​Pedro was one of a half-dozen men who paid smugglers to get them from the southern reaches of Mexico to the United States.  In the beginning, the men rode in a cargo van.  Then, after being given a gallon of water, they were hidden in sealed crates stacked in a tractor-trailer truck.  Pedro held his breath when the border patrol randomly searched three of the crates.  Luckily, the only items they saw were packaged electronics, ready for sale.  Once over the border, the illegal immigrants were driven to California’s Mojave Desert.  When Pedro jumped out of the truck, a stranger was waiting for him.  The man asked if he was Pedro.  Pedro stared through him.  He thought he was about to be arrested, and had just wasted the money his uncle lent him.  Instead, he was given a bicycle, and some directions.  After exchanging words in Spanish, Pedro understood it was another two hundred miles before he would reach California’s Central Valley.  He repeated the man’s words to himself.  Follow the map, and watch for police and immigration vehicles.  
Hours passed and Pedro rode the bike, with its rusty fenders and broken headlight, along the gravel road.  The bike’s chain was drier than a creek bed in the unforgiving desert.  The front tire was frayed, a patched inner tube partially exposed.  He crept forward.  Every ten to fifteen minutes, he scanned the land around him.  It was easy to see vehicles coming in his direction.  They made discrete dust devils on the horizon, and were a cue he needed to get off the road and lay flat behind the densest scrub brush he could find.  The game of cat and mouse added hours to the trip.  This was the same journey his uncle safely made three years earlier.  But things were different now.  He knew the longer he was visible, the more likely it was he would get caught. 
In the middle of the day, the summer sun pounded him.  Hours later, he was still broiling, like a pig on a spit.  Crispy on the outside, moisture trapped on the inside.  When Pedro tried to swallow, there was almost no saliva.  He wondered how long it took for a man to die.  Would anyone know?  Or care?  He looked up and mouthed a simple prayer.  O Mother, have pity on me.  Forgive me.  Have mercy on me.  He slogged on. 
The road flattened out, and he faced a long downhill stretch.  He was grateful to gain some momentum.  The trip was as hard as any of the back-breaking work he’d done back in the sugar cane fields.  At least there, relief came at the end of the day.  But he barely made enough money to take care of his wife and son.  It was only with his brother’s help that he built a two-room house from cement blocks.  Like the houses around them, theirs wasn’t ventilated, and the patio doubled as a kitchen.  His wife cooked all the meals outside, over an open fire.  When he came home from work, Pedro bathed behind the house, then sat while his wife did the evening chores.  Life was simple.  But they wanted more for their son.
As Pedro pedaled, he was certain there were eyes on him.  He doubted his uncle’s enthusiasm. 
“Come to California, you can work here.  The farm owners love Mexicans and the pay is much better.”
“But I don’t have working papers.  I’ll just get deported.”
“No, no you won’t.  If you can get here, it’s okay.  They need workers.  No one makes trouble here.”
The hours and miles ticked by.  Pedro thought about his family, and prayed to God for water.  Longer prayers now.  At least until he thought he saw a town in the distance.  Was it two miles away?  Five miles?  He didn’t believe it was real until he leaned his bicycle against the wall of a convenience store.   In the men’s bathroom, he put his mouth under the faucet and drank for a full minute.  His belly full of water, he pulled the directions out of his back pocket and tried to understand them.  Finally, with some of the twelve dollars and fourteen cents in his pocket, he bought a candy bar.  After he paid, in heavily accented English he asked the boy behind the register, “Route 43 around here?” 
The boy did not flinch.  “Up the road about 5 miles, take route 58 West.  It’ll git ya there.”
Pedro pointed up the road, “58 West first?”
“Yup.”  
On his way out, Pedro glanced over his shoulder and saw the boy giving directions to the next customer in line.  He wiped the nervous perspiration from his brow.  
