’t, she feels her neck stiff. She turned with her whole body and the movement saps her energy. The mirror shows her a weird midget, which has nothing of Hikari – maybe just the intense look, a little sad. Green hair, disheveled, two small plump hands, each with four fingers, also plump. She investigates her left hand – her pinky, caught in the elevator’s door, is where it belongs (a little bruised, but it doesn’t hurt). Just the ring finger is missing, from both hands. Her body, a funny little ball, covered with a sack like dress, orange color. A crazy laugh seizes her, then crying, then a laugh-cry with hiccups. She collapses exhausted on a chair. The bartender drizzles some water on her, pulls her left ear, as if it wasn’t sharp enough already! Hikari, or Petite Lumière, whatever, returns to her senses. The bar is filled with small and noisy beings, it’s a delight to watch them. They all bring her welcoming gifts: a fairy who looks remarkable like Alabaster Snowball, from a children’s book, The fairies of Santa Clause, gives her a pot with a green freesia. She never saw green freesias before! A funny she fairy come with a stuffed teddy bear. A waggish old man, with a scooter. And they keep coming! How is she going to take all those presents with her?! She glances at the clock on the wall, shaped like a fairy. Five hours have already passed, and she’s still there, it means she isn’t dreaming, everything is as real as possible! Suddenly, the ground shakes. She doesn’t know if that thought, towards her world, or outside forces caused the quake, but it seems damn real as well! The fairies run everywhere. The bartender shouts: Run, hide, it’s the dinosaur Martone, the dread of fairies! It swallows everything it catches! She runs foolishly, with no compass, no instinct. She only managed to take the freesia. Her heart beats chaotically, her plum legs stumble. As if as a sign, a door opens. She throws herself without thinking. She’s in the elevator, her elevator, their elevator. The doors starts to close: a panicked fairy runs towards her. Hikari tried to block it – too late, the door closes nervously and it traps her left hand pinky. It hurts. In her right hand, the green freesia, intact, beautiful, trembles slightly, as if blaming her. It smells stunningly of coffee and child skin on the beach, underneath a sun from a different time.
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Damien Krsteski writes science fiction and develops software. His stories have appeared in Plasma Frequency, Flapperhouse, Kzine, Bastion, Devilfish Review, Mad Scientist Journal, Every Day Fiction, and others. He can be found athttp://monochromewish.blogspot.com and @monochromewish. The Scramble by Damien Krsteski Leslie, age 6 (entry #845): Terrence puts another cube on the pile of toys. The tower sways, then falls and there are toys all over the carpet. I show him my crayons. “Want to draw?” “No,” he says. I take a piece of paper from under my bed and start drawing his face on it. It's a funny face, with big, round eyes. I don't have green so I make them blue. Searching for more paper, he pulls out an old drawing of mine. Circles and squiggles and pencil holes. My face goes all hot and red when he shows it to me. “Give me that.” I take it, tear it in half. He doesn't say it, but I know he's glad the drawing is gone. “You hate it too?” he says, his fingers digging in the carpet. Scramble – that's what Daddy calls it. Like eggs for breakfast. “I don't know.” I shrug. “I just want it to go away.” He hugs me. “Me too,” he says. Marion, age 9 (entry #1530): Today in school they're giving us the Diary. A brown powder that looks like what's all over the kitchen when Mom makes cookies. Dominique, who's usually very quiet in class, refuses to smell it in because her parents said they're giving us little bugs just like the Scramble and that it's only going to get worse. Some of my friends then get scared and refuse too but Mrs. Simmons calls this older doctor to come and he convinces us that what they're giving us is nothing like the Scramble, not even a little bit. He explains that they give us the first part of the Diary when we're too young to remember, and that this is the second part, which is supposed to improve it very much. He says now we'll learn to remember everything as it is. Jody sneezes into her powder and blushes and covers her face with her hair and starts crying. Everyone laughs. Kerry, age 13 (entry #3704): At the Arcade with a bunch of friends, I'm killing at air hockey, when suddenly someone taps my shoulder. I turn around and feel this gigantic rush of emotion sweeping all over my body, and guess who's standing there, smiling like stupid? They'd moved so we haven't spoken in ages, but we've known each other since we were kids. His name is Bobby now. I turn to my friends to introduce him, but they're just eyeballing him up and down, arms crossed. He asks about me, about my parents, what I've been up to, and I tell him I'm fine, we're all fine. He touches my bracelet, exchanging contact information. We say bye and my friends just don't shut up about how stupid I looked and how Kerry loves Bobby, Kerry loves Bobby but I don't pay them any attention and just keep scoring goals. On my way home, Bobby calls me. We stroll around, catching up, end up holding hands. Standing right next to this wooden bridge that's arcing like a cat's back he turns around and goes in for a kiss. I close my eyes and just as it's about to happen this light breeze carries the little shitheads and we scramble and all changes. I open my eyes, push him away. I don't like him anymore. He's disgusting and pathetic so I storm out of there like the brave girl I'd become, just then, by way of the breeze. At home, I pull the bed covers over my head, put A Shitty Life's latest album on. I erase Bobby's contact info from my bracelet. I feel worse than when Professor Victors caught me whispering the answers to Jaime in biotech class, and I think I know why. It's not what happened, but what I am now. My mind's scrambled into a sad person's mind and that's that. So I'll just hate the Scramble for the time being, wait for it to come again and change me for the better. Sydney, age 17 (entry #4995): “Are you sure you don't want to be a lawyer?” “I might become one, eventually, but not now.” “It's just you were really good at arguing.” Mom laughs. “No, you were a pushover.” She's made my favorite dessert, chocolate chip cookies. Now she's pouring me a second glass of milk. “Mom, I see what you're doing, but I'm sticking to my choice.” “It's a dangerous field.” “Oh, God, we've been though this over and over, Mom. Technology will solve our problems–” “Look at what it's brought us.” She used to be scientifically-inclined herself, a few scrambles back, but then I was too young and very much into hardcore punk to care about anything. Mom and I always seem to change in phase with one another, meaning we never get along, unfortunately. “I'm going in September.” She smirks. “You know you'll change your mind. Your precious technology will see to it.” I stand up to leave but she's quicker. As she's walking out the door, she says, “Wash the dishes.” Lynn, age 19 (entry #5771): Early morning, in the bus, on my way to the Nanotechnology 1 final, we have our first Scramble in three weeks. A shock wave spreads, a perfectly normal middle-aged lady sitting next to me faints, and when she comes to, she starts yelling something about Nordic Ice-monsters. Instinctively I peer into my mental self trying to gauge the level of change, and first thought springing to mind is that now my name is Lynn. Oh, oh. Bad sign from the get-go. An extensive divergence. The bus drops me off on campus, and hands in pockets I walk over to the classroom, all the while probing the depths of this new personality, trying to discover my new self. And then it hits me. I think what I'm studying is boring, tedious work, which will never bear fruit. I find myself going to a place I abhor. Each step forward takes considerable effort. The counteracting system that's in me these past fifteen years starts to act – my Diary recites bits it considers helpful at the moment – and tries to reconcile the two mutually-exclusive beings: who I was minutes before and who I am now. It doesn't stop the Scramble, just kindly reminds you of your past. So I linger a bit in the cold marble hallway, and ask myself if I want to go inside. The new me wants to take me to a bar, then dancing, then maybe on a walk in the rain. It's so alluring. Closing my eyes I can almost taste the wine and hear the music, but then I take a deep breath, focus on that grainy image of my former self, and walk into the classroom. I ace the exam. Robbie, age 21 (entry #7002): “Which of the three is considered to be bug type zero?” Aubrey holds up the textbook's screen, revealing a triptych. I point to the middle picture – a nasty first-generation nanobot, capable of swift replication and self-modification. “Correct,” he says. “And the other two?” I squint at the nanomachines. “Left-side: the Alexander Kropotov prototype, considered the first viable weapon against the nanobots. Right-side: the bots from the EU firewall, no longer in use.” “Good.” He smiles. “What happened to the Kropotov cells?” “Obsolete. The nanobots adapted.” “How so?” “Pattern 1-1-2. One quarter of existing bots diverges from the original design by a small margin, another quarter does the same albeit down a different evolutionary branch, and two quarters of the bots fight the antidote.” “Wow.” He looks up. “Word for word.” “Shut up. Next question.” I'm lying on my bed, hands behind my head, staring at the ceiling. Aubrey, propped against the footboard, flicks through the textbook. “How's about some neuroscience?” “Hit me.” The swooshing sound of text being shuffled around on the touchscreen. “Aha,” he says, stopping his finger at a question. “How do nanobots manipulate neurons? Describe the process.” “Trick question. Neurons aren't their prime target but rather glial cells, namely astrocytes. We understand only a fraction of their modus operandi: just the part where they increase levels of Calcium, tricking the astrocytes to influence neural brain matter.” In a monotonous voice, I add the big disclaimer of our field: “Naturally, every researcher that's gotten close to explaining how the Nanopest works has become an immediate subject of a nanobot attack, wiping his brain clean of the acquired information.” Aubrey puts the textbook down, turns to look at me. “Do you think the same will happen to us?” The flaking ceiling's not holding any useful information but that doesn't prevent my scrutinizing gaze. “Undoubtedly,” I say. “Well, what's the point in all this then? Why are we studying if there's zero chance of us ever discovering the ultimate truth?” There's quiet for a moment, then I say, “Because right now that's who we are.” Dorotea, Age 24 (entry #8103): My parents aren't at my graduation ceremony, but that's no surprise. A few years back they finally got a divorce and now Dad lives with his girlfriend in some godforsaken backwater, off the grid and off the net, head wrapped in tin-foil. Mom's blaming technology and science for his paranoid behavior so she wants little to do with me now. Aubrey isn't here either. He graduated last year and is now in Europe, working with famous mathematicians. I’ve sent him emails and even a few Diary fragments but he hasn’t replied. Too busy, I guess. The Dean calls out my name. I go up on the dais. Dorotea, Age 25 (entry #8233): A ghostly carousel of numbers and symbols smack in the middle of my unkempt room. Swirling, responding to my every hand gesture. I jab my elbow at an illuminated pile of digits and they spring to life, rearranging themselves. Data-mining. My mentor, Professor Greenstalk, burdened me with our entire nation's neurophysiological lab data, and I'm regrouping it into easily digestible chunks before they feed it to the computers at the Uni. Dirty work. A cluster of numbers pertaining to myelin sheath transport speeds as effected by the nanobots. I reach out, hold them in my left hand for a moment, then clump them together with a set of data on oligodendrocyte degeneration. A flash resembling stellar phenomena as the data sorts itself. Out the corner of my room comes another, very non-cosmic blue flash. A new message. I move away from the number ballerina and walk over to my terminal. Professor Greenstalk. “Important: I need you at the lab tomorrow morning. Early.” I crawl back to the data carousel and give it another spin. Dorotea, Age 25 (entry #8234): In the lab, I see Professor Greenstalk has already set up the equipment. “Hi, Dorotea.” She hands me a velvet, sensor-laden glove. “Morning, Professor.” I nod, put it on. We face two translucent screens with blooming bouquets of multicolored straws. Connectomes. “Take a look at this.” She makes a hand gesture and we zoom in on the scan. Two separate images are superimposed – a before/after shot of a nanobot-affected brain. A pulling gesture with her free hand and a bunch of paused newsreels appear. She clicks Play. A beautiful news anchor speaks of a gruesome triple murder, of a seemingly ordinary young student shooting an entire family dead the previous night. He might have killed more, she says, if the police hadn't professionally intervened. A still photo of the smiling student pops up next to the video of a distressed witness' testimony. Professor Greenstalk pauses it. “And thanks to the very professional response of the policemen, we have these scans.” She smiles. “They only shot him in the chest.” I suppress my disgust, manage a nod. “This,” she says, flicking back to the original scan, “is his connectome from two months ago. And this one's post-mortem.” The second image. “Notice anything?” Despite my repulsion, it's clear what she's alluding to. The change is minimal at best. “Not a nanobot attack?” “Oh, it very much is. People around him were equally affected. Though no one else pulled out a gun.” “Then it was a minor attack.” “Not according to witnesses.” But small scrambles couldn't turn normal people into killers, could they? “What then?” “I don't know.” Her smile widens. “But this ought to clarify things.” She hands me a stack of papers. “Skim through the legalese and sign here, and here.” “What's this?” I weigh them up. “Police formality.” She scuttles about the lab, turning machines on. “Police?” She stops, looks at me, smiling. “We got Diary access. Brace yourself to experience a truckload of memory.” My heart sinks. “I'm not comfortable with reliving murder.” “You don't have much choice.” “Can't we put it up on the monitors?” Shaking her head. “Someone needs to think his thoughts. I need to observe his connectome as it changes.” No use protesting. The academic chain of command is to be obeyed at all times. “All right,” I say. “Let's link up equipment.” Once we do so, I become a murderer. It's not evident to me. Not at first. People around me moving, talking. Colors. So surprising how colorful the world can seem after a long period of moping, of depressing darkness. Like soaring out of the water depths and finally taking a huge breath, not caring about anything else except that you're alive, and oh how good it feels to be alive. The mall becomes the epicenter of the universe, its shoppers bustling about like comets, escalators ferrying them from the dimension of men's wear to the multiverse of the food court. I take measured steps, observing, paying attention to the slightest detail. A mother buying candy for her son, jerking the red balloon tied to her wrist up and down as she takes out her wallet. A young couple eating corn dogs, walking in step. A family, passing by these lights, these shiny festering neon lights, their daughter pointing that way, mesmerized. I hurry in their direction, about to warn them of the danger of the Arcade. Hands in pockets. A touch of something cold, heavy. There they are, a few meters away, entering neon pinball hell. I pull out my gun, aim first at the father, pull the trigger. A spray of blood over their faces. I laugh, knowing I've saved him. The mother's and daughter's screams are cut short by two precise shots. They slump to the ground, silenced, and saved. The fragment ends here, the police response cut out for legal reasons. As the memory fades I go from maddened glee to absolute disgust. Professor Greenstalk's face comes awfully close to mine. “Well?” she says. I push her aside, sprint to the bathroom. I throw up. When I get back I briefly recount the event to Professor Greenstalk, then excuse myself and head home. I spend the day in bed, mind blank. Dorotea, Age 25 (entry #8235): “How many entries do we have?” Professor Greenstalk flicks through the holograms hovering before her. “Currently around eight thousand, which is almost everything.” “Where do I begin?” She rummages through the virtual dossier, picks out a folder at random, one close to the event, and hands it to me. My glove automatically transfers the data to my cortex’s nanotechnology. I relive entry after entry. The day he bought the gun. A rainy afternoon of backyard bottle shooting. A night out with his cousin. Then we go further back and I relive days when his drunken father gives him, or his mother, a beating. His first kiss. His last lay (several nights prior to the shooting). Towards the end of the day – and his memory stream – I emerge exhausted. “Did you feel crazy?” I shake my head. “Did you know you were going to commit murder?” “No.” “Did you plan using the gun on people?” “No.” “Any deviant thoughts?” “No.” Several questions later she leaves, flummoxed, and probably a bit dissapointed. I stay until later, filling up police forms, though I suspect to no avail thanks to the murderer’s uneventful memory log. On the other hand, I feel relieved at not having experienced anything traumatic, despite it having a negative effect on our research. On my way home, resting my head on the car’s window while its headlights scour the dark road ahead, I hear a fuzzy voice speaking of the murder in the background. I turn up the volume on the cab’s touchscreen. “Sources claim top neurological researchers are on the case assisting the police.” I scoff at the praise. “Has the Nanopest gotten worse? Will it turn us all into ravenous murdering cannibals? Could this be the end of days—” I switch the radio off. But the question remains. Are the nanobot attacks increasing in intensity? If so, how can a relatively normal person commit such crimes leaving no difference in his connectomes? I pay the cab and it drives off. In my living room I notice the blue light flashing. One new message. Plain text. Aubrey. I know what happened. Saw the data. We need to talk, think I got something for you. A. My finger hovers above the delete icon, and I long to press it, but don't, and instead click on Reply. So nice of you to write. Now kindly fuck off. Dorotea, age 25 (entry #8236): I manage to wake up angry, at 4AM. The living room is bathed in blue. I open the message. I know you’re mad and you have every right to be!!! But please understand it was difficult for me too. Just view the Diary fragments I’m sending you and I think you’ll understand. First the frags, then we’ll talk. A. I start typing. Yeah, cause *I* LEFT AND NEVER WROTE YES IT WAS VERY DIFFICULT FOR YOU But then I stop, and pound the delete key. Don’t want to come off as desperate. I download the frags. I’ll hate myself later. Now, I’m too curious. Decryption finished, my computer spits out a rainbow-colored hologram in the shape of a tootsie roll. I hold it at eye level for a moment, then swallow it. In an instant I relive his memory. Gripping an iron-wrought railing on a balcony, gazing out at the sea. Below, the tarmac of the Promenade des Anglais glints like a riverbed in the waning sun. The gilded lights of a gorgeous building to my right are slowly winking into life. On its roof, spelled with light bulbs, the name Negresco. I breathe in the salty air, watch the scantly dressed joggers for a moment. The apartment is small, a simple futon, a flaking pale green wardrobe and a kitchen in an alcove. In the mirror I catch a glimpse of my own – Aubrey’s – reflection. Unshaven and groggy. From a drawer I pull out a cigarette pack. The Dorotea part of my mind thinks, that’s weird, I have never smoked. I go back to the balcony, light one up. I think of the research, the big Monaco fund, but I’m not pleased with it, scientists here are exploring directions that make me uncomfortable. Back home, we rely on Big Data. Here, they avoid it. I blow a smoke ring at the sunset, and the memory blurs as I jump forward in time. Salty air carried by a strong but pleasant wind. The late-spring sun beating down. Seagulls, and the swooshing sound of the tidal push and pull. Promenade des Anglais is empty, save for the occasional cyclist. These long walks help me think as step by step I digest the info from the meetings with the geniuses. I dwell on Antoine's words. A spoiled generation, he said, his thick glasses sliding down his nose. You don't like how the world changes you, so you change the world. We're not talking about nature, but about a terrorist who caused the biggest nanotech spill in history, I said. Aubrey, don't you see it doesn't matter. Our research shows that spill or no spill people have always been… I walk into an old building, cold marble beneath my sandaled feet. “Ah,” says Jean-Luc, “you made it.” I smile at him, shake his hand. He points to his office. “No one will disturb us here. Please.” His desk is almost too tidy, with nothing but a chromed lamp in one corner. He sits in his swiveling chair, drums his fingers on the desk top, gestures at a very ordinary chair opposite him. “Sit. Please.” His please sounding like an order. “Antoine says you're having trouble adjusting.” “So it seems.” “You're a bright researcher.” His fingers make a steeple. “Seems like I grew up on a whole other planet.” “Many great students we've had from your side of the Atlantic.” He shakes his head. “Not the problem.” With one eyebrow cocked up, he adds, “For an adult you are very stubborn, Aubrey.” “Science is why I moved here. You seem to be doing none of it.” “To discover truth you need to consider all possibilities.” His shoulders drop slightly. “Study the math, and consider all possibilities.” The memory fades out. Dorotea again, in my dark living room, looking down expecting to see marble but find a bland, beige carpet.