*****
After joining Pedro in California six months earlier, Rosa still found herself dreaming about going back to Mexico.  She thought about the days when her son played stickball in the streets, and how she used to feed her family warm tortillas stuffed with skillet fried vegetables, chicken, and chili peppers.  Often, when preparing those dinners, a whiff of a pepper closed her throat.  She missed cooking outside over an open wood fire.  Using electric heat seemed to suck the moisture and flavor out of everything.  As much as she wished they were back with family and friends , this was her home now.  She remained silent.    
“This is what parents do,” her mother murmured when they hugged and said their good-byes, “give things up.”
Her mother was right.  Rosa pulled the bed covers up to her shoulders and tried to sleep. 
“Mamá.  It’s time to get up.”  The words came from the other side of the bedroom door.  Rosa wasn’t used to hearing her son so excited.
“Okay, okay, uno momento.”  She glanced at Pedro’s side of the bed.  “Where’s your papá?”
“Waiting outside.  Hurry Mamá, you know he has to go to work.”
Rosa willed herself out of bed.  After using the bathroom, she made her way back to the bedroom, picked up an old hairbrush she’d used since she was a child, and combed the tangles out her long, thick, black hair.  For clothes, Rosa picked out a new, bright-colored blouse and a pair of black, straight-leg jeans.  Then she grabbed her leather sandals, a gift Pedro gave her when she first arrived in California.  Back home, they couldn’t afford new shoes.
Rosa heard her son race out the front door yelling, “Papá, ella está lista.  Hurry.”
As she followed him outside, and into the sunshine, her husband came from around the corner pushing a brand-new bicycle.  Pedro and his son already had bikes.  Now, on her thirty-first birthday, Rosa had one too. 
“Happy birthday, Mamá.  Look, look, a new bike.”  Rosa giggled.  The frame was light blue, her favorite color.  The wheels had whitewall tires and shiny spokes.  Tassels hung from the rubber grips on the handle bars.  She watched Pedro run his fingers across the weaving of the white basket attached to the front handlebar. 
“I made sure to get a basket.  It’ll make carrying groceries easier.”  Buying food was a constant struggle for Rosa.  Back home, she picked vegetables from their backyard garden, or bartered with neighbors, to supplement the chickens they raised.  Here, she had to walk two miles to the grocery store after working all day.
“Mamá, do you like it?”’
“Sí, Sí.  I love it.”  She hugged her son, and then her husband.  Conscious of the time, Pedro took control.
“Happy birthday, Rosa.  I thought we could walk over to the bike path and take a half hour to practice riding it.  Then I have to go to work.”
“Thank you, Pedro.  I love you both.  But I don’t know how to ride a bike.”  She giggled again.
“It’s easy, Mamá.  You’ll see.”  Each took their bike by the handlebars and started the five-minute walk to the bike path.  Along the way, Rosa kept looking at the streamers and the shiny chrome.  She never had anything like this before.  Once they found a straight, quarter-mile stretch on the bike path, Pedro laid his bike on the ground.  He told Rosa to straddle the bike frame, with her feet planted on the ground.  She listened to his instructions: put one foot on the top pedal, push down and sit back on the seat, and then push down on the second pedal with the other foot.
“I won’t let you fall, I promise.”
Although she did exactly what he said, Rosa didn’t pedal hard enough to gain momentum.  Pedro ran beside her, pushing the bike so she could feel the freedom.
“Pedal, Mamá. Pedal.”
Rosa pedaled, but had trouble keeping the handlebars straight. The bike wobbled, and she almost fell.
“Uno momento,” Pedro cried, needing to catch his breath.  Rosa dragged her feet on the ground until the bike came to a complete stop.
After letting Pedro rest for a minute, Rosa was ready to try again.  Pedro pushed and once she got going, she pedaled away.  Pedro and her son hopped on their bikes and followed her.  At the bottom of the next incline, Rosa stopped and the threesome walked up the hill. It was clear she was a quick learner.
“Okay, no push this time.”  Pedro placed the bike so that it was facing downhill.  Rosa put her foot on the pedal, pushed off, sat on the seat, and pedaled harder this time.  She held the handlebars tight, and momentum took her away.  Instinctively, she scanned the land around her, making sure no one had eyes on them.  With her back to her husband and son, Rosa stopped pedaling and mouthed towards the sky, “For you my son…this is for you.”
 

John P. Plummer II received his M.A. from The Hartke Theatre at The Catholic University of America, in Washington, DC.  He spent a career in business and raised three fantastic daughters. For the past 20 years he has been writing screenplays, short stories, essays and film reviews and taking creative writing courses.  He is currently at work on a collection of linked stories: Charlottesville, VA 22094. 
 
 

​The next morning John-Paul woke up in his dorm room and found it spinning. Planting one foot on the floor he stabilized the room.  Twenty minutes later he took two Excedrin, went next door to the posh student athletic center for a shower, a sauna, a mini-workout, and a swim.  Passing a mirror he saw the head of his penis sticking though the hole of a broken condom.  That put a hitch in his giddy-up.  He stopped and stared for a long time trying to remember last night.  What the fuck happened? Rubbing and scrubbing himself in the shower he replayed last night over and over.  It was still a tequila haze. But he knew something had happened.  The tooth fairy hadn’t planted that rubber.  He had to figure things out. 
At first John-Paul started walking moderately on the treadmill machine. Inside his head a thunderstorm was brewing.  My God, had he gotten her pregnant? How did this thing happen?  Why no memory about anything? This is the biggest fuck-up of his life. How could he have done this to himself?
Now his stomach was beginning to churn in a hostile and rebellious fashion.  He started to slow the machine down to a leisurely stroll. But what about Beth?  What was he going to do about Beth?  He couldn’t tell her about this. But then again, she might find out?  Or she could never find out. But then what kind of a person would he be in her eyes if she turned up pregnant in two weeks?  But hell she might have fucked a couple other dudes between now and then. Jesus, what a thing to think?  He felt like a stupid bastard.  He knew Beth wasn’t a slut. But there he was trying to take a fraud's way out. He liked Beth. Even if he couldn’t recall what it was like having sex with her. After spending the evening with her he had gotten to know her pretty well. In fact at one point he did remember thinking that her easy conversation style felt more like he was spending time with a dude rather than a chick.
He was getting sicker and got off the treadmill and went to the restroom to throw up.  But as soon as he threw up he had to turn around because his bowels were demanding their turn.  The problem with feeling this revolting was that he couldn’t tell how much of it was the tequila and how much was panic. He felt he didn’t deserve to be at UVA, the school Thomas Jefferson founded.  Instead he should be working for the mob, back in Jersey, driving a garbage truck.  Trying to build a life with Kimmy. 
KIMMY?  Oh God.  He had broken his promise. He didn’t last a month. He couldn’t even give her 30 days of faithfulness, let alone the fall semester. It was the one thing she had asked for.  He told himself it would be a piece of cake. He could do this. Yeah, right.
He cleaned himself up, cleaned the stall up, and stripped for a shower.  He put the same sweaty gym clothes back on and headed toward the Nautilus machines.  He paused at the clock and tried to time his heartbeats via the carotid artery and couldn’t it was pounding like a freight train.  He climbed on the first machine after lowering it to forty pounds and thought about what he was going to tell Kim. Right then he got his first chest pang.
He sprang off the machine and started pinching his left nipple urgently to make it stop.  He was getting scared and started to just walk around the exercise room trying to calm down. He realized he needed to compartmentalize all this shit.
He was almost thinking out loud now.  Okay, three major problems, require three separate solutions. He needed to categorize, prioritize, and then act.  He’ll do that, now. Kimmy?  Definitely put her in pile number three, no action needed at this time.  What if Beth’s pregnant?  pile number two.  No action needed today, cross that bridge if and when.  Should I tell Beth about the broken condom?  Man-up, grow a pair of balls. This is a super cool girl who deserves to be treated with respect.  If he were the one who could get pregnant he’d sure as hell want to know.
That’s it. Thinking clearly now.  Clicking on all cylinders.  He’ll stick to this plan.  Take action now.  Text Beth, tell her we need to talk, now.  Then take another shower.
 