Confused as all hell I write him a message full of question marks. He replies inside of a minute. That was my disclaimer. Here's the data. A. Alongside the message comes a flood of files: documents, images and spreadsheets, all zipped up in one archive titled All Possibilities. I don't know if it's the sleeplessness, the adrenaline of experiencing Aubrey’s memories, or a peculiar mixture of the two, but I click through the files like a maniac, immerse myself in the data, espouse their analytical frame-of-mind. My alarm startles me. Shit. I’m supposed to be at the lab in thirty minutes. Need time to process this. Too strange. I send the message and log off. Dorotea, age 25 (entry #8237): Professor Greenstalk's already at the lab when I get there. I go through the motions with her, study the murderer’s connectomes, write things down, but it’s all muscle-memory while my mind’s parsing Aubrey’s theory. Once the initial rejection passes, I turn a critical eye at it, and try to debunk it. Late in the afternoon, when after many mental attempts I realize I can’t, I decide to tell Professor Greenstalk. “What if the Scramble isn’t evil?” “Scramble?” “Sorry. It’s what my dad used to call the nanobots.” I press my knuckles against my eyes. She sighs. “The Nanopest is a horrible chapter in our history, which people like me and you are working hard to end.” “Yeah, yeah,” I say, surprising myself. “But what if it’s not just a chapter? I mean, the nanotech stuff, sure, that’s recent, but what if scrambles in one way or the other have been happening since homo erectus?” She stops shuffling neurons on the screen to look at me. “Care to explain?” All Possibilities. The research conclusions and the data appear before my eyes. “European researchers have analyzed human behavior, change patterns, and they say the nanobots make no difference.” Hand on hip. “Tell that to the young family and that poor student.” “Mathematicians siphoned data from arcane lifelogging applications and noticed that the rate of change of mental states has stayed absolutely the same. People’s minds changed in all sorts of ways prior to the bots as well.” “Oh, bullshit.” “They believe that with or without the nanotech we experience personality changes, the scramblers only make them apparent, they are not the cause. Apparently the original creator wanted people’s internal changes to be obvious to everyone.” “Why would someone bother doing that?” “Another step towards the Open Utopian Society? No one knows.” My mouth curves into a smile. “But supposedly there are followers with a manifesto already.” “So what do our European counterparts suggest?” “Accept the nanobots. The only thing they restrict is us finding out how they work. Other than that, they believe scramblers have a non-interference policy.” “Just what I'd except from a bunch of theoreticians.” She gets up, fires up the supercomputers. “In the meantime, we gotta get back to solving this.” I don’t budge. “Well?” She jerks her head sideways. “Sorry,” I say. “Need rest. Time to think.” She yells, “What about these four victims? Don’t they deserve your time?” As I’m walking out I consider mentioning that the impulsive crime would’ve been committed regardless of nanotechnology, that our obsession with the spill has made us absolve ourselves of all responsibilities, and that that has turned out to be far more dangerous than any technology, but before I manage to open my mouth I realize I’m out the lab and smiling at the setting sun. Dolores, age 26 (entry #8397): Soaking wet, he’s standing at my door. “You should’ve taken an umbrella.” “More dramatic this way.” He smiles. I don’t. “What do you want?” Adrian says, “Wanted to give you this.” He hands me a folded piece of paper. I open it. It’s a drawing. An old drawing of mine. A funny face with big, round, blue eyes cause I didn’t have green. Tears start flowing down my cheeks. “You stopped writing.” “Wanted to see where I stand. So I can be sure.” “Are you now?” He nods. I hesitate for a moment, then wrap my hands around him and squeeze tight. Dolores, age 27 (entry #8697): A clear morning. The smell of goat cheese and fresh baguette. He's made breakfast. We eat, then we head for the clinic. We're strolling down the Promenade, slurping from juice-boxes. The Diary-removal procedure's supposed to be short and painless. All will be the same, except we'll no longer have the ghosts of our past selves burdening our decisions. At the clinic doors, he takes my hand in his. We walk right in. MIKE JOHNSON - I started writing late in life. Age sixty four to be exact so I suppose that comes under the category: it’s never too late to learn! I’m English from the county of Yorkshire but moved to Spain in the year 2000. My writing career began after meeting other published author’s here on the Costa del Sol. My first novel; Dragon - written in long hand at first would you believe – was edited by my wife who I found was more than capable – and far less expensive – than the Publishers. The next two novels in the series; The Korean Connection and The Buddha in Ice followed soon after. It may be of interest to learn the wrap around front covers were designed by me, and illustrated by a local design company. You have no idea how cost effective that is for a first time writer self-publishing? In between these novels I began writing short stories: The Little Home on Wheels was one of them, but my readers wanted to know; what happened next? The story begins here in Spain in places I have visited and know well. THE LETTER by Mike Johnson Henry yawned and stretched his legs. The park bench he was sitting on was still damp from the recent rain. ‘But still better than that hard settee my daughter likes’ he said to himself then instantly feeling guilty at his lack of gratefulness. Cindy had insisted her father should stay with them after his recent operation. Her husband had agreed but he wasn’t fooled. They didn’t like each other. His wife had accepted their son-in-law readily enough but he just couldn’t get on with the guy and that was that. After her death five years ago he had made various excuses not to visit but Cindy had been insistent this time. His two sons had agreed. He wasn’t fooled in that direction either. You could almost hear the sigh of relief in Kent where he lived. ‘You go up north and we’ll look after the house while you recuperate’ Charley had told him. ‘Go up north? Jesus you would think I was on my way to Iceland or somewhere. Up north for god’s sake. It’s only Manchester son’ I had growled. Mind you anything north of London was up north as far as he was concerned. Down south was Brighton. Over there was anything to the west. I don’t think east ever came into it? The pain in my hip was getting worse so I put the grumpiness down to that. I know they mean well and I may be seventy years old but I could still walk further than those two in a day. Well I could before the hip needed replacing. He stretched his leg again and attempted the exercises the physio had shown him. That lasted almost two minutes before he stopped. A young mother walking past was just about to smile and nod hello in greeting. The next second she was dragging her little daughter away and covering her eyes. He was just about to stand up and explain he was only doing exercises but thought better of it. One more pervert in the park wasn’t going to make any difference. The sun suddenly made an appearance. Rays of sunlight dappled the trees and highlighted the dew on the grass. A mist appeared as the sun warmed the ground. The autumn leaves that had piled up into nooks and crannies suddenly erupted as a gust of wind blew through the park. Henry looked up and smiled. He opened his coat and breathed in the fresh air. A dark cloud then blocked the sun. The leaves died. The mist turned to clinging dampness. ‘Shit that’s summer over and done with’ he moaned standing up and closing the coat again ‘Manchester? Who the hell wants to live in Manchester all their lives?’ he moaned again as his bad mood returned with a vengeance. He stomped off almost collided with the little girl chasing after a ball. His hip gave a little spasm as he stopped suddenly. He was just about to berate the little she devil when he noticed the concerned look on her face. ‘Are you alright mister?’ she asked him. It was such a sincere question his bad mood evaporated. He smiled at her ‘Yes but thank you for asking. I’m getting old young lady and not as fit as I was’ he sighed. ‘Grandma says you are as fit as you feel and she should know’ was her solemn reply. ‘Well your Grandma is a very astute person’ ‘What’s astute mean?’ Henry had grandchildren of his own and wasn’t going to get caught in the twenty questions trap ‘maybe you should ask Grandma?’ was his evasive reply. ‘Grandma what does astute mean?’ she shouted to the woman who appeared from around a tree. ‘Georgina will you please stop running off on your own and stop annoying this gentleman’ she scolded as she took the child’s hand ‘I do apologise my granddaughter takes after her mother I’m afraid’ Henry was just about to say it wasn’t a problem when something stopped him. He looked more closely at the woman. She was obviously in her later years but the vitality and energy she had for life shone through like a beacon. Her scarf had come loose so she casually flung it around her shoulders. She adjusted her woollen hat and pushed a lock of hair behind her ear. Henry gasped and couldn’t believe his eyes. The years fell away as the memories returned in torrents. The woman noticed the intense scrutiny and was about to object when she too gasped and covered her mouth unable to believe it was him ‘Henry?’ THE LETTER ‘Molly and Me’ - A Love Story. I first met Molly when I was a Corporal Radio Fitter at Neatishead, a radar station in Norfolk. I lived, with other airmen in a small domestic block, separate from the main building, which housed the radar consoles and equipment forming what was known as a GCI Station. GCI was the acronym for Ground Control Interception. The various radar equipments were situated in the area around the main building and connected by cables to the radar consoles used by the controllers to direct fighter aircraft onto enemy targets. The Cold War had not yet started and the station operated on weekdays from 9 till 5 and on two evenings. The personnel, who manned the equipment, came by bus from RAF Coltishall about ten miles away. Their trades were various and covered all the complexities of the task. There were Administrators, Telephonists, Radio Monitors, Tele printer operators. Controllers who were all officers, Radar Operators, and Plotters who moved symbols around on a large map of the area so that the Chief Controller had an overview of all that was taking place. All this was housed in a large building with no windows and thick blast proof walls designed for the purpose. There was a chain of these radar stations stretching from Scotland in the North, down the South Coast to Dorset in the West. They controlled RAF fighter aircraft from numerous bases in the UK. The RAF had many squadrons in those days. The fighters were Mosquitoes by night and Meteors by day. ‘My god Molly, is that really you?’ Henry asked still not believing his eyes or his ears. Molly had a distinctly high pitched voice which used to make him smile even on the darkest days. Molly fumbled in her pockets and eventually managed to extract a paper tissue. She pretended to blow her nose but Henry wasn’t fooled. The love of his life couldn’t hide the tears in her eyes and never could? ‘Yes Henry it’s me what are you doing here?’ ‘I’m staying at my daughters after a hip operation. She lives nearby. Do you live here as well?’ he asked quickly. The thought of her suddenly disappearing made him anxious. ‘No but my son does. These are his children’ she said suddenly realising they had wondered off again in search of mischief ‘I’d better collect them. It’s time we got back’ she said realising it was getting late. ‘Please Molly give me your telephone number or meet me tomorrow at least’ he pleaded. Molly looked at her old suiter and smiled. The memories had flooded back for her also. The guilt she had for leaving him for another man also came back making her chest start aching. A lot had happened in fifty years. Was it worth digging all the memories up, good and bad in equal measure? ‘There’s a little café at the entrance to the park. Meet me there at ten o’clock tomorrow?’ ‘I’ll be there I promise’ Henry instantly replied. ‘And I will be there this time as well Henry I promise’ she said making a point. Henry’s daughter was on the point of calling for the doctor again but Henry told her not to be silly. ‘I’m not in pain just excited’ he told her as her paced the living room for the hundredth time that morning. She was about to ask the same question she had been asking over and over again since yesterday but she knew no answer would be forthcoming. Whatever had got her father excited he wasn’t telling? Henry sat down at the café at nine thirty just to make sure he wasn’t late. The next half an hour was agony. His imagination played havoc with his emotions. The thought of her not turning up was driving him crazy. When she entered through the door he almost upended the table in his rush to greet her. ‘What would you like to drink? Tea, Coffee or something stronger?’ he suggested. ‘Henry I have drank nothing stronger than a glass of cider in all my seventy years. Tea would be lovely’ she decided. ‘Tea it is then’ he sighed happily and rushing off to the counter. She watched him as he ordered the tea. It may have been fifty years since they last met but it seemed like yesterday. He still had the little boy lost look about him. It had fooled many people into thinking he wasn’t intelligent or worldly. Nothing could have been further from the truth. For the next hour they talked of things in general until eventually they got around to what was important. ‘My wife died five years ago Molly. I have two sons and a daughter. I love them but I can’t get on with my daughter’s husband at all. I won’t be sorry to be going home this weekend. At least I was?’ he said looking across the table then adding ‘I still love you Molly. I always did and always will. Is it too late for us to try again?’ It was out before he could stop himself and he instantly felt stupid in revealing his feelings. She had rejected him a long time ago so what could have changed since? THE LETTER continued…… Most of the duties at the unit were performed by Waafs; the Women’s Royal Air Force. They wore skirts. Molly was a tee printer, small and very pretty with bright red hair. The only women who were on the base full time were those who manned (sic) the telephone exchange. There were few opportunities for those of us who lived on the base to become too friendly with the girls because they left at the end of the working day and I only knew Molly from chatting to her because the small tele-printer office was right next door to our radar workshop. Sometime in the summer of 1948, someone organised a trip on the Broads for the entire unit sailing from Wroxham and having lunch at a waterside restaurant. For whatever reason, Molly attached herself to me and that was the start of our romance and courtship. Meeting each other outside duty hour’s wasn’t easy and required some ingenuity but we managed and our romance flourished. Eventually we went on leave together and stayed with Molly’s mother in Sheffield and my mother and Aunt in Ilkeston. Few people had cars in those days and we went everywhere by bus and train. It was far more enjoyable than nowadays. This idyllic situation continued until early in 1949 Molly received notice of an impending posting overseas (Military terminology for; abroad). What this meant was that at some point in the future we would be separated. We were very young and the idea of marriage didn’t seem to be a solution because Waafs were automatically discharged on marriage. In any case, we had no money and the idea of us trying to live together near wherever I might be stationed in rented accommodation was unattractive. But we decided to get engaged and I bought Molly a ring. Eventually, the inevitable happened and Molly received her instructions to report to the RAF unit which prepared personnel for the overseas posting. Troopships were used in those days and Molly was destined for the Suez Canal Zone, so called because Britain maintained control of the Suez Canal at that time. She was granted what was called embarkation leave and I took leave with her. We weren’t exactly happy but there was nothing we could do except makes the best of it. In May, Molly sailed away on one of the Empress troopships bound for RAF Ismailia in the Canal Zone. By chance Molly’s sister was not far away. Married to an army NCO at Tel El Kabir; an ordnance depot. This, by an odd quirk was to be the reason why Molly and I split up. We corresponded every day. I soon realised that I should not have let her go and after much soul searching suggested that she should request a posting home so we could be married. ‘What happened to us Henry? Where we too cautious? Too frightened to take a chance? I would have married you before I left England you know that don’t you?’ ‘We both liked the military life Molly but you are right. We should have looked passed all that and realised we had something special’ Molly nodded in agreement. It takes two to make a commitment like that and for some reason they hadn’t. ‘You seem to have a large family Molly? Tell me about them’ he asked trying to change the subject for a while. ‘John died quite a while back from cancer. Mercifully his illness was short. I have two daughters and one son. They all have children and are all grown up. The children in the park are my grandchildren. I’m the family babysitter but I love them all to bit’s’ ‘My wife was exactly the opposite. Don’t get me wrong she loved her family but babysitting wasn’t her idea of fun’ ‘Did you ever look back and imagine what it could have been like?’ ‘That kind of thinking can make you very unhappy Henry. It’s in the past so let’s leave it there for now?’ THE LETTER continued…. Molly agreed and at my end I went through the process of arranging a wedding. This did not amount to much because until she actually arrived back in England it was not possible to think about details. It was at this point that things went wrong. Molly’s letters stopped and I went through a miserable period lasting several weeks in which I was distraught. Eventually, the inevitable happened and I received a letter from Molly saying that she couldn’t go through with it. Naturally I was heartbroken but there was little I could do about it. We continued to correspond but her letters were written more out of conscience than affection. In November of that year 1949, I was posted to the RAF in Germany. I had more or less got over my break with Molly and looked forward to a new phase in my air force experience. And experience it was. Despite being a highly qualified and knowledgeable Radio Fitter, I was posted to an Equipment Depot in Hamburg where I became what amounted to being a bean counter, checking the inventories of radio vehicles. The only consolation was the fact we were housed in what had been Herman Goering’s Cigarette factory and life was very easy going with no parades or suchlike and Hamburg in that immediate post war period was an interesting place to be. Germany was still governed by the Allied Control Commission. In the spring of 1950 Molly wrote to tell me that she was coming home and once I knew the approximate date of her arrival, I had arranged to go on home leave. Timing worked out well and I arrived home and almost immediately went by train to meet her when the troopship docked. Everything went smoothly and she was given disembarkation leave which more or less coincided with my own. We took a train to Sheffield and stayed at her home. It was almost as if nothing had happened and we were resuming where we had left off. Later we went to my mother’s in Ilkeston and we seemed to be very happy together. Molly’s leave had been for two weeks and at the end of this she had to report to a reception centre at RAF Hednesford to be told where her next posting would be. Here, disaster struck. She became ill with a very severe throat infection and a fever and was admitted to the Medical Centre on the base. My leave was nearly over and I had to leave her theatre and start my journey back to my unit in Germany. She was eventually posted to a new unit and we continued to write to each other. As soon as I returned to my unit I took advantage of the right of every airman to request an interview with my Station Commander. I told him that as an experienced Radio Fitter, my talents were being wasted and could he get me a more appropriate posting. This he did but the air force in its wisdom took the word radio literally and I was posted to the radio section of RAF Gutersloh, a fighter base where I found myself dealing with aircraft radio equipment. This posting did not last long and in the next two years I was moved twice, firstly to a Mobile Radar Unit and secondly to a maintenance unit at RAF Fassberg where I was in charge of a workshop full of German workers who were modifying and servicing a variety of radio equipment’s. By the end of my tour in early 1952, I had volunteered for and been accepted for training as a pilot. ‘I return home this Saturday would you like to visit me?’ Henry asked. His cup had been empty for quite a while but he gripped it tightly as he waited for her answer. ‘We’re not getting any younger Henry and I’m not a young girl any more. If my children had any say in it I would be kept indoors and tied to the couch. I may be getting on but everything is still in working order’ she answered almost laughing at the look on his face ‘so why not?’ ‘Oh my goodness I hope you didn’t think I was trying to get you into bed or anything’ he stammered. ‘If I want you to get into bed with me I’ll let you know Henry OK?’ she grinned mischievously. He couldn’t help smiling ‘still the same Molly’ he told her happily ‘what about transport by the way. I could arrange a taxi for you? Money is no object’ ‘That’s very thoughtful but I have my bus and train pass. Actually the family are attending a wedding anniversary near where you live. I could ask my son to drop me off on the way home’ she said thinking out loud. ‘Won’t they be asking where you’re going?’ ‘They can ask and I’ll tell them. More to the point they’ll be asking who I’m staying with. Is that a problem?’ ‘Certainly not and the same goes for my children as well’ THE LETTER continued… Molly meanwhile, reached the end of her three year service in the Waaf and returned to civvies street (sic). I took leave and on arriving home, went to see her in Sheffield. To my dismay, she wasn’t there. I discovered that she had gone to see her sister in army married quarters at Aldershot. I realised that something was wrong but sent her a telegram to say that I was coming to Aldershot to see her. She met me from the train and seemed very happy to see me. I soon discovered the reason for her being there? Her brother-in-law had a colleague and a friend John Carpenter; also a Warrant Officer staying with him. Apparently with the encouragement of her sister, Molly had had some sort of relationship with him in the Canal Zone. This had been her reason for not coming home to be married. I stayed for a couple of days but decided to go home. Molly arrived at Henry’s home two weeks later. They had kept in contact by telephone. Molly had suggested e-mails as well but discovered Henry didn’t have a computer. The meetings continued and the romance blossomed. Within a few months they were inseparable and obviously very much in love, much to the dismay of Henry’s family members. ‘I think they’re worried I might change my Will Molly’ he told her one day. ‘I thought it may be something like that. They are all polite but keep their distance. I see what you mean about the son-in-law by the way. He’s an accountant isn’t he?’ ‘He is but he seems to be more interested in checking my bank account than his clients?’ he told her angrily. ‘Please assure them I am not after your money Henry. My pensions and savings are more than enough to keep me going and besides what would I do with it all at my age?’ ‘You’re the youngest seventy year old I know Molly and definitely in working order as you once told me’ he grinned. ‘For god’s sake don’t mention that to your sons or I’ll be burnt at the stake as a witch or something?’ ‘There would be no trouble with me looking after you if we were married?’ Molly was about to make a retort when she realised he was serious. ‘Good heavens! Are you seriously asking me to marry you?’ she asked astounded.