One of the advantages of living in Charlottesville is the plethora of coffee shops and breakfast joints.  Beth suggested The Muffin Hut and he got there first.  She entered wearing a pea coat, red-rimmed glasses and a bedhead (she must have been wearing contacts before).  She sat across from him, took off her mittens and blew on the mug of coffee he pre-ordered for her.
“Promise me one thing JP, we’ll never match shots of tequila again,” she said.
“Oh that’s easy, agreed,” he said.
“I was still asleep when your text message came.  The last thing I remember was my roommate asking you to leave last night,” she said.
“I’m drawing a blank on that.”
“So how are you doing this morning?” she asked.
“Oh, I don’t know.  Having the worse morning of my life?”
Beth almost laughed with a mouthful of coffee until her eyes met his and she knew that this was a crucial conversation.
“Tell me what’s happened?” she said.
“I looked in the mirror this morning and saw my dick sticking out through a broken condom,” he said.
She dropped her teaspoon. She added some milk to her coffee and stirred it very slowly, watching everything she did. Then she reached across the table and they held hands in silence for a minute.
“What a fucking stand-up guy you are. You could have kept this under your hat and not said a word. God, I just want to fucking hug you.  Girls dream of finding a stand-up man but this is a shitty way of discovering the true quality of a dude.”
“Yup.”
“So we’re here to discuss what to do?”
“Right.”
“And neither one of us has ever experienced something like this, right?” she asked.
“Right again,” he said.
“Well I suppose the logical thing to do is for me to drive over to Planned Parenthood tomorrow as soon as they open and get the Morning After pill or shot or what ever it is.”
“We,” he said.
“Who are you?” she said.  She cocked her head stared at him and considered this alien being as if he just parked his flying saucer at the curb.
After more talking and sharing they each started feeling a little better. They separated their hands in order to eat the muffins with one hand and have more coffee.
“I’m impressed with you,” she said.  “I’ve had sex with two guys before you.  One junior year, one senior year both relationships were okay, but still high school level maturity.”  Outside on the sidewalk it had warmed up and she didn’t need her coat.  Beth gave him a tight meaningful hug there in the sunlight.
He held her by the elbows and spoke into her eyes, “I’m sorry about this, I really am.”
“Oh please don’t say that.  It takes two to tango.  I’m the one who gave you the shitty condom.  It was probably a hundred years old. And I’m not some kind of slut with a dozen Trojans in her nightstand either. I wouldn’t worry too much, I’m probably not pregnant.”
“From your lips to God’s ears,” he said and kissed her lightly on the forehead.  I’ll pick you up at 8:45 tomorrow.”
He turned and walked north back to his dorm and she stood there watching, wondering, and hopeful.
            TEXT MESSAGE: “Let’s Skype tonight, 7-ish?  SENT from Kim’s iPhone.
Great.
 
Not a lot of studying was done in those next seven hours.  It seemed that he was playing whack-a-mole with his piles of problems.  No sooner did he brush the muffin crumbs off his sweatshirt than ‘Pile 3’ raised its ugly head.
He didn’t want to talk to Kim tonight.  He didn’t want to talk to Kim for a month of Sundays.  He considered not replying, or claiming not to have gotten the text but both ideas were lame. Worse was to be a ‘no show.’ He had to Skype with her tonight or else red flags would fly in her face.  He was worried about how his nervousness would affect his voice. Would it crack, would she know? He thought of just doing a phone call but concluded that without a visual everything would focus on the voice.  No, he had to face the loveliest girl in America, the girl he said he loved, the girl who had told him that she loved him. And then lie his skinny white ass off.  OH!  He had another chest pang — two in one day — lucky guy.
How does this sound as an opening salutation he thought? ‘Hello Love-of-My-Life, I’ve been faithful this week; have you been faithful too?’  Shoot me now, Lord, just shoot me now. He was agonizing over what to say, what to talk about? But wait, that’s not his job.  This is Kim’s call, she wants to talk, let her carry the conversation.
He decided to just put some bullet points down on paper to answer those ‘how-are-things-going-in-Charlottesville’ questions.
 
Ready or not it was seven o’clock and Kim’s lovely face appeared on the screen.  She sat on her bed with a towel wrapped around her freshly shampooed hair.  Thank God she put a t-shirt on.
“Hey Baby. How’re you doing?” he spoke first.
“Well I got called to my guidance counselor’s office this week because they had me down as flunking band and that put me in panic mode until I could find my copy of the official ‘withdraw’ notice I turned in weeks ago. Don’t ever get on me about saving shit.  I may save stuff but I also purge when it’s not needed.  It saved my ass this week.”
“So how’s your week in UVA gone?” she asked.  And that gave John-Paul the green light to just start running down the bullet points: winning shot in intramural basketball game (a lie), learned how to film with a 16 mm camera, (partially true — saw a film on it), got an “A” on his Non-Fiction story (true), found out everyone in class must be available as cast and crew for each other’s film projects, (true).  They signed off thirty minutes later.  Smooth and uneventful; but a word to the wise, start, now, making bullet point lists for next Sunday.  A reprieve.  
 
    Monday at 9:05 a.m. they showed up at the Planned Parenthood Center.  Walking from the car they didn’t hold hands but rather walked side by side like old friends comfortable in their silence, their minds focused on the mission at hand. The offices were located in a one-story long red brick building full of professional medical offices about a block from the University Medical Center.  Inside it looked like a regular doctor’s office.  After the filling out of forms and waiting 15 minutes they went to an interview room.  It was too early to do a pregnancy test so the nurse / counselor, Ronda, explained everything about the so-called ‘morning after pill’ which in this case was a specific product from Teva called Plan B One Step which was just that, one pill.  They were counseled that it was not an abortion pill and that it was effective in seven out of eight pregnancies.  The sooner the pill is taken the better the odds.  He didn’t like those odds.
            So Beth took the pill then and there, but wanted to explore birth control pills with the counselor.  After more Q&A’s it was decided that Beth needed to come back on the exact first day of her next menstrual cycle that they assumed would be in two weeks. 
            On the drive back she touched his hand gently and asked: “So are you going to share our little misadventure with you sweetheart back home?”
            “I don’t know, I’m wrestling with that, I figure I’ve got a 50% shot at forgiveness.”
            “Let me know if you want to talk,” she said.
 
            Over the next two weeks they saw each other infrequently.  Once by accident on Friday at the Student Union where she whispered in his ear: ‘still not pregnant’ and they secretly smiled at each other as if they were ships in the night passing each other.  Then next week they bumped into each other at The Revival Art House going to vintage films.  Beth was there with two African-American girls to see Spike Lee’s 1991 Jungle Fever and he was there stag for 1953’s Wages of Fear.  He was glad she wasn’t on a date.  Beth seemed to pop into his thoughts more often than Kim did these days.
 
Yesterday he was so sick with worry that he threw-up. He went to the student health center and asked for a prescription. He was sorry and regretful at what had happened. He had let Kim and himself down.  In his struggling with the facts he often was searching for an escape hatch of some kind from this box of sorrows he had jailed himself in.  How could he be held accountable for something that he didn’t remember? There was no act of free will on his part. He had never chosen to betray her.
There were over 22,000 registered students on campus.  What are the odds that she’d ever meet Beth when she moved down here in January?  Almost zero.  And what if they did meet some day? It was not something that Beth wanted to share with the world; he knew that from talking with her.  That did it, he would lie to Kim. He would never tell her about Beth. It was logical, it was safe, and it would calm him down.  Maybe even relieve his anxiety attacks somewhat.
 
Later Kim Skyped him with good news; she had earned an ‘A’ on her last trig exam.  The tutor was helping.  She was so excited. She told him she could actually visualize them living together in Charlottesville.  They planned on Kim coming down Thanksgiving weekend so they could look for housing together.
 