‘Better late than never Molly and we aren’t getting any younger like you say?’ He was right of course and why not? ‘You’re family will disown you Henry you know that?’ ‘To hell with them’ he shouted happily ‘let’s fix a date?’ THE LETTER continued….. Later in my leave, I went to Sheffield again but found John was staying. I don’t remember exactly how that ended except that I remember Molly seeing me off at the Station. I subsequently went back to Germany but didn’t see Molly again until years later in 1954 when I met her by chance with her husband and two children on a military train in Germany. I knew that Molly had married John because she had written to my mother in 1952, to tell her. I subsequently visited them in their married quarter near Bremen and we became friends. By now I was a commissioned and serving as a pilot at Oldenburg. Eventually they were posted back in England, in 1955 I think, and we lost touch. We were not to meet again for nearly 50 years. Molly’s favourite nephew Michael had left the UK to live in Brittany with his French wife many years ago but she had visited the family on many occasions. He had discovered a talent for writing, eventually publishing his first novel. She had suggested a trip to France with Henry and he had readily agreed. The wedding plans had been kept a secret but Michael was out of the way and she knew he wouldn’t spread gossip. ‘He sounds like a really nice man’ Michael told his wife. It was a week before the visit when his sister in Sheffield telephoned. ‘I have just come off the telephone with Aunt Molly’ she told him ‘she’s in a bad way’ ‘Why? What’s happening? Is she OK?’ he immediately asked. ‘Henry died this morning!’ The funeral was a week later but Molly wasn’t invited. The family closed ranks and virtually shut her out. Molly would take many months to get over the hurt and the loss and in many ways would not. Her own family rallied around and did their best. Time would lessen the pain but she would never forgive his family for being treated like mercenary gold digger. THE LETTER arrived at Michael’s home in France a week after the funeral. A family friend had been tasked with making sure it reached him but he had hesitated at the last minute unwilling to upset the family. Eventually his conscience and his high regard for his old friend overcome his hesitance and he duly posted it off. Molly would never see it but how could he let the rest of the family know about the letter without naming names? Figure it out! THE END Authors note: The Letter is real and has been reproduced word for word, but the names have been changed. (Henry) died suddenly, a week before the intended marriage date. A Hateful Thing by James Maxwell When I was eight years old, my father put a chainsaw through the bedroom door leaving behind a broad diagonal gash notched into the wood where the sun could shine through during the day. At night the kitchen lamp would play peekaboo with faint neon fingers, brushing away slumber dust from unsleeping eyes and fill the room with shapes shifting like the shrink and swell of drowned churches in the half shadow. It was my father's way I suppose of implementing his own sort of makeshift nightlight, though secretly my suspicion of the dark dogged my thoughts more resolutely than ever before. I scribbled this down on the first page of an old notebook I found in my desk not too long ago but I couldn't find the words that would lead me anywhere past the darkness bit. Someone somewhere I won't bother to talk about told me once I should get more stuff down on paper. Just couldn't swing the metaphor, as they say. So that's that I suppose. But looking back, I guess it was alright with me after it happened. The chainsaw business, I mean. Funny enough, the only thing that concerned me after a time was the fact that the cut had not been fashioned more neatly, the uncertain angle more pronounced. A man who levels a chainsaw at his own bedroom door may not be much, but he is decisive and the ultimate testament to his resolve should not come off as negligent or, worse still, sloppy. Of course, with the door composed of shoddy pine and all, the wood splintered outwardly from where the chainsaw had cleaved through so that the incision resembled a jagged mouthful of deranged teeth, silent and lipless save for the constant inner glow--my own personal sliver of stolen moonlight. But damn it, if you're going to do something like that you better know what you're doing. And if somehow you know what you're doing in spite of this mad world, you better make damn sure you can do it well. That was a long while ago and he's passed on since then. I got a wife now--Tammy, but we don't really discuss those kinds of things. I mean the past and what have you. For example, I don't tell her that I never got to ask my father about the whole saw business. Maybe she'd laugh in my face or maybe she'd cry and carry on blubbering--the hell should I know. Either way, I never asked him. And I don't mean having a sit down with him at the kitchen table like some early morning intervention demanding answers while he's sipping a steamy cup o' Joe, sugar sweet black. That would have proved too embarrassing for either one of us, cringing in the kitchen with the windows frosting up, forming slick dripping valleys of fog across the glass as snow blanketed the ground outside. I mean more of a "Gee," and maybe a sideways smirk before he left for work. Even a fragile "Listen..." cradled upon a slow rake of fingers through his long chestnut brown hair would do. Then he could lie in response to a question I never asked or crack a joke about my mother's heartbroken breaded pork chops and we'd both forget about it. Or maybe none of that matters--I don't know. To tell the truth, I never really got to thinking about it until years after he was dead. It's just I get to feeling so crazy sometimes, like I could really do something kinda nutty like stand in the rain, kicking garbage cans and wrestling the wind like a real wild man--something that would leave Tammy standing in the doorway, mouth all glossed peach plump and wide open like she stubbed her toe on the table leg and had forgotten how to yelp. Maybe I could walk down the driveway to scoop up the morning paper in a chicken suit. I just get real tired sometimes like my head's stuck so far up a cloud's ass that my mind's swimming in fog and gravy, just sopping up the soupy haze as thoughts fade, reverberating elsewhere like pennies thrown into a bucket. I try watching TV or reading one of many forgotten half conquered books off the dust clutched shelves in back of the house but it's like I'm viewing the same dour faces, reading the same spent words again and again and I always feel just as I had before: broken down and kinda uneasy, sort of like peeking in on a stranger sitting in your own den and farting in your favorite recliner as your wife fixes supper just out of reach in the next room. Most days I adjunct at the community college where I shamble in to students handing me excuses as they make their way to the door. Classroom discussion often revolves around piss poor syntax and grammar drills instead of Conrad's contributions to the modern novel, though if the group is savvy, they'll allow me to careen through a twenty minute tangent before anyone raises a hand. Pay isn't too great, but the lifestyle's leisurely enough and keeps me busy most of the week besides. I'd like to imagine I'm doing some good for these kids, but who the hell knows? Truth is, if I don't expect too much of them, they won't expect too much of me and we can go on like that, an entire semester settled in our silent pact, barely existing in one another's lives outside the 75 minute sessions twice a week. You know, I even watch the girls sometimes, sweet and dumb as loquacious little lambs, but then I realize that there's just too many--you'd be a fool to even try. It was about two years ago when I had just gone through my furious little spell and found myself out of a job that I realized I didn't know who my wife was anymore. I mean I knew who she was but I didn't know what she was about. It was like someone slipped in through her skin one night while she was lying next to me and botched up the whole works between us. A man might try to split hairs and say something like maybe it really was her--that it was the woman who wouldn't identify with him, but all the details don't add up to a whole hell of a lot in the end. And who would believe it anyway? We used to throw these big cocktail parties back then. They weren't in competition with a Rockefeller bash or anything, but we were all such fools you couldn't help but have a ball after a while. Friends would come over with bottles of Cabernet or little packets of cheese and crackers if they were cheap and our living room transformed into a sort of carnival of crumbs and toppled champagne by the end of the evening. The weekday revelries were the finest offerings because in would walk these tight-laced doe-eyed newcomers scoffing at the thought of downing more than three beers on a Wednesday night, and by 10 or 11 they were stumbling down our front steps, most likely waking with a groan and some choice words concerning our hospitality the next morning. Back then I would find me a little corner of the room and look around at everyone drinking and chatting and joking and it felt alright to have the house full of something, you know? I mean, really bursting to the point where the heat rises up your collar to your face and the whole time the sweat is seeping and you're just grinning with a face like a baby beet. Anyway, a funny thing happens one night. One of the couples we used to do wine tastings with were just going on and on about their daughter's first recital or something and inviting us to every affair possible as they mapped out the poor girl's childhood from start to finish. The two are just jabbering away about dresses and dance routines so I turn to shoot a sly smirk at Tammy only to spot her eyes welling up like two wads of wet cotton wedged into the sockets. "Hey babe," I begin, sowing the seeds of something suave that I never get to finish. "You bastard." "Why, hello!" "You bastard. You son of a bitch." It's enough to put a muzzle on the couple for the time being. A hint of intrigue works wonders for conversation. By now I'm laughing and the Seagram's, warm and syrupy on my breath, makes it seem even more hilarious until Tammy reaches out a hand and lashes a firm shot straight at my arm. Bam! A healthy thud of bone and sinew ripples through my flesh. It actually aches for a second or two before separating from the rest of my being until it's as if the pain is hovering several inches outside my body like some throbbing phantom kept at bay. "The hell was that for?" "You ruin everything. Absolutely everything." "What's that? The hell are you talking about?" "The minute someone wants something you don't, no one can ever have it again." "Hummmm you drunk or something, baby? I mean I--" "FUCK YOU RAY!" As anyone can guess, the whole room stands glaring at us with twisted grimaces and eyebrows furrowed like darkening clouds rising over the rims of their drinks. Someone yells from the kitchen that the ice machine isn't making ice. "Tam, what the--" "CHRIST! SHUT UP! JUST SHUT UP!" She throws the remainder of her drink in my face and scurries out of the room like some beautiful wounded creature straining against the normality of violence in an indifferent universe. Her sobs echo beyond the soft crescendo of Jungleland on the record player, snuffing out every conversation in the room and it's as if the whole house opens up wide and moans out in one long sad song. People finish their drinks and excuse themselves back into the night. It's ok with me and I figure I might as well get the couch ready before I get too tight. I lick my lips to taste the wetness. Melted ice mixed with a hint of peach schnapps. I wonder now how long she had been gripping that glass and if she wished it more full the moment she tossed her drink at me. I guess you could call that Ray and Tammy's last stand in the wild world of cocktail parties because that was the end of that. *** Tammy tells me not long ago to find a hobby--that I spend too much time sputtering around the house getting nothing done. I just think she's sick of seeing my face but I don't say anything. Now I go to garage sales, much as a man would take to tee off at the golf course Sundays at seven. Her eyes quick draw flashes of confusion when I inform her of this latest pursuit. "To collect antiques," I tell her. "To gather up some real old shit." She shrugs her shoulders."Whatever works, Ray." So Saturday mornings I trek across the TZ to Westchester where I can bet nobody knows my face. Westchester where the rich and ritzy slinked away hundreds of years ago, seeking refuge from the travails of the Hudson Valley and sludge slouched Jersey in order to cling to the last fleeting decencies left in living and perish in the kingdom across the river. It's a land blasted clean out of a mountain of old money where nobody struggles to find a diamond in the rough--they're everywhere. All diamonds, no rough. Spires spiraling into the sky, mansions on the hill, and all that jazz. You get to wondering just who can trust a place like that. Truth is you can't. They can't even trust themselves over there. The proprietors of the old money change hands every so many years down the generation line--from grandfather to father, from father to son or daughter and so on and so forth. People get to forgetting just exactly what they own, the inventory of heirlooms eclipsed by glittering pretty things and eventually lumped into the archives that only the dead know, now locked away and buried forever. Stay in the ground long enough and you're sure to suffer the same undoing. My pocketful of quarters rings out happy and clean like a dozen little church bells cutting through the chill in wintertime. Quarters are always a man's best asset when working the sale circuit. Introduce paper bills into the equation and everybody gets all crazy--prices for worthless crap skyrocket. Keep it simple, stupid. Better to play the part of pauper than anything else. These people are not your buddies. Eventually everything must go--any and all prices can be haggled down if you play your cards right. Each weekend during the warmer months, lawns on every three to four blocks become havens for discarded items, the unwanted, the refuse. Sure, most in the sprawl of items have price tags on them somewhere, but none are set in stone and you can usually talk them down to about half that--maybe more. See, there’s a constant sliding scale between monetary and sentimental value in place here, an exquisitely delicate balance that can easily be tipped in the favor of the strategic shopper. People are willing to part with most anything far below their original asking price. A simple chime of spare coins immediately diminished the significance of anything eligible for sale. That baseball bat your grandfather handed you 30 years ago? Priceless, but you'll slap a 25 dollar price tag on it anyway and then begrudgingly accept 10 as Sunday looms closer. You'll joke that you were never going into the major leagues anyway, but something inside of you will curl up tighter, releasing finally like a fist seized by a sudden twinge and a sadness will awaken as if you got stuck with spring flowers that never blossomed. What about that coffee mug you and the missus received for your 20th anniversary, the chip in the smooth ceramic that you maneuvered your mouth around as you sucked at the sides, nursing the morning fog from your weary eyes. How long has she been gone now anyway? And that #1 Dad mug, how much to part with that? 50 cents each? I'll give you a quarter for the dad one and 10 cents for the chipped one. That's a deal, my friend. Sold. Out with the old, the cherished moments lost to the annals of time. In with the new to fill those pesky crevices left behind. It's a constant, this mass exodus of memories. Dust them off. Recite a prayer. Forget them forever. Gone. Mostly I just go to these places and watch. They come and go--some in sunglasses, some with kids. Most come alone, shuffling up and down the aisles fingering the plastic stuffs and crates of books, occasionally glancing down at the treasures beneath the stands and between the table legs with mild disdain. These are the wanderers, blown from sale to sale with no exact destination or prized item in mind. They just tend to appear, and they arrive in mindless droves. Occasionally one will discover a guitar with a broken string destined for a coworker's son, or else an old snow globe depicting three mice siblings in blue overalls tumbling over tiny spools of thread inside a bubble of yellowing liquid and glitter sprinkles stuck to the sides of the glass. Twist the silver knob at the bottom between thumb and forefinger. Listen to Greensleeves tinker out after dinner each night, the tiny inner hammer tapping every diamond etched into the tone speckled tin. Now wouldn’t that make for a quaint mantelpiece? Aside from the usual wanderers, every now and then one of the world's true seekers arrives on the scene, trickling in through the sidelines in sweaters or sandals as if returning from a casual hump at the neighbor's house. Each searches for a particular item of personal importance as they scour the classifieds each weekend, considering every address as if regarding the archaeological dig of a holy grail. These items include, but are not limited to: German newspapers circa 1920, chrome plated bicycle bugles, silver pocket watches resplendent with locomotive inscriptions which, functioning or not, contain salvageable inner mechanisms (the "guts" ticking away lost eternities), fisherman busts, empty milk bottles (the crystal teats from which the nation once suckled like drunkards from a flask), genuine Hawaiian ukuleles which are all flown in from China anyway, Dylan's Desire--vinyl copy, books, a slew of books: dust jackets optional, any pamphlets pre-1850, World War II rip cords. The truth is most people don't realize the value of things they own. The truth is these people want to pay as little as possible for the items they value from those who actually value nothing. The truth is these people want to rip you off for what you're willing to give away for pennies on the dollar. If you watch long enough, you'll see. And if you saw me I guess you would say I'm one of the wanderers. You wouldn't be wrong--what, with that vacant Saturday morning stare, the muck clods peeking out from the crowns of a few fingertips, the two day beard, the frumpy musk of marriage and unwashed sheets gone sour. All symptoms are ever present. Add in a faint coffee splotch on the left pant leg trickling over to the crotch and you have