            By the second week marker of Plan B One Step Beth performed a home pregnancy test on a Sunday morning. She called and left John-Paul a voice mail with those two words that strike dread, fear, and nausea into any 18-year-old man’s psyche.  
            At two o’clock that afternoon they met at The Alpine Outpost.  The bar was crowded with Redskins’ fans and Panther fans watching games.  It was warm so they sat on a couch with a view of the valley through half open windows.  He was drinking Zinfandel and she Pinot Grigio.
            “Well it seems fate keeps bringing us together,” Beth said as she put her feet up on the rustic railing.
            “I’m like a bad penny that keeps turning up at your door,” he said.
            “Oh give me a break, knock off the ‘woe is me’. Remember this is a joint venture.  That’s why I called you.”
            “You’re right, you’re right, I know,” he said.
            “So have you given any thought to our little zygote?” she asked gazing out at the turning leaves of the valley and further mountains.
            “All I’ve done for the past two hours is worry and obsess about this and what you’re going to do?”
            “Oh, so it’s my baby?” she asked.
            “Thank God, I know you well enough to know when you’re kidding.  It’s our baby, always has been, always will be no matter what we decide. I was just trying to present my sensitive, modern male side to you. I’m a liberal, or progressive as we’ve now been force to label ourselves.  I’m not some redneck legislator trying to police what you do with your body,” he said.
            “Alright, Hillary, you passed the test, good job.  Now look me in the eyes and tell me what YOU feel, what YOU want,” she said.
            He stared back at her without blinking.  “You are so easy to talk to.  Even discussing such a monumental decision as this is like talking to my close friend with whom I can share anything.”    
            “Share away, JP, share away.” She said.
            “Okay so I’ve got two major — competing — avenues of thought.  First I’m a Catholic.  I did eight years of elementary school at St. Francis. The nuns beat into us that once the sperm entered the egg human then human life had been created; period end of story. And to terminate that life at any time was murder.  They even showed us color photos.  I’d never given it much thought, till now.  I just swallowed it hook, line, and sinker. It was just part of me, part of my upbringing, part of who I am and until now, I’ve never dwelled on it.”
            “Don’t,” she said, pulling his hand away from the couch button he was nervously trying to free.
            “But a baby, in my life, now?  I’m a fucking freshman in college.  I’m so wet behind the ears I don’t know what I’m doing.” A huge cheer went up as someone’s team scored.  “I’m so out of touch with reality that at 18, I promised my girlfriend I’d be faithful to her. And now, I hate to say this, but in some way she’s less my true love and more like a landmine I need to be cautious around.  I hate myself for thinking that, or saying that, hell I don’t know what’s going inside my head.  I’m just sure that I’m in no condition to accept the role of fatherhood,” he said and blinked for the first time.
            He looked down and saw that they were holding hands.  He didn’t know how that happened or who initiated it.  He looked back at her and saw two small tears standing in her eyes, but not falling. She leaned across and kissed him on the lips so gently and non-romantically that her kiss felt to him like a falling leaf brushing by his lips.
            A waitress, who had been eyeing them, stooped and placed a handful of napkins in Beth’s lap from the tray of drinks she was carrying.
            “I look that bad, huh?” Beth said to her.
            “No, you look that happy,” she said and disappeared.
            That opened the floodgates for her.  John-Paul was aware that he was in a moment the like of which he had never experienced with Kim or anyone. It was something huge and almost sacred.  Something only the closest of couples could share.  He wasn’t sure what was going on inside Beth, but he could feel it and wanted to be part of it, in the moment with her.
            They sat side by side, watching the gold, red, and maroon leaves sway back and forth in some unheard rhapsody.
            After a minute, fully composed, she spoke:  “You need to tell me how you really feel.” And with that they both cracked up with laughter that lasted a few seconds.
            John-Paul uncoupled their hands and put his right arm around her shoulders while she held his thigh up around the knee.  They relaxed into each other.
            “Well I think every girl or woman my age has thought about what we’d do if we got pregnant.  I guess we have that little monthly reminder that does that to us,” she wadded up a used napkin and swished it into the trashcan.
            “I’m different from you on the culture of belief.  I’ve always had the opinion that the life of a baby doesn’t begin until the mother feels that first kick or stretch. There’s just too much that can go wrong in those first months.  Also I’ve always believed that I would know when I was ready, not just to have a baby, but be a good mother. Now, is not the time for me,” she said.
            “Really?”
            “But I can’t do this without hearing those words from your lips.  I don’t want to go through life remembering your baby, my abortion.  I need you John-Paul, I really need your commitment,” she said.
            “Beth, I don’t want us to have our baby now,” he placed his left hand over her womb, “not at this time, but if I was ready, there is no one on God’s green earth with whom I’d rather build a family than you.” He meant it from his heart even though he was a bit taken aback by the words full impact. JP knew from experience that some times he don’t know how he really felt about some one or some thing until he wrote the words down or said them out loud.
 
            So the next day, Monday, again found them in Ronda’s office at Planned Parenthood who confirmed the pregnancy with their own lab equipment.  Next began the long line of hoops that far right legislators put in front of women seeking an abortion in Virginia.  Mandatory counseling, all options explained, 24 hour waiting period, and an ultrasound 24 hours in advance at which time the provider must offer the woman the option of seeing the ultrasound image.
            His phone buzzed and he glanced down. It was Kim, perfect timing.  Oh hi honey.  Oh nothing much, Beth and I are just sitting here at Planned Parenthood scheduling our abortion for, what is it again, Wednesday?  Yes, it’s Wednesday.  Oh, and you know that promise about abstinence and celibacy?  Well you can file that promise in the same file folder as Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny.
 
            Wednesday he drove Beth to the facility. They were both sky-high on adrenaline and apprehension. He made two wrong turns. Nothing was supposed to go wrong in this straightforward early term abortion. But that didn’t keep him from praying for her.  He stroked her hair, held her hands and looked deep into her eyes as he kissed her on the lips and said “I love you, everything’s going to be fine. I’ll be right here,” just as they started to wheel her back.  A nurse saw this and winked him approval. 
He need not have worried.  An hour later he was sitting beside her bed in the recovery area holding her hand.  He thought she looked wasted, as if she had just run a marathon. Neither said much.  He hoped that she wouldn’t be too depressed.  He felt relieved, terrible, thankful, and guilty.  Karma had now linked them together forever in the cosmos. He just wanted to take good care of her and see to her every need.
He brought her to her dorm room, tucked her in bed with a hot water bottle and went out to get her prescription filled.  Upon his return he napped beside her bed most of the afternoon on the floor.  Upon waking and feeling 50% better she was hungry for some egg drop soup from her favorite Charlottesville restaurant, The Great Wall.  He was almost out the door when she called him back for the coupon on her desk.  That’s when his life changed forever.  On her desk was the happy family photo. Left to right: Beth, her mother and step-father and then Kim. His Kim.
Heart palpitations are sometimes depicted comically; as something Margaret Dumont would suffer after a remark by Groucho Marx. What John-Paul was experiencing was a major angst attack.  But he had to speak. He had to verify.
“Who’s this?” he asked holding up the framed glossy photo. 
“That’s our family Christmas photo from last year: me, my mom, my stepdad, and my stepsister, Kim.  We love to confuse people and sign them ‘Merry Christmas from the Mancinis and the DeCarlos’ because we all kept our names from before.”
“Kim,” he repeated.
“We became a blended family second grade or so.  Kim and I are only a month apart by age but she was held back in second grade.  It was my mother, a Special Ed teacher, who diagnosed her Dyslexia and got her on track.  Changed her life.”
“Changed her life,” he repeated.
 