the picture of a man you've probably caught glimpse of a dozen times over, like a dent in your passenger door or the hole in an old pair of socks where your big toe pokes through. Anyway, this particular Saturday was shaping up to be damned uneventful. I had hit up a few sales in New Rochelle and Scarsdale and now the day was winding down. I figured I could pick up a sixer of Busch or something easy on the stomach after all was said and done to possibly redeem what was left of the afternoon. I'd call Tammy and ask her if she wanted anything from the gas station. She didn't drink with me anymore, but she liked Milky Way bars. I found the wrappers crumpled up just about everywhere around the house as if we had some sad sonuvabitch conductor hobbling around our home in the after hours, punching the little brown tickets and spreading them like autumn leaves across the floor. I guess maybe I would just surprise her. So I pull into the final sale of the day, a little squat bungalow perched at the corner of Greenacre and Colvin. A Ford Focus and an old Dodge Caravan complete with wooden side paneling sat parked in front of the property but the driveway lay bare save for a couple oil spots saturating the cobblestone. "Caravan in Westchester," I think to myself. "Classic." My eyes trailed up the driveway to the open garage where a man and woman sat in lawn chairs with a cooler with a faded green top positioned between them. The two looked to be in their 40's, I assumed a couple though I guess they could pass for brother and sister just the same. Both held in their hand cans of Coke but I suspected more than soda lay crunched up cozy between the ice chips within the chilly depths of that icebox. Both looked lost at the super market and absolutely mad about that everything that surrounded them like sitting in a dark theater as a child. The man's tucked flannel button up could barely contain the swell of his pouch behind the fabric, and it folded over in rumpled waves, concealing his belt buckle beneath a ripple of fat. His hair, though thinning, suggested he once possessed a patch of fertile turf between his ears that only recently fell into steady decline, ensuring he was still years away from a comb-over. Grey-black fuzz clung to his temples where age had steadily advanced up his sideburns to conquer the rest of his scalp in time. The woman (wife or sister) resembled a sausage stuffed into a floral casing with all her meaty, somewhat unsavory bits bulging out the sides of her sundress. It seemed as if her entire body was cascading either outwards or downwards or both. Her chin drooped toward her bust, which drooped over her stomach, which drooped off and ended in a dangling mass concealed somewhere between her legs. Man's sure got to have heart with a wife like that. But my god. Sitting there, they seemed like the two happiest people in the world--their eyes bright and wet like dew kissed on a morning flower. It was like both were in on a joke that the world at large knew nothing about and it was the sweetest thing either had ever shared with the other, or anyone else for that matter: the gut bursting summation of all the years they had known each other contained in a single punch line. And now, alone at their own garage sale, save for one another, they could laugh, and laugh loudly at that, while the rest of mankind went straight to hell. I decided to approach them anyway. "Helluva day! Get much business passing through? I was just gonna have a look around." I could see that the five tables on the lawn were completely covered in unsold items as it now neared 3:30 in the afternoon. These people either didn't want to part with anything or just didn't care about making money. "Business has been pretty good, mister." The man spoke with a barely noticeable slur. I was close enough to them now to smell the liquor and confirm my suspicions of a splash of rum inside that innocent can of coke. His eyes looked like slits slashed out of a side of boiled beef and all the meat clinging to his face scrunched upwards as if to escape from the broadening swell of his grin, exposing a mouthful of neat white teeth like little ivory Chiclets settled in a bog of pink mush. "Lemme know if anything catches your eye, though my wife tends to be a bit more knowledgeable about the kitchen trinkets and whatever vanity stuff we got lying around out there." The wife snickered at this mentioning of her expertise on stuff, her head swinging around her shoulders in nodding convulsions, her silent affirmations so sincere that I believed her neck would give out after much longer. I cracked a smile but she looked the other way. "Sure will," I said. "Thanks." Sure will. I wondered what it was like to watch others wade through the leftovers to the wasteland of your own life, to see and hold the things that didn't make it, the things you couldn't take with you. So you sell them so then maybe someone else can nibble on the crumbs fallen from your life which even now grow ever meager with the advent of the twilight of old age. Is there room left to consider the photo albums with no snapshots pinned within them--the bare, desolate frames enclosing cobwebs and dust, the faded and frayed patchwork quilts, the pink feather boas from that Halloween party five years ago (the martini glasses stenciled with the night's date to prove it), the lemonade scented candles, the unused steel hedge clippers, the suitcase filled with unfiled and forgotten documents, the unread books unfurled in the wind as if ghosts dragging languid fingertips across endless pages in search of a definition for life to defend in the next world? No. There is only room for little nothings which add up to bigger, more vacuous nothings and you will lie awake in bed transfixed by the terror on the walls and then all further considerations shall cease. You'll have done all you can in order to survive. There certainly was a lot of stuff here, but nothing much good--not to me anyway. I just wanted a beer and for some reason I hoped it would rain. There were a couple of brass candlesticks Tammy might like, but I decided against it after discovering a mass of wickless wax caked up inside one, my fingerprints smudging the old brass--shadows upon sheen. I caressed the brass with a shirt sleeve but it didn't do much good and I put them back down. I've learned that if you linger too long, you're sure to suffer a barrage of aimless stories saddled upon strangers, sorrows, and other things you probably don't care about. And let me tell you, after all that you'll really be forced to buy those damned candlesticks. I was beginning to feel a real sour mood coming on as I lost hope of ever finding anything to bring home besides a six-pack and a candy bar when I spied a bicycle leaning against the back of one of the tables closest to the house, nearly concealed by mounds of cables, about five different types of printers, and other disjointed hunks of ancient techie crap. Only a mere portion of the front tire peeked outwardly from behind the heaping plastic bone yard. Parting the walls of junk on either side, I beheld there a quivering kernel of truth. Oh what a blue bastard!--the kind of blue that reminds you of a new car with seventeen years behind you in the rear-view mirror when you're nervous, reckless, and still unsure what the world expects of you--baby, you're magic spitfire flaring off at midnight in great goddamn golden galoshes. I grasped the handlebars with a rejuvenated fondness for the world and pushed her a bit through the grass just to watch the wheels spin and grip to the soil. Rubber on the handles had worn through and cracked in a few places and I noticed a single bent spoke, but as it stood the bike was completely rideable and if I were a different sort of man, I would hop on, pump the pedals like mad, and never look back. The seat perched on the frame seemed to be the only eyesore on an absolute stunner of a cycle. It had cracked and split open like a dried prune and the yellow foam stuffing bloomed outwardly through the torn leather like a sallow begonia. It looked to be none too pleasant on the ass, but at least the part was easily replaced. The steel alloy chain linked throughout the cog-set strong, solid, and pushing down with my heel on the pedal, I watched the chain tug through the teeth all fluid and natural. Jesus God. Not a speck of rust. Brakes were sound even. Squeakless and clean, she stood as the woman by whom all my past loves would be presently judged. Jeyyyyyy-zas. Kneeling down to more closely inspect the condition of the down tube, I noticed what I had thought to be the worn remnants of an old decal. A dollar sign and a price I couldn't make out had been scraped back as if an afterthought. I ran a hand along the blemish like a bruise on the beautiful blue body, the pulpy white scruff still sticky to the touch. No. This would not do. I wheeled the bike up to the garage, an orange extension cord snaked around the stern like a Christmas bow and a box of ladies' running shoes tucked securely under one arm for the sake of appearances. "How much I owe ya for these?" The man and the woman looked at the bike, then at me, then at each other, then back at me. "Oh, hey listen. Bike's not really for sale. Heh, don't know how it got there. Oh hey how about a drink?" He jabbed toward the cooler with the Coke can. "How 'bout it? You look thirsty enough heh." "Well sure. If you don't mind. That'd be swell." He reached an arm into the cooler and fished out a frosted mustard glass and a bottle of Gosling's Rum. "Here. Help yourself." I gripped the neck and popped the cork, twisting it delicately from the mouth like tugging a daisy from the soil and tipped it to my cup. The rum sloshed out a beautiful chocolate murk, coating the sides of the glass in inky velvet as the scent of cloves and licorice wafted into the air. I knocked back a stiff shot of the stuff, holding it in my mouth as I looked up at the sunshine peering through the trees and it seemed the first time I noticed such things in a long while. Soon enough that blistering orb would begin its descent through the sky, eventually settling like a coxcomb upon the horizon engulfed in a glow of firecracker burgundy as if the raw, swirling eye of Jupiter had plummeted somewhere in the west from half a billion miles off. The big things and the small things had their places after all, like having a front row seat to the end of the world as some titan planet collides with Earth, watching it with the woman you love one sweltering summer afternoon, hand in hand, as if it were just another sunset bowing over the flowers that bloom in the valley after dusk. I wondered then if that were not the most hateful thing--to not care, to be inside someone else and have them be inside you and not give a hoot for seeing the sun rise on another day. Something Joni Mitchell said about touching souls. What a hateful thing. Not to remember. I handed the man back his rum. He dug through the cooler, finding a second mustard glass, this one sporting the imprint of a cheetah faded to the color of phlegm. He lobbed a fistful of ice into the glass and filled it half way to the top. I didn't see the need to put on airs with all this added ice--the chilled rum held well enough on its own. But you know. Some people. "Hum...so bike's not for sale you say?" I spoke, smacking my lips with confident satisfaction. "Oh no. I'm sorry. I just don't know how it got out there." "Huh. Only asking 'cause it looks like there's an old price sticker on the tubing here," I said, gesturing to the sticker. "Couldn't just work something out?" I patted my pocket. "Sure I got enough cash." The man placed his coke down beside the cooler and, interlocking his hammy fingers, gazed down into his empty palms as if he held there something both sad and profound hidden far from the rest of the world. "I'm sorry mister. It can't be sold." His fingers fluttered free from the clenched mausoleum knuckled tight in his lap and he drank from his drink, slurping loosely around the aluminum edges so that a thin brown vein dribbled down his chin and trickled off a drop that dripped into the dividing V formed by his open collar. His wife sat silent and still for the first time since I arrived. "Ah not a problem, friend. How much I owe ya for the cord and shoes?" "Oh, ahhhhh make it 3.75." "Can't argue with that. Here's four. Don't worry about the change. Can't stand carrying it around." He took the bills with one hand and sipped from his can with the other. "Oh uh sure," he gargled out, his mouth half full of liquid. "Well, thanks. Thank you." I turned and uncoiled the orange cable from the handlebars of the bike and heaped it over my shoulder like a tangle of neon noodles. I took a few steps and stopped, feeling around for the lump in my pocket. I flipped open my cell and glided my thumb across the tops of the keypad in a pantomime of a phone call and raised it up to talk. "Honey?" I began walking again and paused as I neared the end of the driveway. "Hey. No, not too bad. Got some stuff. Yeah. I got a cord we can use for the television and I found a pair of shoes if you wanted to try them on. No...no. Brand new. How do I know? Because I know." I turned and faced the garage, not noticing the two still sitting there and pretended to study some far off thing past the house as I scrunched up my face and stared out into the sky. "Yeah, yeah. So I saw a bike for Jordan. Yeah, I know he needs a bigger one. This one is a bigger one. They told me it's not for sale. Yeah, he said no. Yeah, well I don't know." "Mister?" The cold dead sound of nobody and nothing clung to the end of my ear like a crab in the darkness and suctioned the words out from behind my lips all caked up and gummy like bubbles being blown out of putty. "Hold on, Hun. Yeah, I'll call you back." I dropped the phone back in my pocket. "Hey again." "I don't mean to sound nosy," his voice snorted out raspy, like something withered and old. "But you have a boy?.....A son?" "Oh yeah, I was just telling my wife..." "You wanted that bike for your boy?" "I did but if it's not for sale, no worry." "What's his name?" "Jordan. Turning 10 next month. Good kid." The man lifted his drink to his mouth, but finding only ice lashing numb against his tongue, set the glass atop the cooler and shuddered a cough into the crook of his elbow. His whole body seemed to creak and crack as he eased himself back farther into the chair and it almost seemed as if he didn't possess the strength or sobriety to pour himself another drink. And now there would not even be that comfort. "That bike belonged to our boy. A long time ago. In his younger years of course." "Oh?" "It was his bike before he passed." "Oh gosh, I'm so sorry." "He went so strangely....so strangely. Not even anything. Not even a note." He broke off, making a sound like someone inhaling a cough and then hacked into his elbow again--three, four, five times. I could see when he was finished that his eyes were wet. He turned to his wife but she stood up and toddled into the house through the back of the garage, wiping her face on her sleeve and closing the door behind her. "Sorry," the man said. "We've tried selling Connor's bike three or four times now. We just don't have any place to keep it and she can't bear to look at it sitting there. But every time we go to put it out, we just end up keeping the damn thing and...." He paused. "And...I just don't know." The words dribbled out slow and syrupy. Little curds of white spittle clotted up in the corner of the man's mouth. I was close enough to count the buttons on his shirt but now it seemed a great gaping chasm opened up between us, the suction from its depths tugging at our very ankles even now. Surely we would both be swallowed up. I stepped back. "Listen man, I..." "25." "What? Hey listen..." "25 and you can take it. I just don't want it anymore." I dug out my wallet and split the leather bill cradle with thumb and forefinger. "Ahhhh, shoot. Only got a 20." *** By the time I lurch out of Pope's Tavern with the last few goodbye pints sloshing at the sides of my belly, the day has gone all shadows. I grasp my keys and instantly regret the hassle that last drink could buy me. Then again, I didn't have far to go and had at least already crossed back over the bridge. But ah shucks. I'd really get pinched if they nabbed me after last time. Then I remember. The bike! The goddamn bike in the backseat! It would be like staging an adventure--no, an expedition even, down to the gas station for a couple 22's saddled on my crystal cool aquaplane before embarking on the long, treacherous pilgrimage home with only feeble streetlamps and the mad envious swerving of oncoming headlights to mark the way. I could always scoop up the car with Tammy tomorrow. The night's course lay mapped out before me. A few stretches of backstreets paired with a single stop and I'd be home free. I drag the bike from the car, extension cord still wrapped around the handlebars, but I'm too wound up to bother removing it. I spring onto the bike, flopping around a bit at first, but then the rhythmic pumping trickles back to my leg muscles, propelling me forward into the dusk that draws me into its breast on every side. And there’s nothing in between. After a while I can sense the exhaustion tightening up in my flank, but I've got to carry on. Come on you big beautiful blue bastard, you. Hold me steady. Keep me ever always with nothing in between. At least the seat wasn't nearly as bad as I expected. Felt kinda like sitting on a bubble that didn't give. I traverse the sidewalks, avoiding the sewer grates by the rise of the curbs when I cross the street and the night reels and rocks before me and I am on two wheels with nothing separating me from the swell of raw darkness and ah damn I left the shoe box in the car, but I guess Tammy couldn't miss what she didn't know she had. I figured I should at least call her. I'm three rings deep and about to hang up but then: "Hello?" Her voice sounded drowsy and far away. "Tammy!" "Hell-hello?....HELLO? Who is this?....HELLO?" I could picture her back arching in a mounting rage, like a cat after a swift tug on the tail. "Tammy! I got this bike! It's hell on wheels! It's..." "Ray?....Are you drunk?" As usual, she slashed my enthusiasm right off at the knees. "Ahhh no! Just listen. This bike, Tam, it's so goddamned gorgeous and..." "Jesus. We talked about this." I feel as if I can barely hear her, all the words muffled as if being funneled from somewhere underwater. "No, hello? You aren't listeningm Hun. Listen, listen listen." "I'm so sick of listening. Just one night, Ray. Just. One. Goddamned. Night." I hear something like the sound of the phone being dropped on the other end, but when I look at my phone I see that the timer on the screen has stopped counting the seconds.