Walking home that night he was so lost in thought that he walked right past his dorm, then off campus and kept going.  He knew he wasn’t a kid any more.  He was a man with man-sized problems and man-sized responsibilities.  He was involved with two women, sisters.  He had strong feelings for both of them. He had placed himself in a situation where he knew he was going to devastate one or maybe both.  And he hated himself for that.  He wanted this tragedy of errors to end with one of the sisters willing to forgive him, preserve their friendship, and continue seeing each other.
All his life he had been an honest, straight arrow Boy Scout. But now he realized that he was going to have to actively manipulate this process to his favor.  Kind of like the bumpers rails for kids at bowling allies. For that to happen he needed to grab one sister by the hand and let the other walk away.
He was going to have to choose between Kim and Beth. When did God die and leave in him charge? He felt so empty and alone. He had made love to both of these girls and had spent a lot of time with them.  He knew them intimately.  Kim was so free with her body and so willing that he smiled with the memories.  Although he remembered little of the actual sex with Beth on the night in question, he had gotten to know her better because of their baptism of fire together.  She gave of herself; her heart, her mind, and her soul; especially when the chips were down.  He could talk to her like no one ever before.  She was wise, levelheaded, and forgiving. He wished he could share this dilemma with her now. But he couldn’t.  She had a heart as big as Alaska and she would want to fix this. He could not allow that to happen.
As he returned and passed through the university’s main gate, he thought about how lively and cute Kim was, and how she had tons of friends. But Kim was also volatile and impulsive and in her own words: “I have a problem forgiving people.”  That made it an open and shut case — she was lost to him forever.  Trying to apologize, explain or make amends with her was tantamount to pouring gasoline on her anger. He knew she could not and would not forgive him.  There was no future for them. He feared telling her the truth.  It was going to be best to have that conversation in a public space. He knew it was impossible for her to forgive infidelity.  She had made that very clear.
And as for Beth he realized he was taking the biggest gamble of his life. He was choosing to forego short-term confidentiality for long–term intimacy and honesty. He hoped. He prayed. It would pain him (and her) not to talk with her about this but he had to do whatever was necessary to safeguard and preserve his relationship with her.  He just had to make sure these two sisters didn’t run into each other when Kim was down here next week. 
By the time he had concluded the round trip he wanted nothing more than to lie down beside her and tell Beth everything. He thought back to the afternoon at The Alpine Outpost. It felt so good talking to Beth about significant things and not have to worry about anything — from his heart to her heart and back again. — It was a cycle he could blissfully spend in eternity.
 
The regularly scheduled Sunday evening SKYPE with Kimmy started off like this.
“What’s the matter, you don’t look well,” she said.
“Yeah, I’m feeling wiped out.  I can’t wait for this semester to be over,” he said.
“Are you sick?” she asked.
“More like stressed out.  I never realized how difficult college was going to be.”
“But you’re passing all your courses aren’t you?” she asked.
He managed to sit up straight and smile. “Right.”
“Did you get a chance to look at any of those apartments on Craig’s List I emailed you?”
“Sorry, Babe, I’ve really been swamped,” he said.
“Well don’t worry, I’ll be there soon for the Thanksgiving break and the big Virginia—Virginia Tech game.  I’m so happy your roommate is going back to Richmond.  I can’t wait to hold you in my arms again,” she said.  The closer the time got to her visit the more excited she became and the more fearful he became.
 