The sky is so black and I can't tell if it looks like it's going to rain or not and I hope that it isn't going to pour all over me and my baby as we make our way back home. Luckily the weather holds out and soon enough I catapult into the parking lot. There’s a neon open sign shining in the window next to an advertisement for Virginia Slims as well as the numbers for the New York Jackpot surrounded by a glowing deluge of gold coins. 54 million and counting. Not too shabby. I pull up to the door and try to hop off but my pant leg gets caught on a pedal and I plummet onto the cement, ripping the leg of my khakis as the bike tumbles on top of me. My palm shreds against little pieces of broken glass and pebbles freckling the ground. I curse the pedal, I curse the cement, I curse my khakis. People standing next to pumps that line the station like gravestones eye me without worrying about being too obvious about it and then turn back to watch the dispenser digits whirl rapid-fire as they funnel their paychecks away into an empty gas tank. I walk the bike over to a rack by the side of the store entrance and tie the bike to a rack with the extension cord using an obscene tangle of knots and just hope nobody would be shitty enough to steal it. God, that would be shitty. The tiny bell chirps to life as I enter under the store lights. There aren't any decent six-packs so I grab three 22's of malt and just want to get the hell out of there as soon as possible. The bottles feel smooth and cold in my hands and one sticks a bit in my oozing palm. I almost forget the Milky Way, so I grab one and then I collide with an end cap of jerky and nuts on the way to the counter. A bottle smashes on the floor and now bags of cashews and pecans lay swimming in the boozy foam. Damn. My mind flat lines numb. I nestle my other 22's atop the end cap between the Slim Jims and bend down, pecking at the floor with the tips of my fingers to somehow clean up the mess. My blood mixes with the foam, swirling into a light pink froth so that it looks someone spilled a strawberry shake across the tile. "No, no sir!" the clerk cries out, nearly tripping over himself as he bolts from the plastic box that house the cigarettes and the cash machine. "No, please sir! Please step back!" I'm standing over the murky salmon colored slurry while my digits leak all over the place. You'd half expect me to drop to my knees and start lapping the muck up, I'm so damned sorry looking. "My fault," I mumble, half humored at all this mess over booze and a candy bar. *** When I come home, the house is all dark and my head is throbbing something terrible. My hand is wrapped up in a paper towel the cashier hands me before ringing up my items and then asking me to leave. The towel is all clotted up the color of rust now and when I pull away from the handlebar, a little remains behind like tiny brown bits of matted fur—like what happens when you wipe your ass with cheap toilet paper. In my other hand, I clutch the night's catch, afraid now to drop anything else lest I can't at least salvage what's left of this miserable evening. Tammy would be mad no doubt. Couldn't hold it against her. But, hoo boy, wait until she saw this little piece of heaven I brought home! Maybe she wouldn't be so sore after all. I pull up to the driveway and let it collapse on the grass. I rap on the glass and then glance back at the bicycle sprawled across the front yard like a dead dog. The cable's still attached and all I can picture is a bright orange umbilical cord uncoiling and snaking through the soil. A sprinkle of wetness lands on the back of my neck and shoots a shiver down my spine. "Honey?" I bang again, harder this time. "Tam? I got something nice for ya here! Chocolate too!" No answer. Wished I'd gotten around to fixing the goddamn ringer. I press it anyway just in case, but no dice. More droplets splash upon my exposed skin. "Come on Tammy. Let me in. I'll explain everything. You sleeping or something? Come on, man. Getting damn cold out here." A rumble of thunder resounded from somewhere not so very far off and here I was lingering like an idiotic ape outside my own home. I knock again, quickly, with more force. Suddenly, I imagined the garage sale man's dead son, spying on me somewhere, eyeing closely the crimson streaks I dragged across the chrome of his childhood's souvenir that now lay abandoned on a stranger's lawn in the falling rain. Something inside fractures. A twinge tremors in the pit of my stomach. "Tammy! Goddamn it! Tammy! Open this damn door! I got us something! Something for our baby boy! You know he's getting just as big as his father! TAMMY!" I can't be sure which comes first, the peal of thunder arising from the lightening shank that splinters all across the sky or the sound of shattered glass from when my fist punches through, but the sounds somehow blend together in a chaotic rattle and it doesn't even make a difference anymore. I pull my mangled hand back through the jagged little hole and it dangles numb at my side and I know I can't bear to look at it now so I don't. A porch light flickers on at the house across the street and a car alarm echoes down the road, but I don't see anyone peeking out any windows. Thank god. All's I need now is someone calling in an attempted burglary to the boys in blue to throw a grand conclusion on the evening. The sky's belly ruptures all of a sudden and the rain comes pouring down and I reach out with my good hand to try and force my way in. The knob twists easily in my palm and I enter into the kitchen. Goddamn it. Unlocked the whole time. I'm home but it's as if someone let the night in and now it had no place else to go. The cool air and the static smell of rain drift in through the broken glass. I remember the bike and have an urge to run out and get it but the storm's picked up so badly now I'd be soaked before I made it two steps. And now there would not even be that comfort. The note on the table reads, "Sleeping at my mom's. Don't wait up. - Tam" There's a finality to it all that prevents me from welling up and instead I pull up a chair and sit down. The droplets trailing across the kitchen tile suggest something sinister like the drippings from some drifting marsh. I perch my arm upon the warm sticky pool trickling across the table and twist the first beer in the crook of my elbow as it hisses, snake-like, back at me. Later on before bed, I eat the Milky Way and get sick in the sink. Bill Pieper, who lives and writes in Northern California, is a voyeur and exhibitionist, important attributes for making fiction. He is also a member of the Squaw Valley Community of Writers and has studied both creative writing and philosophy at Sacramento State University. Stories by Bill have appeared in the Blue Lake Review, Red Fez, Farallon Review, Primal Urge and elsewhere. Links to his 2014 collection Forgive Me, Father and other published work can be found at:http://www.authorsden.com/billpieper NEVER EVER by Bill Pieper Fireplace ash. She’d lit the hearth twice already this season, not that it cheered things up, and a fine, gray residue has settled on every surface in range. It would accrete there, too, like the aftermath of a cremation if she let it, but the immediate remedy is her microfiber cloth. Fran dusts the end tables, the lamps and the mantelpiece so carefully you’d think tonight’s big dinner was at her house instead of the Elk’s Lodge downtown. Except retirement—a code name for being laid off—is something she’ll never get used to. The insult of it, after eighteen years as County Counsel, and then, with her contract up for a standard renewal, forced out on no notice? Economic necessity, the new Board of Supervisors claimed, and since Fran was now sixty-five, they said she’d had a good run. Of course, her male predecessor had worked well past seventy, and she knew the law better than he ever did, and knew when to hold the line. Despite her detractors’ whisper campaign, it wasn’t just personal stubbornness. Her grown son Caleb has offered to attend the ceremony, but she’d downplayed its importance as not worth the drive. Yet as she lifts and cleans his two graduation photos, she knows that even if he came alone, people would talk behind their hands. Seat of government notwithstanding, Quincy was a small, mountain town, and gossip made a key pastime, no different from the rest of Plumas County or its neighbors in the Northern Sierra. So at the front table, Fran will probably be paired with testy old Horace Bult, a widower and the current board chair. Almost anyone, leaving out her feckless ex-husband, would be an improvement, but she has no say in the matter—or in anything else, really, and just one last way to fight back. Dust-cloth in hand, she moves into the hall to wipe the sills on the entryway sidelights. She feels lumpy, her jeans don’t fit like they used to and her knee is stiff. But there, by the steps outside the glass, are her lilac bushes, gone bare-limbed since October and her final week on the job, with a dreary November rolling on in. And bare or not, they hold memories, fifteen years of memories she’s tired of having. ________ Caleb, already home, opened the front door the instant she reached the porch. “Mom, Mom, I met the most beautiful woman today!” From him, completely unexpected words, but Fran was still too annoyed at his latest careless episode to take real note. Besides, her feet hurt from the zigzag route she’d had to walk. “Oh?” she said coolly, passing him to kick off her work shoes on the mat. “Yeah, she found my flute and brought it over.” “Yay!” Fran said, both surprised and relieved. Equally miraculous, he remembered to re-latch the door without being reminded. “You could’ve called. I wasted forty minutes putting up those fliers.” “Sor-ry, I forgot...till past five, ’cause I needed to practice again.” She sighed and stepped into a worn pair of mules, though he was so devoid of guile, the excuse was likely true. All of which flowed from his having agreed to represent the Class of 2000 by performing a solo at his high school graduation two weeks from now, but then, in the run-up to it, he’d unraveled himself with nerves, compounded by yesterday’s disaster. The flute, a good one, and a special gift at Christmas, she’d resigned herself to replacing in a mad rush, with a trip to Reno over the weekend. “Who’s our hero? You thanked her, right?” “Thanked her?” he said. “I asked her to dinner...a new recipe…can’t you smell?” She could, in fact, once she’d started along the hall, a sweet, spicy aura from the kitchen. “So she accepted...your beautiful Ms.…Whoever?” “No.” He sounded wistful. “She has animals to take care of at home. But her name is Ostara...from a Norse goddess or something. Kind of looks like a goddess too.” “Really?” Zero prior interest in girls and suddenly so smitten by one he’d invited her to dinner? Fran had been thinking graduation might free him to admit he was gay. “Anyway, Mom, it’s chicken curry tonight, with rice and broccoli. I put in coconut milk and everything.” He followed Fran to the table and got out a wineglass. “Sit, he said. “My treat ‘cause I feel so bad about the flute.” He grandly poured from her open Chardonnay in the fridge. And there were, Fran knew, many worse things than being gay. Schizophrenia, criminality, drug addiction—those really tore families apart. She’d also bet no other mom in a fifty-mile radius was being served Thai food by her teenage son tonight, or anytime soon. “This is lovely, Cay” she said, while he checked the stove. “Where was your flute?” “The bus stop by the college. A couple of guys were giving me a hard time and I must’ve put it under the bench.” “Oh, Caleb...” she sighed again, as a sudden flare of late sunlight streamed down First Street through a notch in the mountains into their vintage, two-story saltbox. “It’s OK, Mom, nothing happened. I just don’t remember putting it there.” Quincy High School didn’t offer AP classes. Instead, bright kids took some of their work at Feather River College, to the west across Spanish Creek, an initial payoff on her having delayed his kindergarten start years before. “So this Ostara’s a student? We can host her another time, you know.” “No,” she’s more like your age and has a ranch on Bucks Lake Road.” “Oh,” Fran said, drawn up short. “But I still want her to come. If this turns out good, maybe I’ll start cooking more. It’s stupid that mac and cheese is all I used to make.” Whoever this Ostara was, Fran, with an office in the courthouse, could find out. Voter cards, license applications and building permits were on file, along with court appearances, arrests and more. Disguising her queries, since it was a misuse of government records, she verified within days that Ostara, whom Caleb continued to mention, had been born Debra Ostroff in Greenwich, Connecticut, a very upscale zip code. Moreover, his goddess had an unusual history and wasn’t fifty, like Fran, but five years older. And with those details known, only one person fit: the town’s ethereal hippie queen, a conspicuous loner and indeed strangely beautiful, with fresh and wrinkle-free skin, often golden tan, depending on the season. More striking yet were her eyes, all-seeing like a yoga-master’s, and her long, long hair, at one time undoubtedly blonde, but already turned silver before Fran’s move from the Bay Area three years ago. On occasion you’d spot her striding along near the post office in flowing, patchwork skirts and lug boots, or with a coffee mug at the Morning Thunder Café, immersed in a days-old New York Times, likely arrived by mail. She’d also been here for decades. In the early 1970s she and a tribe of cohorts had homesteaded fifteen acres in the sagebrush and jack pine out towards the lake to establish some sort of commune, which eventually resulted in a cluster of barns, dwellings and corrals that still stood. By the mid-80s, though, having already registered Ostara as her legal name, she became the sole occupant and legal owner when the commune failed. Fran assumed an inheritance or trust fund had enabled that, since there was no record of Ostara or the others being arrested or investigated for anything, which largely ruled out drug money. As for the new name, Caleb’s Norse theory hadn’t been far off. The true derivation was Saxon, a fertility figure personifying dawn, like the Roman Aurora. Still, it didn’t appear that she’d ever had children or been legally married. Fran, by now on the lookout, thought she saw Ostara way in back at the high school auditorium after Caleb had played his well-received Mozart piece and diplomas were about to be awarded. But maybe not, and regardless, he’d already run into her at the health food shop and arranged a delayed thank-you dinner for the following week. It would be his green curry again, he’d decided, with garbanzos and cauliflower, per some New Age cookbook, because Ostara was vegetarian. When the chosen day arrived, he got as nervous as he’d been for his solo, and Fran found herself nervous too. Except all she had to do was be sociable, eat a nice meal and accept Caleb’s latest enthusiasms, cooking and Ostara, however long they lasted. The flute, something he’d taken up in ninth grade, had been the only thing so far with staying power. Fran would avoid, of course, showing any specific knowledge of their guest’s birth name or personal story, but there were plenty of other topics. A recent business license stated that the ranch operated a year-round boarding stable, and offered horses, guides and pack animals for summer rides and high-country camping. Fran’s secretary had also returned from a lunch break and mentioned seeing “that eccentric hippie woman” who kept bees, goats, llamas and peacocks, grew vegetables in cold frames and did animal rescue, primarily mustangs that got rounded up along the Nevada border. On a June evening when Fran’s lilacs were at their height of bloom and she could leave the windows open despite the 4,000-foot elevation, a battered old Jeep pickup appeared in front of the house. Caleb hunched his string-bean body to peer through the screen and Ostara, her uniformly wavy, waist-length hair gleaming in the angled sun, got out, clad in a denim skirt, an emerald top with the look of raw-silk, and bright-colored socks above some kind of garden clogs. One hand held a market bag loosely woven of twine. Caleb charged onto the porch, smiling, and Fran, a step or so behind, saw Ostara smile in return. “Hi, Caleb,” she said. “Still got your flute?” He blushed and Ostara turned to Fran, “Oh...you’re his mom. We see each other around town.” Her voice, alto, centered and calm, matched the gaze of her remarkable eyes, their blue like those luminous photos from inside a glacial crevasse, though beckoningly warm. “Yes,” Fran said, “it’s nice to actually meet.” Ostara’s bag held an herbed goat cheese, a bottle of Riesling and a bouquet of fresh-picked kale, which she coached Caleb on braising as a side dish. The cheese made a perfect complement to his raw carrot appetizers, and Fran let him have a small sip of wine too. Their guest, she noticed, drank no more than he did and soon switched to water. “I heard your performance at the school,” Ostara told him, once they’d all settled in the dining room. “Very accomplished.” “Thanks,” he said, looking more proud than after the event itself, “and for everything else too. Lucky my name and address were in the case...like you told me, Mom.” And luck was the word, Fran thought. What else could explain that he’d follow through on anything so practical from her? “Add my thanks as well,” she nodded. “I’d still have found you,” Ostara smiled. “There were fliers all over. The real luck was taking the bus that day, while my truck was in the shop.” In a similar vein they chatted through the meal, comparing notes on life and work in Plumas County and why they’d settled there. Caleb hung back at first, but Ostara made a point of engaging him. And the dinner, though he deflected all praise, was delicious, his best ever in Fran’s opinion, yet his expanding repertoire now included lasagna and omelets. Later on, over mango sorbet and decaf, Ostara asked, “What’s Caleb doing next year?” He hesitated, so Fran jumped in, “UOP…on a music scholarship.” “Yeah,” he added, “I found out in May.” Except his tone, and the shrug that went with it, no longer showed the eagerness Fran had seen at the time. “Excellent.” Ostara smiled, eyes and all. “It’s a top-rank program.” Her focus shifted entirely to Caleb. “Any kind of summer job lined up beforehand?” “No,” he said, uneasily, which Fran had been nagging him about, as recently as tonight’s dinner prep. Ostara smiled again. “Also excellent, because I’d like to hire you at the ranch.” “Really?” Caleb was agog. “Yes, of course.” “But he’s never been around animals in his life!” Fran said. “Ma-om! I could learn!” “Don’t worry.” Ostara’s calm had an inner shade of humor. “I didn’t know anything when I started either.” Nor did Caleb relent. “When should I come?” “Tomorrow,” she answered, after first glancing at Fran. “Is 7:30 too early?” “No,” he said, “or 7, maybe?” “He doesn’t drive, you know,” Fran put in, “but possibly I could run him out there.” “No, Mom, I’ll ride my bike. It’s not that far.” “Lots of daylight this time of year,” Ostara agreed. When their guest had left and Fran helped Caleb with clearing and washing the dishes, he was jubilant. “Wow! Summer job! That’s huge!” “Hope it works out.” She supposed there were other gay ranch-hands somewhere, even ones who didn’t realize they were gay and got crushes on safe, late-middle-aged women. “It will, Mom, I know.” He handed her a serving platter to dry. “And I’ve made another decision.” “Oh?” Fran finished the platter and put it down. “About UOP,” he said. “I’m not going now. Later, maybe, but why not two years at the local college? They have a pretty good orchestra and band, I get requirements out of the way, and won’t need a scholarship. Could be she’ll let me work part-time after August too. And,” he paused for emphasis, “somebody has to take care of this place,” he gestured at the room with a soapy hand, “and of you.” “Oh, Cay, that’s a terrible idea, really. I’ll be all right.” “You’ll be more all right if I’m closer. My mind’s made up.” He was over eighteen, so Fran had limited leverage, and he resisted all arguments, yet this new turn might, she supposed, help him gain maturity. She just prayed he wouldn’t get stuck here, undereducated, under-employed and bored, like the young sawmill workers or loggers drifting around town with wads of Skoal in their cheeks. But that first summer Caleb put on ten pounds of muscle, his shoulders were broader, his skin glowed like bottled sunshine and he passed his driver’s test, meaning he could run errands in Ostara’s stick-shift truck without a second thought. And come fall, he took college in stride, earned top grades and did stay on part-time at the ranch, when the rest of the crew left. Yet none of it kept him from helping Fran with meals, putting up her storm sashes and periodically raking the yard. As winter set in, however, the pattern changed. He didn’t always make it home at night, choosing Ostara’s semi-weatherized bunkhouse when heavy rain or snow made biking impossible and driving too risky. The ranch was closer to campus in the morning than if he started from town, anyway. Up till then, Fran had made daytime visits almost every week to assess the situation and admire his new skills, but these bad weather absences could stretch to three or four days and left a void she hadn’t been ready for. She even missed his flute practice, which earlier used to drive her nuts. But at UOP, he wouldn’t have been around for months on end, so she could hardly complain, though she’d long planned to move wherever he settled after that. One evening, following an extended lapse, he had brought the truck, done the dishes and was studying in the living room while Fran read the paper. They’d stoked the fire, and the house had a furnace and good insulation, so everything stayed cozy, even with snowdrifts piled to the windowsills and a twenty-degree forecast. “Must be cold in that place,” she said over her glasses. “How do you study?” He looked up, hair tousled from running his fingers through it. “Before bed I’m in the main house, homework or not.” “What do you do? There’s no TV, right?” “Oh, read. She has tons of books, but a lot of times we play music.” “Music?” “Yeah, Ostara went to Curtis Institute.” “What’s that?” “In Philadelphia,” he said. “A big deal, like Julliard. She’s a fantastic violinist and great on the harp.” “Harp? One of those big gold frames?” Fran couldn’t hide her astonishment. “Well, it’s a Celtic harp, smaller and plain wood. There’s a piano, too, in the music room. I guess you didn’t get the full tour.” “She never said anything.” “She’s very private. Too much gossip around here. I didn’t know at first myself.” “Can I hear you sometime?” But just by having to ask, she’d become an outsider. “Yeah, probably. I’ll check.” Bi-weekly music nights, dinner included, soon became part of Fran’s routine, and the interplay between the performers, lyrical and sweet on everything from chamber pieces to reels, was extraordinary. But with spring, those invitations fell off and music took a back seat to ranch activities; the goats were foaling and the horses needed exercise. Caleb, accepting those distractions as normal, revised his major at Feather River so his AA would include both music and animal husbandry, the only such pairing the dean could remember. For her part, Fran got swept up in a revision of the County General Plan that went on for months, involving meetings and controversy galore. The same period also marked Caleb’s second summer at the ranch, and by its end he’d added ten more pounds, another inch in height, developed truly broad shoulders, could handle horses and ride as though he’d been born to it, and ran a chainsaw and splitter with the best of the crew. Fran couldn’t help being impressed, or fail to note that Ostara’s equestrian feats rivaled her musicianship, with her posture in the saddle seeming perfect, even regal. Caleb’s sophomore year went as successfully as his first, though he spent less time with Fran and more at the ranch. She responded by trying to let go and by doing what she could to re-establish old Bay Area friendships, sometimes being hosted down there and other times returning the favor in Quincy. In addition she attended several weekend law seminars in Sacramento. A solid and enjoyable life, she told herself, a respite from her all-engaging duties as a single parent. When Caleb’s next graduation arrived, he was scheduled to perform another flute solo and showed none of his prior nervousness. Fran and Ostara sat together near the front, the place was packed and Fran felt an upwelling pride in his accomplishments. She realized, of course, that he was also her basic link with her seatmate, but the two women by now had achieved a cordial, if careful, relationship. And as they continued to converse, Fran sensed that the carefulness between them was easing, and the idea of Ostara as the older sister she’d once wished for might really be feasible. “It’s such a joy to see him,” Fran said, “strong and confident...ready to face the world. For a lot of that, we have you to thank.” Ostara smiled, from deep in her bottomless eyes. “Perhaps,” she answered. “But it was all there and would have taken wing somehow.” Before Fran could reply, Pomp and Circumstance sounded and the graduates filed in. Everyone appeared to take things seriously, the speeches about fresh pages and new chapters were suitably inspiring and Caleb brought down the house. At Ostara’s suggestion, he’d selected something modern and jazzy by a composer named Ralph Bolling, worlds away from his former Mozart. In further contrast with high school, he was popular among the kids, both girls and boys, and as soon as the degrees were awarded they swarmed him for high-fives. Afterward, he went out with a gang of them too, while Fran drove home under a graphite smear of sky vivid with stars. He’d reapplied to UOP and been admitted again, so she could virtually see his arc up there, high and bright against the Milky Way. ________ Fran hadn’t meant today’s cleanse-a-thon before the dinner to be quite this ambitious, although step-by-step it feels right. For now the house is still hers to treat as she likes, and has become her fortress, her redoubt. But after tonight, her one remaining external obligation, Fran’s calendar is barren and represents a new kind of aloneness, further impetus for her plan. Wiping the refrigerator, she gives the handles special attention, and looks inside to remove congealed drips from the bottom shelf. Nestled in the door is a jumble of ethnic condiments that Caleb has brought on his decreasingly frequent visits, and she rearranges the bottles, jars and baggies as a reproach he’s bound to notice. She rinses the cleaning rag, a one-time pajama leg, and hangs it to dry in the utility room. The wall clock chimes, reminding her to check for mail, so she goes onto the porch, but in the box, only junk, accompanied by a swirling breeze and masses of dark clouds. Back inside, thinking to browse the morning paper, she heads for the couch and the long-removed stain she always sees there anyway. ________ Caleb had been home off and on since his graduation, seemingly with nothing on his mind, but one Saturday in early July he rode his bike up the front walk, eager and excited, waving Fran into the living room. Quincy’s prolonged mountain spring had at lat last become summer, and the scent of lilac clusters drifted in from outside. “Mom, sit down. I have amazing news!” “If it’s a UOP scholarship,” she said, laughing, “I’ll jump back up.” “No, really...sit!” But he continued before she actually reached the couch. “Forget UOP, I’m getting married!” “You’re what!” Her knees gave way and she hit the cushions slantwise. “To one of the girls I saw on stage that night?” “Of course not...to Ostara. Why would you have to ask?” For Fran, this was a gut punch. Never had she felt so stupid or so betrayed, and she did jump up, yelling. “And throw away your future! That’s insane!” “We truly, deeply love each other,” he said. “How can it be insane?” “Because you’re barely twenty-two and she’s almost your grandmother!” “That means nothing!” But it did, and worse. On certain of the music nights she remembered having smiled at how Caleb’s neatly made bed in the bunkhouse mirrored his personality compared to the chaos of sheets and quilts on Ostara’s, seen from the hall in the main building. Now the reason was obvious—and disgusting. “You’re having sex, of course,” she blurted. “Not your business!” he shot back. “Well, you won’t be having children!” Fran said. “We’ve talked that over, and she’s probably more goosey about the age thing than you are, but neither of us wants kids.” “Maybe now you don’t. What about in ten years? Fifteen years?” “If we change our minds, we’ll adopt.” “A mother that old? Not in Plumas County.” “Look, Mom, we don’t need your permission...but we would like your blessing.” “Hah,” Fran snorted. “And her too scared to even come with you?” “She wanted to. I vetoed it, because I was afraid you’d act this way. But I know what makes me happy, and no one gets to block my path.” “Naturally, she proposed first. How sweet.” “No, she never brought it up. I did. None of this is what you think.” Fran stood, glaring at him, and Caleb backed away. “Arguing doesn’t help,” he said. “I need you to calm down, but the wedding’s at the ranch, 7 p.m. near the end of August. We tell people the date’s already in their calendar, ’cause it’s a full moon.” He continued backing toward the entryway. “Please, Mom, we really, really want you to be there. We’re also inviting my dad, just to let you know, but I doubt he’ll come.” Easing the door closed till it clicked, he left. Fran was devastated, and it lasted and lasted. She could hardly bear to see Caleb, yet couldn’t bear not to. He apparently felt the same, since a few weeks later he spent a night at home, though he barred any discussion and they edged stiffly around each other. At either his urging, or by her own design, Ostara—the betrayer—stayed away, and just as well. Fran had been fantasizing about headlines in the Plumas Beacon like “Local Attorney Shoots Rancher, Then Self,” which was far-fetched but not impossible. Recently she’d bought a small .38 and taken the training, in response to rumored threats from a burly road department employee, whose firing for theft she had shepherded through. Then there was her ex, Caleb’s father, the computer scientist who had abandoned his son at age five by going to Taiwan for a tech job at some unknown start-up, hitting it big, and never coming back. Nor answering even half of Caleb’s letters and calls. Just an impersonal flow of child support checks, that was it. How did he rate an invitation? Caleb continued to call and drop by, imploring that Fran attend, and she’d rallied herself to do it, but when the day came and she started down the front hall dressed in what she felt would be casual enough, she simply couldn’t. The door’s weight was immovable in her hand, and she lay on the couch weeping until her mascara bled into the fabric. The ceremony, per the local grapevine, had involved multiple obeisances to the moon, flaming whisks of sage incense, abundant red wine, and Celtic dance music, partly featuring Ostara on her harp and Caleb on panpipes, with a small audience of Caleb’s college friends and a cadre of aging hippies from places like Chico and Berkeley, one of whom, a Unitarian minister, took care of the legalities. Most locals clucked and tutted over all of it, though some approved of Fran’s refusing to go while others faulted her for not being there. And maddeningly, as if he was giving her the finger, her ex actually had flown in from Taipei, fawned over the two celebrants and danced with the bride. As a mom, the odds were always that you’d lose your son to another—younger—woman, so the challenge when he grew up would be to widen your nest to incorporate a quasi daughter that you could also mother, and widening it further when the grandchildren she used to dream of came along. Or even if he had been gay, there were constructive models to follow. For what Fran now faced, there weren’t any, at least none she could envision. But this marriage couldn’t succeed. It couldn’t. She’d simply wait them out and soon enough have him back for a new start. Caleb took months to resume visiting in the wake of Fran’s no-show, but eventually a wary truce set in. That Ostara still wouldn’t be welcome didn’t need saying. Nor did Caleb press the matter and Fran preferred not to discuss it. So with no explicit plan, at least on her part, his solo visits became a weekly pattern, broken only by inadvertent telephone contact with Ostara, who never made the slightest acknowledgement of having wrongfully entrapped Fran’s son, or by unavoidable encounters with her in town, during which Fran was cool but correct. At one point Ostara did send a handwritten card saying Fran was always welcome at the ranch and that she hoped her own absence at Fran’s was forgiven, since she didn’t want to intrude on Caleb’s family time. But even accepting this as an ongoing norm, Fran had some measure of youth advantage, and could simply outlive the woman. Fran’s place as County Counsel was secure and she remained in good health. Then, with Ostara out of the way, Caleb would inherit the ranch, and Fran easily imagined moving there to be with him. ________ Having cobbled together lunch from two nights of leftovers, she dusts the dining room, changes the place mats then goes upstairs to audition tonight’s wardrobe. What outfit, Fran wonders, will be least frumpy? Until recently, she’d aged fairly well, but her feet don’t tolerate heels anymore and primping herself in the mirror has become a challenge. She glances at the ceiling and the access panel to the attic, which the pest control service will use during the inspection she’s scheduled for tomorrow. On the bed, she lays out a full-length tartan skirt, cream blouse and a blazer that’s a decent fit. Good, no ironing required, and with those selections made, finding the right purse and flats is easy. Her job may be gone, but her image, especially at this last official event, is important. And while she knows that the Native American Health Center and environmental groups need volunteer lawyers, they should’ve asked by now, not expected her to beg. As she checks her sock drawer for the reassuring sheen of the still-hidden .38, the light outside shifts and the sudden brightness pulls her to the dormer window. Clearing, just as forecast, the clouds roiled apart now, and with the gold of the aspens gone for the season, the high ridges south and west of town are so blackly piney-green they’re a preview of oblivion. ________ In those years after Caleb’s marriage very little aside from his visits, which went on for most of a decade, served to punctuate Fran’s life. She was too mortified by what had happened to keep pursuing her few friendships, either locally or elsewhere. And her sustaining mode—with him, with Ostara, and at work—contained so much anguish that everything seemed to clump together, month by month, including the interminable recession that collapsed the county budget and brought nonstop board hearings about layoffs and service cuts. Caleb and Ostara, during that same period, began using the off seasons at the ranch for travel to Europe and Asia. Glad as she was to have him exposed to the world, the photos he brought home merely stoked her resentment—Ostara posed in this or that native costume, like she thought she was glamorous, or the happy couple acting as though everything was normal. All Fran could see was that her son had increasingly become a kept man. ________ Downstairs again, Fran makes herself tea from a collection of varieties originally begun by Caleb, who never had a taste for coffee. She then carries the last of the mug with her and gets out the vacuum for a go at the rugs, a job that’s almost meditational if you’re careful to overlap the swaths, moving back and forth on each, and don’t just veer around for visible crumbs or lint. She picks up quite a harvest, too, because it’s been a while since anyone vacuumed, but with the clouds lifted for the moment, the light is good and the activity has loosened her knee for tonight’s mix of standing and sitting. Yet this, she realizes, is what her future days were bound to be like—inventing things to fill them—which she can’t conceive of doing. ________ In 2013, on an evening in early spring, Caleb had called to say he was coming over, and with no warning, brought Ostara. Caught off guard, Fran scrambled to serve an oolong that he’d always liked, but Caleb fidgeted nervously at the kitchen table and barely touched his cup. “This is kind of hard, Mom, and we wanted you to hear it from both of us.” He and Ostara exchanged glances. Divorce? Fran thought. It’s what their faces implied, and she felt a keen vindication. Or was it some dread disease? Ostara’s agelessness had finally eroded—her stride less confident, her hair now gray rather than silver, and coarser, her eyes less shiny, and deepening crow’s feet lined her face. “Oh, my,” Fran said, “sounds serious.” “Well,” Ostara answered, in a voice Fran could almost take as kind, “we’re moving.” “Yeah, Mom, selling the ranch and buying in Sonoma County. We made an offer on ten acres in the hills between Occidental and Graton.” “It has a creek and everything,” Ostara added. “I can’t believe it,” Fran said, and she truly couldn’t. “The ranch…all your ties here?” Tears of despair welled up, but she determinedly held them back, hoping that no one would see, no one in this audience. Ostara shrugged. “I’m a little stunned myself. We’re terribly sorry to leave you like this, but the winters are too much anymore.” “It’s her arthritis,” Caleb said, his eyes resting on Ostara. “We need a warmer climate, and fewer extremes. I’m not near done going riding with my wife.” He lightly trailed his fingers down her arm. “That’s sweet,” she smiled at him, “except we won’t be breaking mustangs anymore.” Since real estate had at last begun to rebound, the ranch sold quickly—to the proxy of a developer, as far as Fran could tell—so by late fall Caleb and Ostara were gone. There had been ardent goodbyes, of course, at least with Caleb, and assurances that his visits home would continue. Still, Fran knew how to keep score. Ostara must think that she’d won, and it certainly seemed she had. Well into the following spring Fran felt like an ambulatory wooden replica of who she’d been. She tried to put energy into her job, yet found herself demanding deference from co-workers and barking at those with opposing views. Yes, that summer, she did go to Sonoma, but only once. Without her own house for refuge and trapped on the couch in what seemed like a Hobbit dwelling amid ferns and towering trees, the blatant presence—the sheer physicality—of their cohabitation had pressed in on her like a bout of asthma. Then came the closed session for contract negotiations and the Board of Supervisors stabbed her in the back. ________ Dressed and on her way out the door at five-fifteen, she stops to lock it and steel herself for what’s to come. Speeches, a framed proclamation, handshakes, random congratulations and hugs, followed by no more job, even on paper, and no real place in the scheme of things. She looks forward to the familiar walk, though, the route toward Main Street so much a part of her life here, it deserves a proper goodbye. And somehow, she navigates through all the formalities, is passably polite to Horace Bult, doesn’t drink more than is wise, and still has a functioning right hand despite the enthusiastic pumping it’s gotten from ranchers and developers more than happy to see her go. The new counsel, a young whelp at a local firm who’s slated to work on retainer part-time, will be no match for them. Afterward, declining offers of a ride, she walks home through the dark, empty streets. But on this trip, with the staccato jake-brake of a lumber truck in the distance and pine smell dominating the chill air, the familiarity seems more oppressive than charming, a feeling that mounts with each stride. The phone rings when she enters the living room to turn off the light, and it’s Caleb. “Hi, Mom, how’d the dinner go? I can’t believe you retired. You always said you never would.” “Turning sixty-five changed my mind,” she says, sticking with what she’s already told him. “But it went OK. A small observance, just a few staff and the board.” “You know I love you, right?” he answers. “I do, Cay, of course.” Plus all that she doesn’t say and can’t say and hasn’t said to this person she’s always loved, always, more than anything or anyone. “Ostara and I want you to come and live with us. I’m building a pretty deluxe cabin along the creek...no snow, lots of privacy and closer to your old friends. It’s yours whenever you want.” Her whole living room—the floor lamp, the Persian rug, the empty fireplace—swirls in the swirl of her emotions. “I’m...well...that’s very special, Caleb, but with everything going on here, I just don’t see how I could.” “Yes you could, Mom,” his steady, earnest voice says. “We know you probably won’t… but you could.” When they sign off, she’s glad he called, glad that a deliberately enigmatic call to him hasn’t been necessary. Because now, with everything settled and the house nicely clean, her trip up the stairs to her sock drawer will end exactly as planned. There won’t be a note, either. They’ll all understand better without one, though she feels a bit sorry for the pest control guy, who knows where her hide-a-key is and is used to letting himself in. Yet halfway up, the stairwell dissolves into pearlescent light, and a piano wire, taut and sharply struck, sounds in the core of her spine. She stops, breathing suddenly in audible gasps, and returns to the phone, waiting to recompose herself before dialing. No, she will go to Sonoma after all, live in the place Caleb described and find a way to win, not merely by the force of guilt over her demise, but this time by actually getting him back. As before, age inevitably had to take Ostara down, and who would he turn to then? Rick Edelstein was born and ill-bred on the streets of the Bronx. His initial writing was stage plays off-Broadway in NYC. When he moved to the golden marshmallow (Hollywood) he cut his teeth writing and directing multi-TV episodes of “Starsky & Hutch,” “Charlie’s Angels,” “Chicago,” “Alfred Hitchcock,” et al. He also wrote screenplays, including one with Richard Pryor, “The M’Butu Affair” and a book for a London musical, “Fernando’s Folly.” His latest evolution has been prose with many published short stories and novellas, including, “Bodega,” “Manchester Arms,” “America Speaks,” “Women Go on,” “This is Only Dangerous,” “Aggressive Ignorance,” “Buy the Noise,” and “The Morning After the Night.” He writes every day as he is imbued with the Judeo-Christian ethic, “A man has to earn his day.” Writing atones. THIS IS ONLY DANGEROUS by Rick Edelstein PART II David felt stoned, high, as if watching himself doing something that was not his nature, out of balance, following a woman many years older than him into her home, not having an inclination as to why he was there and wondering if he, indeed, was in a dream or a disguised transference into another realm like those bad sci-fi reruns on TV. Olivia busied herself at the stove working in ease and comfort the way she would if Davíd was a long-time lover and she was preparing his favorite meal. David had a confused half-smile on his handsome craggy face looking at the huge room which was a combination living-room-kitchen-den-artist’s loft...it reminded him of those wild gardens looking as if nature just tumbled but somehow the eclectic jumble fit, well not exactly fit but the result was pleasing as he walked about, touching a thick fabric from North Africa disguised as a lampshade, a convoluted piece of aged wood which upon closer inspection had grown into an old face. He couldn’t tell if it was a man or woman’s face and it did not really matter as he was moved by the rough hewn ragged power. He was startled by a canvas on an easel, an acrylic painting of bright orange, reds, and blues abstracted and yet very specifically a woman’s vagina, or was it the inside of a pear, he wasn’t sure but it was...it was lush. There was a bookcase, actually not so much a bookcase but shelves stuck on mason bricks groaning against the weight of many books, some in English, Spanish, and one seemingly Chinese. He reached for the musty beautiful fading burgundy binding which had Chinese lettering, opening it revealing yellowed pages with the strong delicacy of Chinese calligraphy. Olivia came to him carrying two steaming cups of Turkish coffee, giving him his cup. “Ah, you discovered my favorite book.” “You read Chinese?” he asked. “No.” She sat on a magnificently aged rocking chair, held her cup of coffee, blowing the visible steam to cool, sipping through a cube of sugar stuck between her teeth. “Mi Papi, mi abuelo taught me this sugar cube.” She sipped loudly enjoying the sound of her slurp. David couldn’t stop grinning, almost surrendered to being here without question. Almost. He sipped, grimaced, and she laughed noticing, “Too strong, Fixer?” “No, it’s perfect, just takes some getting used to, as do you, and what the hell am I doing here?” She ignored the question, crossed her legs revealing a flash of her upper inner thighs which David did not miss wondering whether that corner of revealed dark was her pubic hair or black underwear. Olivia did not miss Davíd’s glimmer as he sat down on a nearby chair not wanting to reveal his bulge and wondering what the hell am I doing getting a hard-on over a woman old enough to be...his erection wouldn’t permit him to end the sentence. Olivia laughed as if she read his thoughts and his bulge. “Tomorrow I would like you to drive me to a particular spot by the ocean where the waves are very dramatic. I like the way you drive.” David stared at her appreciating the beautiful mouth that had too-red lipstick curving from thick to thin in such a graceful line that he lost himself for a moment. Seconds later as if a recalcitrant echo reverberated, he heard her suggestion of tomorrow or was it a soft demand? He was in a dream, he was sure, yet liking it and ambivalently trying to ground himself in reality. He started to talk but the words wouldn’t come. He sipped and made less of an effort as his voice now sounded quiet and rich as the Turkish coffee, surprising him upon hearing an unfamiliar tone easing from his larynx. “What do you do? Who are you? I should do what, drive you? Tomorrow? I won’t be here tomorrow. The Ocean? Why? Why in blessed hell am I here?” “Blessed hell. Oxymoron.” She mumbled as if her voice was dripping in warm honey. She uncrossed her legs slowly. This time he was sure it was a thick patch of black pubic hair with a surprising slash of pink leaping out as she stood, walked to him in a slow rocking motion, leaned over and adjusted a loose spike of hair sticking out in the back. “That’s too much of a question too early, Davíd, Davíd, a good name, it has fabric in my mouth. Come my Davíd. Vamanos cariño.” She took his hand and he allowed her to lead in confused obeisance. Entering a small dark room whose walls were casually draped with purple and magenta flowing pieces of graceful silk she gave him matches and disappeared into an adjacent bathroom. David emitted the family tree sigh trying to find the rhythm to normal breathing which his body forgot as he walked around obediently lighting candles. Then he heard the sound, a woman singing in Spanish, sounds, ayyy trilling of ancient ranchera yearnings. The door opened and she came out humming in a flowing garment that revealed and hid her body as she barefooted towards him holding a large cloth of black silk in each hand. Olivia gave him one, turned her back and helped him tie it as a blindfold around her eyes. She, feeling for him, used the other and blindfolded him. She took his hands and placed his finger on her lips. He traced the graceful shape and then pressed down on her thick underlip, surprised as she gently sucked his two fingers into her mouth. Simultaneously she slowly undid his belt and unzipped his trousers pulling gently on his shorts as they fell to his ankles. She turned her back to him, lifting her billowing gown, then reaching back with one hand on his now bare ass, pulled him to her. She felt his erection snuggle against her thighs and buttocks and moaned, “Háblame dulcemente muñeco, dime algo dulce, muñeco.” He reached his hands around, under her gown up to burgeoning breasts, softly pinching, caressing her huge nipples. His breath was reaching for itself in tremulous gasps. “This is crazy,” he said as sweetly as if it wasn’t. She moaned to his lowering hand gently working through her mass of pubic hair slightly glancing back and forth on her substantial clitoris. “No, mi hombre, the world is crazy. This is only dangerous.” Ever since the blond kid with glasses, David’s slumber evoked the cliché sleeping the sleep of the dead. It wasn’t rest. The nightmarish visitations of the glasses splintering had played out and eventually his sleep was devoid of life. A chilling oblivion retained a grave weight on his awakening. David accepting this, almost welcomed the unspoken burden as a form of mea culpa. But now, now in the dawn time, instead of the overcast mass usually sensed within, now without totally awakening but yet in that hair’s breath of a moment between sleep and consciousness, in the absence of guilt, David experienced the texture of delectable relief, of a smile on the inside of his being, of an ease in breathing that was foreign to his mortality. He relished in the rare moment of a...what...a trance, a vision, a sweet hallucination of a feminine hand gently rubbing his head. He softly resisted awakening, circumventing awareness, choosing to remain in that no-place of a safe place where reality and fantasy dissolve their differences, someone was singing to him. She was humming, tenderly wording a lullabye, “Duerme, duerme, mi cariño, sueña con los angelitos ...duerme, duerme mi amorcito, sueña conmigo al ladito.” David submerged into a profound slumber losing the thread of consciousness breathing into a safe haven where he could disarm. Later, much later David is awake. Not wanting to open his eyes because he knows. He knows he is in her home. He knows the sex was transcendent and he also knows the overwhelming reluctance to face looking at a woman many years older and pounds heavier as aromas invade his nostrils with a pleasing enticement. Olivia, dressed in a sinuous flowing of burgundy and amber, previously braided hair now open and fanning her striking Mayan structured face. She is humming her recipe as the hands of a woman used to working coincide with her verbal caresses. “A cup of uncooked arborio, a half cup of water, un poquito leche con dulce, cinnamon...a person needs a taste of sweet in the morning to greet the day, don’t you think, Fixer?” He was surprised that she knew he was awake as he lay there too quietly breathing unwilling to embrace or reject the demanding reality. He could only clear his throat and open his eyes. Slowly. She continued working in the kitchen area with a grace as if she was dancing en la Plaza de almos. “Raisins, chocolate blanco, and corn husks...and then mi Davíd, the crowning perfection that will endear you to me for the rest of your life, Salsa de Chocolate...with a little fresh mint and powdered sugar as a subtle exclamation point.” ‘Subtle exclamation point’ was not a phrase he expected from her. He looked up, head tilted like a questioning dog only to see her spin and walk towards him with a wooden spoon dripping with some thick concoction. “Taste, muñeco.” He smiled, shook his head as an accented comment to a situation beyond his control—and he was definitely used to control—licked the spoon in mute obedience, very lightly. He was startled by the deliciousness of it all, laughed, opened his mouth for more and the cooperation of her extending the spoon, joining his laughter, touching his face tenderly as he cleaned it of the chocolate. “Now,” she said, “We can start the day, guapo.” He actually smiled in relief. No talk of last night. No mock assurances or cover or retreat or evaluation or facing reality or assessing the situation or anything but dealing with the exigencies of the day according to the book of Olivia. “There is a particular place, a spot, a position, an extraordinary living pleasure at the ocean we must go. I like the way you drive, hombre.” And for a reason unnecessary to investigate, although he was curious about a ‘living pleasure at the ocean,’ David went. Perhaps it was the Salsa de Chocolate. Driving towards the ocean David felt as if he took a drug but wasn’t sure if it was a good or bad trip. His linear mind couldn’t compute the logic of his involvement in this journey. With a woman who...he glanced at her and her head swiveled to meet his eyes as if he had said something. Which he did not. He turned back toward the road. Driving. “Your thinking is too loud, Fixer.” Silence. “You better talk before you implode.” David was surprised she knew the word implode, and then immediately judged himself for a bigoted assumption. He did not turn towards her but rather focused on the drive toward the ocean. As if it was his ministry of redemption to arrive at the water. Redemption, he questioned? What do I have to be ‘redempted’ about? “Is it my age or size,” she asked? He was tempted to say the polite thing, the words that would assuage but they wouldn’t come. He wondered if he could be institutionalized as a man out of control in this moment because he fantasized, in turning the narrow lanes going down a steep grade, not turning but in an uncontrolled insane moment to hurtle off the edge into the deep abyss. Olivia got it on some level because she reached over and tugged the steering wheel towards the side of the road. David yelled, hit the brakes as the car came to a dusty stop on the dirt shoulder. He looked at her violently, “Are you crazy?” “No, hombre, tu eres loco ahora!” “You could have killed me!” “And you could have killed us. Que pasa, Davíd?” He was catching his breath as he got out of the car, stomped around, kicked the dirty, yelled, “I don’t know what the fuck I am doing here, with you, now!” “Aqui ahora conmigo o en tu vida?” He was in a rage without an object, without an obvious enemy, just on that perennial edge that lay within him ready for...he stopped...knelt down...picked up a handful of dirt. Lost. Olivia came next to him, kneeling, picking up a handful of dirt. They looked at each other. He exhaled loudly, shook his head, resigned to the madness. She laughed and threw the dirt at him. He responded and threw his dirt in her face. And like two adults with the kids turned loose they played in the dirt until they were breathless leaning against the car, not understanding what happened. Olivia still wanted a personal answer. “Verdad, muñeco, una vez mas. Is it my age or my size? Y por favor, do not go into that loud silence that makes me crazy porque after all I am yet still a woman with sensitivities...” and balancing that vulnerability...”...y muchos cuervos which many men like and lust after. Háblame, Davíd!” He sighed. Almost smiled, looked at her, and then looked off into the horizon of verdant hues of foliage, rolling hills in the distance that looked like a woman’s body. Hers. “No. Yes. Not what you think. Once again, you, me, my life, driving this rickety car to the ocean which means nothing to me...once again validating that I continue to be out of step.” Olivia reached out to adjust that loose lock of hair in the back that refused to stay put as David just stared at her as if she was a stranger. “I don’t know what I’m doing with you.” “Out of step with what, hombre?” He stood up and moved back and forth as if the panther within demanded space. “Everything. My age, profession, ex-profession, colleagues, ex-colleagues, perps, skanks, the fucking world. Out of step with them, it, all, I feel like I’m in a foreign movie without sub-titles.” She was silent, sitting in the dirt against the dented door, watching him pace, stop, kneel, stand, pick up a rock, throw it, sit down again leaning against the car staring straight ahead, avoiding her eyes. Actually she liked his angst. It had the energy of a bubbling volcano in contrast to so many Ameraqiches who are too controlled, too cool, too together, too neat, too too. Sitting in the dirt, leaning against the car, a restless quiet was broken by a man, dirty sneakers, worn army fatigues and a face that hasn’t seen soap in a week, walking on the road, stopping, seeing them, reaching into his pocket, withdrawing a small gun. Yes, the cliché resonated as time and people froze. “I want the keys to your car.” David started to get up but the gun and the voice said, “Don’t get up. Just the keys.” “They’re in the ignition.” “And your wallet.” David reached into his pocked and gave him the wallet. Pointing to Olivia’s neck, “And that necklace.” Olivia’s hand instinctually reached for Papi’s protection, whispered a fearful, fervent, “No.” David, “Do what he says. Give him the necklace.” Olivia was unmoving in the impossibility. “No!” “No?” Aiming the gun at her. “El es de mi Papi! No!” “Give me that necklace unless you want to die, bitch!” He reached down to tear it off her neck. David lightning-shifted into the cornered cop who refused to stay cornered, slapping upward, knocking the gun out of the perp’s hand and then kicking him in the balls. The man fell down cursing, groaning, crawling toward the gun laying in the dirt a few feet away. By now David was on his feet kicking him again, and then again, and sat on him and started punching him unceasingly in the face as the cause of all his pain until Olivia’s, “Basta! Basta! You are killing him. Enough, Davíd, basta!” She pulled him off the man who was almost unconscious and bleeding profusely from the mouth and nose. David standing, breathing hard, the feral animal not yet caged looked at Olivia as if she was an alien until he heard her assertive soothing tones, “Tranquilo, muñeco, tranquilo.” He looked down at the wounded man who was doubled over in moaning pain. David nodded in cognition that the skank was neutralized. Picked up the fallen gun. Removed the bullets and threw them in one direction and the gun in another over the edge of the high road as far away as possible into the cavernous thick brush. He picked up his wallet, turned, grunted as he kicked the man in the ribs one more time, walked and opened the door to the car. They both got in. He drove away leaving the groaning man with dirty sneakers writhing on the ground. Neither said a word as David drove...his singular focus was on driving as if riding on the road of the energy of this strange almost exhilarating battle for this momentary warrior, Olivia understood and in her way loved him for it. Thirty minutes later, sitting at an outdoor café, large paper covering the rough tables, a bowl of coloring crayons, salt, pepper, napkins as each of them doodled with different colors on the paper and in between, drinking from a pitcher of Sangria, a declared silence was finally broken as Olivia wiped a red Sangria’d stain off his cheek. She felt it was now a safe place to talk about it. “First you give him your wallet and tell me to give my necklace...” “The gun was loaded. Your life is worth more than my money or your necklace.” “...and then you do a Zapata on his ass like fierce lightning. What was that?” “When he called you bitch.” “I have been called worse.” “Not in front of me.” “Oh?” “No one insults my woman.” “Acaso soy tu mujer, ahora, muñeco?” Downing the Sangria, emptying the pitcher, “We need a refill.” “We’ll get drunk, mi hombre.” “Know of a better time? “Ahora es perfecto, querida.” They never did get to the ocean as they Sangria’d the time away on a small table under an umbrella shading them from the afternoon sun. Perhaps it was the Sangria or the drama/trauma that eased David’s dark rage, for the first time there was an effortless peace within him and with Olivia. She needed words, something to strengthen the web of their connection. “Do you have children?” she quietly asked. “No. Just a brother, sister, four aunts, two uncles, and thirteen cousins.” “Large family, good.” “Large family, not so good.” “Why?” “Differences...” “Family’s always have differences. That makes it fun.” “Not for me. I divorced them along with my ex-wife.” “You don’t miss your cousins, brother, sister, uncles?” “No.” “What do you miss, hombre?” “Who says I’m missing anything?” “We all have a missing inside. That’s God’s devious plan.” “And that God is a maniac. Look at this world. Yeah, the only thing I’m missing is belief.” “In what or who?” “Exactly.” “I don’t believe you.” “Have some more Sangria.” As he poured, and they were slightly drunk, she sipped some more, “You will discover what you have been missing when you surrender.” He drank some more. “Surrender? Surrender to who, what, where?” “Surrender to...” An attractive woman, considerably younger than Olivia, walking on the street with a shopping bag from Neiman Marcus stopped in front of the table and in a faux delighted voice, “David, how nice to see you. Again. After all this time.” He looked up. Shaded his eyes to recognize someone he cared not to recognize. He stood, “Hi.” “Hi? Not hello Rebecca? Good to see you, Rebecca?” “How are you, Rebecca?” “Do you really want to know or is that just a rhetorical meaningless greeting?” “Rhetorical.” Glancing down at Olivia with an attitude that could curdle milk, “Well I assume you’re not going to introduce me, you son of a bitch.” “Hey, I don’t know what side of the bed you got out of today but I...” “No, you wouldn’t know what side of the bed because you left my bed before dawn and somehow you didn’t call me after you said you would or shouldn’t I believe anything a man says in bed? Or don’t you remember?” “No, I don’t remember, so...Rebecca, nice seeing you and yes, that is just another rhetorical way of saying goodbye. Rebecca.” “Here’s my way of saying goodbye you misogynist pig!” She slapped him. Hard. Olivia stood up very quickly and before she could depart Olivia put her face in Rebecca’s carefully made up countenance. “No one can hit my man except me, bitch!” “Your man? You’re old enough to be his mother.” “Nadie me cachetea a mi gabacho, al menos que sea yo, puta!” Olivia ended her sentence with a strong slap across Rebecca’s lip-glossed mouth. Rebecca was shocked, looked around in panic, then ran off being trailed by Olivia’s Spanish curses. Olivia stood there, tears of rage rolling down her sculpted cheeks, muttering, “Old enough to be his mother...puta de madre!” David reached out and gently led her back to the table, to sit. She shrugged off his arm angrily reusing to sit. She stared at him in icy fury, “Is that how you are with me, you motherfucker!” “Hey...come on, baby, don’t buy into a woman whose only cultural life is based on shopping at high end...” “But you with her. That puta!” “I was with a lot of women in my life, not all good, obviously.” “And me, cabrón, am I not all good?” He took her hand and led her to her seat. “You are different than any woman I have ever been with.” “Is that good or bad?” “Good. Very good.” She nodded and sat. Silence a few beats. Then, “What did you say to her in Spanish?” “No one slaps my gringo man around unless it’s me, bitch!” He nodded, smiled, sipped some more, “Fair enough.” “Fair enough.” Drinking Sangria, both close to happy drunks. David smiled, shook his had to the gods. “Two knock-downs in one day. Pretty good.” “I didn’t knock her down like you did that pinche cabrón.” “Oh she’s knocked down, believe me.” They laughed, drank some more. Long hazy silence. Almost comfortable. For David but not Olivia who still needed words when she non-sequitured with emotions threatening to overload. “I will not move to Dallas!” David leaned back wondering whether this threatened rage was an overload from the recent scene or a new storm brewing. “You will not move to Dallas. Uh...where’d that come from. What’s boiling now?” “My daughter lives there.” “Ah, got it. You have a daughter who for some reason you don’t want to live near.” “I love my daughter. She loves me. At least I think she does. But no, not Dallas. There are certain things, even for love, a woman cannot abide.” “I don’t know if it’s the Sangria, you, or me but I don’t have a clue.” “They want to ban people, people who own their own houses and live in them from painting colors of their choice.” Olivia reached for some of the crayons as if they were hot pokers and rowdily scrambled colors over the tabled paper as they were her declaration of freedom from invisible chains. She shouted, “The Ameraquiches call it ‘garish colors, crudely showy, excessively bright.’” She glared at David. “It is the skin of you gringos that is crudely excessively bright. We Mexicanos paint our houses in happy colors, not those brick boring boxes they call homes. I will not move to Dallas.” David took her hand, stopping her madly scribbling with the crayons, “Hey...you are not old enough to be my mother, but you are young enough to be my lover.” She stopped. Looked at him to determine if he was telling her the truth or just another Ameraquiche. He got the source of her anger. He nodded. She nodded as if a pact has been reached. He put the glass of sangria in her hand, took his and toasted. “To multi-colored houses.” She smiled, clinked her glass, spilling a little, “Salud, cabrón!” He sipped, wanting to ease into personal with no charge. “Do you have any other kids or is it just your Dallas daughter living in a boring box?” “Yes, all together, two daughters and one son. Two different fathers with the same reason for disappearing.” “Which is?” “A strong, smart woman is too threatening to un hombre Mexicano.” “And some gringos, too.” “Do I threaten you, Davíd?” “No, but...” “But what!” she hurled as if a hot spear to ward him off. “Easy, baby...I’m not the enemy.” “But what?” “You don’t threaten me but...you surprise me and I’m not all that comfortable with surprises.” “Surprise is good. Keeps you from getting dusty.” He laughed, toasted. “Your kids?” “One daughter who won’t speak to me but she is in Africa working in AIDS clinics so I am proud of her.” “And the others?” “Ahh, Maricel is still on her journey. She was a waitress, then cleaned rich people’s houses, then became a writer, and now she is first Latina on the masthead—she taught me that—as associate editor of a major magazine in Dallas. And she is so far gay.” “So far?” “Her journey is not yet ended.” “You have a problem with gay people.” “No, gay people are fine. They are very clean, neat and like to have a good time. No problem with gay people. Just with my daughter. Quiero una nieta. I want a grand grand-daughter whom I can teach the ways of Spirit and the world.” “Sounds like a contradiction.” “Of course. That is exactly why she needs her abuela to teach how to walk the treacherous path.” “I won’t even ask about that. Your son?” She smashed the crayons into bits of pieces, looking up and talking to the clouds, “Como es que puedes ser amoroso y tan cruel.” She turned and looked at David with more energy than he liked. “How can God be so loving and be so mean!” David was silent in the face of her raging pain. Then she spoke. “He was dealing drugs. Now he is in jail.” She swept the crumbs of the crayons off the table and stared into the distance seeking surcease from the pain. David quietly asked, “Do you see him?” “In jail?” “Yes.” “The jail is two thousand five hundred miles away.” She sighed, wiped a tear forming in her beautiful dark almond shaped eyes. “I send him tortillas.” The tears flowed down her cheek as David reached over and put the palm of his hand on her high cheek boned Mayan face. Olivia leaned her head against his strong calloused hand in appreciation, expecting him to move his hand away momentarily but David kept it there. She put her hand on his, pushing it gently against her cheek as she sobbed quietly. “He was my first born. A man-child. The pride of what my boy, my man would become. Pride goeth before ...something, right Fixer?” With his other hand David wiped away her falling tears. “You are a good man.” She sat up, put his hand gently down from her face, breathed deeply, laughed a guttural sound of cleansing. “I will be all right.” “You are all right.” “Claro. Estoy bien.” They drank some more Sangria. Quiet. Then David uttered, “We never got to your ocean.” “The ocean is not going away.” Just then two kids came running down the street tossing a ball and one hit the blond kid in the face, knocking off his glasses. He stopped, picked them up, put them on and they disappeared into a nearby alley, laughing and yelling. The kid with the glasses enforced an obligatory flash of the memory David wanted to bury. Unsuccessfully. Olivia felt his obvious shift in mood. Looked at him. He wouldn’t look at her. Closed his eyes. Breathed deeply, let out a disgusted sigh, still refusing to look at her. “What?” she asked quietly and yet insisting on a reply. David was too quiet. As if she was caressing him with her voice. “You are living a nightmare during the day. We have come too far, Davíd. You must tell me.” He stood up, knocking a half glass of Sangria onto the table, looked at the spilling liquid as if it was strange matter. Olivia walked into the restaurant and returned with napkins, cleaning the table. David was standing facing away. “It is all right.” “Don’t placate me!” It was his turn to rage. “I meant the glass, hombre, the Sangria, all cleaned up. It is all right. I am not placating which I think means trying to ease your rage which no one can do but you although I am not encouraging you to knock over any more glasses but it is all right now.” He turned and looked at her. His anxiety was subsiding. “I know about the animal inside of you, my Davíd, the craziness, the pain, because I, too, have it although we share different sources, it is all right with me. Entiendes, cariño?” He looked at her unsure as to whether he could believe her. “Verdad, coño. Today’s men are so sensitive that they can cry. Me, I want a man to hold me when I cry like when you held my face, wiped away my tears. You, my Fixer, are a man, and yes, I even love the wild beast that knocked that guy down with the gun. Digame, muñeco, tell me your story.” She extended her hand, he took it as it led him to sit next to her. Softly she said as if caressing him, “Háblame, muñeco.” David sitting, facing away, talked, almost to himself. “He wouldn’t stop. Fifteen year old, freckles, glasses, his gun...at me...no matter...he wouldn’t stop. He shot me and...I...and I...my hand pulled the trigger...I killed a fifteen year young boy.” “Ah, that is where you received those impressive scars.” David said nothing. “He shot you. You had no choice.” “I killed a kid with freckles, glasses.” “Yes, you did. Si, mi amor, it happened.” “Don’t tell me it’s all right!” He whispered angrily. “It is not all right. Never!” “No, Davíd. You have a scar from where he shot you and another invisible one where you shot him. It hurts and that is good.” “Good?” David mumbled. “Si, if it did not hurt you would not be the man that you are, who God and I care for.” “You and God, huh?” “And you, cariño, God decides when we are born and when we die. In between it is what you call free choice. It was time for the fifteen year old to go.” “That is ludicrous. I can’t believe that.” “It was a terrible thing, muñeco, but not intentional. You did not mean to kill the boy. You were trained to respond. Your killing him was an unintentional accident. Feel the pain but do not be the accident of guilt.” She leaned over the table and gently kissed him. To his surprise he morphed the kiss as they embraced in public with a feral passion to erase the pain. They broke, looked at each other, nodded, he poured Sangria for both and they each drank, tilting their glasses in a silent toast, in recognition of the pain of being human. Words were not necessary...he looked at her across the rough hewn table with unprotected affection. He got it. Smiled. Easy silence. “I think now, my Davíd, you are beginning to stretch.” He nodded as if a long due reward was granted. “Beginning.” “What is a misogynist? That puta called you a misogynist.” David laughed recalling her reference. “Hatred, dislike, distrust of women.” “She deserved to be slapped because she is wrong. I can always tell if a man likes women the way he makes love. You, my Davíd, love women. Yes, you do!” She said with a dirty twinkle in her yes. “I love some women, not all. Not her. I couldn’t make love to her the way I do with you.” “Thank you for that. You are not a misogynist.” “No, I may be a sexual hedonist, or even an existential misanthrope, but not a misogynist.”
Olivia laughed, “Now you’re showing off with so many words. I like that you are smart.” She toasting, clinking glasses, “Sometimes I know that I am enough smart but when you talk like that I am not so sure. Hedonist, misanthrope?” “Misanthrope...I love humanity...I just don’t care all that much for people.” “And me?” He drank, looked at her, swimming into her deep dark eyes, teasing, “You? What about you?” She played the coquette, “Do you like me? I am people?” He gave up the game, nodded, reached out and touched her bronzed cheek. “Yes, baby, you I like.” She wondered if it was the drinks or the truth but she preferred to buy it as the truth even if it was Sangria loosening. “Baby. That is your name for me. Good.” “Good.” “What do you like about me?” He smiled, shrugged, the game was on again. “Tell me. A woman needs more.” “Any particular woman?” “Digame, coño!” “Your dark, dark eyes that are a chasm of power.” “Chasm of power. Power I know. Chasm I will look up later. More.” “Your generous mouth.” “Bueno...y mi chocha?” “Even more!” “I love you, Davíd.” “We may be lovers but...” he trailed off. “But what?” “How can you love me? We’ve been together for twenty metaphorical minutes.” “Metaphorical. It rolls in the mouth so I can taste it. Very sensual. Met-a-phor-i-cal. How long did you know your ex-wife before you got married?” “A year or two.” “See!” “See what? That’s my point!” “You knew her for a year or two and you got divorced. Love has nothing to do with time.” “And you think you love me, hmmm?” “Not think. Do. Not only love you but love loving you. You don’t know how to do that yet.” “The operative word being yet, huh?” “You’re beginning...when you have more...” “Stretch,” he laughed, “Right, I’ll know how to do that and get rid of disease and pestilence in the world and effect peace and plenty and...” “Basta, hombre, don’t spoil the moment. Just remember that I love you.” “Why? How can you be so sure? How can you...why do you love me?” “Because I love you.” “Because? That’s a kid’s answer.” “It is the best answer.” Silence. “And do you love me, muñeco?” He shook his head. Not as a negative but more in wonderment of how and what he was feeling in the moment. Olivia persisted softly. “Not forever. Do you love me now?” He smiled, slightly nodded, “Yes, baby, I do.” “Say it.” “Don’t push it.” “I am pushing.” “Why do you love me?” Silence. She wouldn’t relent. “Why! I need the words, porque, muñeco, porque?” In a naked moment of explosive revelation and unprotected clarity he said, “Because you are a wild, juicy, spontaneous, unpredictable creature who makes me feel...feel like I haven’t ever felt...who, like me, doesn’t fit.” “Oh, I fit, cariño.” “Really?” “Yes. I fit perfectly.” “Where?” “En tu corazón, mi Davíd.” He was still. Not running. Not hiding. Just still. Quietly admitting past his protection. “You do, in some bizarre way, baby, you do fit.” “You need to kiss me now.” He leaned across the table, put his hand on the back of her neck, brought her closer and they kissed. Both eyes closed they heard a skateboard and a young voice, “Nice!” They looked seeing a young teen whizzing by applauding twice in appreciation. Olivia nodded to him, then turned to Davíd and touched his cheek. “You have beautiful, strange, wonderful eyes, brown, yellow, gray, mi amor.” He smiled. “You know this is crazy.” “No, this isn’t crazy...” He burst out laughing and together they harmonized. “This is only dangerous.” Steve Perrie is a software engineer and author of several short stories. He is currently working on his first novel. He resides in western Maryland with his wife and two children. The Pawn by Steve Perrie The glare of the noon sun chased away shadows and smothered the desert in a blanket of oppressive heat. Arid winds suppressed any hint of moisture carried over from the Red Sea. Even the trees and grasses were wise enough not to take up residence. Rock outcroppings loomed beyond the skyline. Their striped layers of sediment gave the impression that the earth had been carved away to create room for the city of Sa’Dah. Nested in the northwest region of Yemen, near the Saudi Arabian border, the ancient city had been ravaged by decades of conflict. Hollowed ruins and heaps of rubble were now fixtures in several regions. A patchwork of monochrome beige structures steadily crumbled, as if to be reclaimed by the desert dunes which they had been molded from. In one of the remaining residential districts that showed signs of life, the backs of four large apartment buildings formed a courtyard, flanked along one side by a row of benches. On one of those benches, Rasheed anxiously ran a hand through his tangled mash of curly hair. A lone bead of sweat trickled down his forehead and settled in the bristle of his eyebrow. His faded T-shirt and jeans were caked in a layer of dust and grime collected from all corners of the city. The closest he had come to a shower in days was a gas station bathroom sink, some powdered soap and a handful of brown paper towels. His slender frame, diminutive stature, and lack of facial hair concealed several of his eighteen years of age. But the dark circles beneath his lusterless brown eyes revealed a different story. Trying his best to ignore the churning knots in his stomach, Rasheed scanned the courtyard for the stranger who had requested this meeting. A small amount of traffic had resumed along the nearby streets since the noon call to prayer. An elderly woman exited one of the apartments and wandered away. A mother sat on the adjacent bench, reading a paperback in one hand while the other hand pushed and pulled a stroller in a gentle rocking motion. A group of children chased and kicked a football, their laughter echoed off the courtyard walls. Above them, a two story mural of Abu Salaam Anwari cast its fiery gaze and pointed an assault rifle to the sky. The words “Martyr for Allah” were written in vibrant Arabic graffiti below. The lower levels of the other buildings were covered in a montage of fading and overlapping graffiti, but this lone portrait remained unobstructed in reverence. Rasheed remembered playing football in this same courtyard as a child with his older brother Taariq and several other neighborhood boys who had either died or moved away by now. At the time, the wall had depicted the firebrand cleric Muhyial din Masood with the same downward gaze. Rasheed checked the time on his plastic watch, trying to avert his eyes from the cigarette burn marks on his forearm. By 12:45, he determined the contact wasn’t showing. Frustrated, he stood from the bench and turned to leave. “Expecting someone?” The woman on the bench inquired softly without looking up from her novel. Rasheed didn’t even acknowledge her. He just pretended not to hear and began to walk away. He was only a few paces toward the street when she spoke again. “Please sit, Rasheed.” Startled, Rasheed turned and examined the woman who spoke his name. Large, dark sunglasses obscured much of her face but she appeared to be in her mid-thirties, with olive skin. A few locks of raven black hair peaked out beneath her deep maroon hijab. She wore a long beige tunic and black pants. Standing behind the bench, Rasheed caught a glimpse beneath the sun visor of the shadowed form within the pram. It lay motionless and silent beneath a blanket, and he realized it had not uttered a sound or shown any signs of life since he had arrived. He now doubted there was even a real baby inside. Rasheed returned to his seat at the bench. They were close enough to talk without anyone overhearing, but far enough to not appear together. “Who are you?” he demanded. “You may call me Talia. I’m here to help,” the woman replied in an accent he couldn’t quite place. Rasheed was confounded. “Forty-five minutes I’ve been waiting and you were sitting right next to me the whole time?” “I apologize for the inconvenience but I needed to be sure we were alone. You wouldn’t want your friends to see you conspiring with a stranger now would you?” His gaze shifted to the ground. “I don’t have any friends.” “Well, now you have me,” Talia offered with a smile. “Is that what you are, my friend?” Rasheed sneered. “I can be the best friend you ever had. I can help get you and your family out of here. You know they’re not safe here anymore.” “No one is safe here.” “This city has seen better days,” Talia affirmed as she observed the eroding skyline. “But I think you understand the gravity of your situation. You went to visit Taariq at the Houthi safe house just a few days after being released from custody. Less than six hours after you left, it was leveled by a drone strike, killing three soldiers and destroying a weapons cache. You think they’ll consider that a coincidence?” “They weren’t soldiers. That was my brother and his roommates. Taariq was not a rebel. The Saudis were misinformed.” “Your brother always protected you. You were the sensitive one, the intellectual. You have a future. He never wanted any of this for you so he insulated you. But don’t pretend to be naïve, Rasheed. You knew who he was. You knew what he was involved with.” “It doesn’t matter now. He was my brother and I loved him. I would never give him up.” “You were detained and tortured for eleven days. Hardened soldiers don’t last that long without talking, much less an eighteen year old boy.” Rasheed felt his pulse quicken, and a lump in his throat began to swell. He took a breath and relaxed his tightened fists. “I told them nothing. I had nothing to tell.” “I believe you, I just wonder if the Houthi will take the chance. This is not the same grassroots rebellion of ten years ago. The group has been infiltrated and overrun with extremists. They kill their own members over much less. And since you know you haven’t been working with the Saudis, how do you think they will react once they discover you’re still alive? You’re caught in the middle of a civil war, and both sides think you’re the enemy.” “I didn’t ask for your help. I just want information. You said you knew who gave up my brother, who had him killed.” “Four people have visited that safe house. The other three are dead. That leaves you.” Rasheed’s frustration intensified. “You have my whole life in a file. You know everything about me, Talia, so you know I would never give up my own brother. Why are you wasting my time? You said you knew who told them.” “It was you, Rasheed.” Rasheed stood, “I’m leaving. Don’t contact me again.” “You gave Taariq’s location, you just didn’t know it. None of the others had left or made contact with the outside since the checkpoint incident.” “I don’t know anything about a checkpoint incident.” “I don’t suppose you would. About three weeks ago, a few days before you were apprehended, Taariq and two others were driving north toward the border. Intelligence sources believed they were attempting to smuggle weapons. They were stopped at a checkpoint by a Saudi patrolman. They shot and killed the officer as he approached the vehicle, then they fled the scene and returned to Sa’Dah. They had been in hiding and presumably had not left the safe house since then. None of them revealed their location.” “Are you saying I was being followed? I know this city inside out. The path I took to reach Taariq would have been impossible to follow.”
“You weren’t followed. You were tracked.” “How? I didn’t have a cell phone. I made sure to change my clothes. I don’t keep anything else on me. I just bought this cheap watch off a kid yesterday.” For the first time during their conversation, Talia turned and faced Rasheed. Her deep brown eyes flashed a hint of sympathy. “Rasheed, the tracking device is not on you. It is you. It was implanted inside you while you were detained.” In an instant, the oxygen rushed from Rasheed’s lungs. His periphery darkened and his head felt dizzy. The walls of the courtyard seemed to close in as the eyes of the mural bored through him. Tides of stomach acids churned and frothed. He took several deep breaths to suppress the urge to vomit. Visions of his captivity began to surface. Lying restrained on a table. Waking up on a cold floor in a haze. A bare lightbulb on the ceiling. It was after that night that the interrogations stopped and he was mainly left alone until his release. Now he understood. “Who the fuck are you? Who do you work for?” Rasheed demanded. “Unfortunately, I can’t divulge many employment details. My clients wish to remain anonymous. But I can tell you they are a wealthy group of concerned citizens. They are powerful, they are determined, and they are unrestricted in the way that governments and militaries are. The men who kidnapped you are not part of any intelligence organization, they are just mercenaries. They sell assets and intelligence to anyone who wants them: Saudis, Israelis, Americans, it doesn’t matter. I am a broker, a liaison between interested parties. You were a desirable asset because of your family connections. We know you’re not involved in the insurgency. The Houthi are ruthless, but they are also pragmatic. They would accept you in if you could convince them you weren’t one of us. You just have to regain their trust.” “My trust? You had me tortured, implanted a…a…a tracking device inside me, murdered my brother, now you’re threatening my family and you want to talk about my trust?” “Rasheed, please lower your voice. You’ve been through a lot and your anger is understandable. But I need you to stop lambasting me with accusations and listen to what I’m offering.” Rasheed paced back a few steps, and then reluctantly returned to his bench. “If what you say is true, why are you even telling me? Why not just keep tracking me?” “I am telling you because, while the Houthi might accept you, they are much more likely to just kill you. You know this. That’s why you’ve been sleeping in abandoned buildings for the past week, why you haven’t returned home. And that only makes you look more suspicious in their eyes. You need a plausible alibi. You need money and protection. You can’t disappear on your own, or there will be retaliation against your family. They should not have to pay for your brother’s associations and neither should you.” “And what if I decline your offer?” Talia responded, “Then I can’t protect you or your family. You might be able to stay hidden for a while or even escape. But they would go after your parents, then your older sister and her husband. They may be killed quickly or they might be tortured until they could prove themselves to be useless in finding you. Your little sister Liyana would likely be sold off. She just turned six, right? She’s a beautiful girl.” “You don’t ever speak my sister’s name,” Rasheed hissed. “This is what they do. Lovely bunch your brother supported.” Talia made no effort to disguise her contempt. “And you think you’re creating a better world? A world where we get dragged from our homes at night tortured and tagged like cows while you watch us and drop bombs from the sky?” “You wish to discuss the ethics of my profession? Every war accepts a certain level of collateral damage, but when facing an enemy that beheads doctors and kidnaps children as sex slaves, the civilized world is compelled to use all tools at our disposal. This is just the beginning Rasheed. There are dozens of others. Why else would Americans agree to exchange five prisoners for a single hostage? Our days of playing fair are over,” Talia retorted sharply. There was a prolonged pause as her words hung in the air. She continued, in a more softened tone. “I am just the messenger, Rasheed. I don’t make policy, I don’t select assets, and I don’t carry out executions. The fact that we are meeting today means you have an opportunity that is rarely afforded. My clients, collectively, have the authority to grant asylum for your family to a country of your choosing. They can help you establish a real life with a future.” “Yemen is my home. My family has lived here in Sa’Dah for generations. I don’t want to abandon everything I know and love. I want to help rebuild.” “And you can do that,” Talia reassured. “You’ll have a much better chance if you work with us. You want to become a doctor, correct? We can help with that. Any college you want to get into, we can streamline your admission. You’re an honor’s student with high marks and desirable extracurriculars: chess club regional finalist, an award for a robotics project, a member of the debate team. You’ve accomplished so much in such a hostile environment. Imagine what you could achieve if you didn’t have to spend so much energy just trying to survive.” “And my dog collar?” “It will be removed once your mission is complete. For your own safety, we need to know where you are. But this is a limited operation, not a life sentence. We just need assistance locating a few high profile targets.” “You make threats and promises in the same breath.” As Rasheed spoke, he traced the burns on his forearm. “You have so much to offer, but what value is my life to you? Would you not just kill me once your clients are finished with me? Why spend the money to relocate my family, provide all this opportunity, instead of just dragging me off at night and dropping me in the sea?” Disdain leaked through Rasheed’s voice. “I realize our relationship is very one-sided. I have all the information and all the negotiating power and you have no assurance on my ability or intention to keep the promises of my offer. Let me explain how it will work. First off, we will move your family out of harm’s way immediately. Before I ask you to do anything, your family will be safe. Second, while I can’t guarantee your safety as long as you’re here, I will provide you with a substantial insurance policy. Should you be injured, you will be well compensated. If you are killed, your family will be compensated. We’ll set it up through a local company and you can have a lawyer review the policy. Third, you will have security detail nearby at all times.” Rasheed sat in silent contemplation. The sheer absurdity of her proposal was beyond belief but at the same time seemed like his only option. “I know it’s a lot to consider, so I’ll give you time to think it over.” She dropped a few bills on the ground. “In the meantime, here’s some cash. Get yourself a room, a change of clothes and something to eat. I’ll contact you in a few days for your answer.” With that, Talia stood, adjusted her sunglasses back over her eyes, and walked away pushing her prop stroller toward the street. Rasheed breathed a sigh of relief as she disappeared around the corner. A weathered football sat idle in the center of the now vacant courtyard. Rasheed could still vividly picture Taariq dribbling circles around the other kids. Taariq had always been extremely athletic and fiercely competitive. He had always been stronger and faster than Rasheed. But Rasheed excelled in contests of logic and strategy. It was Taariq who had first taught Rasheed to play chess when he was only four. By the time Rasheed was six and Taariq was ten, Rasheed gradually began winning more frequently until Taariq no longer offered a challenge. Rasheed consumed the board, rapidly executing dozens of scenarios until the right move was clear. His brother often told him he had been blessed with the gift of basira, divine foresight. Rasheed thought back to his last fateful visit with Taariq. He recalled one of the last things Taariq had said, “I did not choose the path of Jihad; the path chose me. It is not for me to convince you to follow me. If it is God’s will, the path will be made clear for you. The Devil will be revealed to you in the form of flesh, and God will provide you with the tools to cut its heart out.” Now Taariq was dead, killed by the same Devil that now made false promises of salvation. Rasheed turned to the sky. He had always hated clear skies, because clear skies are when the drones watch from above. Today was different though. He closed his eyes, faced the sun. He felt surrounded by the warmth of God’s love. The snake woman Talia and her legion of infidels could see him at all times, but they could not see into his mind, and they could not see into the future. They had money and power, but Rasheed had basira. He would accept Talia’s offer, work for her and gain her favor. In time she would let her guard down. And when that time came, he would be ready. “You were right Taariq,” Rasheed mused. “I did not choose the path, the path chose me.” |
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