Every afternoon for the first week after the abortion he found himself in her dorm room checking on her recovery.  He learned that it wasn’t all flowers and sunshine.  He had picked-up some Ibuprofen for her for pain and they were both pleased there was no post surgical bleeding to speak of.  But then, slowly, so slowly and naturally that it was almost imperceptible to either of them he ended up using her room every afternoon as study hall. Each anticipated it; Beth always had the most beautiful smile to great him.  She gave him his space to read his screenplays and work on papers on his laptop. Then they would walk together down to the Graham Building’s dinning hall for supper.
Then he’d walk her back, give her a good-bye hug and return to his dorm.  But one night, right before Thanksgiving, on the way back up the hill she spoke about the unspoken.
“Are you going to tell her?  No. I’m sorry. I’m prying, you don’t have to answer that.”
“Well she’s practically my fiancée, I think I have to,” he said.
“Interesting.  That’s going to be tricky.  How do you think it will go?”
“I rate my chances for forgiveness at less than 4%,” he said.
“4%?  What happened to 50%?”  Beth’s face had a look on it he could not interpret.
He just looked away and shrugged his shoulders.
“What? What are you keeping from me?” Beth looked at him hard; she peered deep into his brown eyes and was not able to read him. She thumped him hard on his chest, twice. “God damn it, let me in. What’s going on? You were there for me? Why won’t you confide in me now?  Look, I know you are struggling with this and you’ve always been so open and honest with me.  I don’t like that you are hurting and turning into this silent Ryan Gosling-type. It’s wrong.”
“She had a horrible experience with her mother’s infidelity when she was very young and that’s what this is all tied into. She has zero tolerance for infidelity.”
“But she may never find out.  You know I’d never say anything,” she said.
“Thanks, but for reasons I don’t want to go to I’m pretty sure she’ll find out,” he said.
“What the fuck does that mean?  Damn you John-Paul. What the fuck does that mean?”
 “Once this is over I will spill my guts, totally open up,” he said.
“I hope it’s not too late by then.  Remember Henry the IV Part I ‘The better part of valor is discretion.’ Be careful and make sure damn sure you tell her we were both fucking drunk and none of it was planned.” They stood there in dark November evening just holding hands.  “Give me a hug. If you weren’t betrothed, believe me we’d be doing more than texting and studying.  You don’t know how hard it’s been to keep my hands off you these past couple of weeks.”
With that complication he kept his suddenly filled eyes from her. 
They hugged very hard and then she kissed him on the lips.  “I hope everything works out for you and this girl. You’re a keeper.”
 
Sometimes in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia, when the leaves are at their colorful peak, a nighttime thunder storm will ferociously blow through and knock down every single remaining leaf, and leave behind a carpet of yellow, orange, red and naked black trees.  It was that kind of night on Thanksgiving Eve. Kim called from her car in the parking lot outside Hamilton Hall.
“I’m here!  Bring down your letterman’s jacket I’m freezing.  I told you I wanted you to give it to me,” she said.
“It’s too big,” he said.
            “It’s toasty and cozy,” she said.
“I’m on my way down.”
“And then I need dinner. After 4 ½ hours on the road in that holiday traffic I’m starving.”
She didn’t want to come up right away! Thank God. Another bullet dodged.  He had had two dreams the past few nights about performance issues with Kim.  He kept seeing Beth’s smile.
           
            More students were staying over for the game the next day evidenced by the crowd at The Great Wall. They took a booth against the wall at the far end. They ordered their respective favorites. Kim pulled her iPhone out to share pictures of some apartments she found on Craig’s List, but she also pulled out some business cards from his jacket pocket that she was wearing.  “What do we have here?” she asked.
            He took the cards and started laying them out in front of her like he was an Atlantic City blackjack dealer.
            “Dr. Jackson, he’s a Internist who wrote the Xanax script. Dr. Patel, she gave me Librax for the I.B.S.”
            “There’s a story there,” she said with a dead voice.
            “And you are going to hear it now,” he said.
            “Did you bring our ring?” he asked.
            She fished the small diamond ring from under her shirt on the delicate gold necklace and fingered it.  The room got a tad bit quieter when Mr. Lu, the owner, turned off his small television in his booth up front.  The waitress arrived with their food.
            “I could have passed a lie detector test to prove my faithfulness to you but that wouldn’t be true.”
            “It wouldn’t be true?” she asked in a worried tone.
            “I had opportunities.  Believe me this is not high school down here.  I walked away and removed myself from temptation, for you, for me, for us.  But one time, and honest to God I don’t remember much about that night, but I met this girl from one of my classes at a bar and we got smashed on tequila shots. We were both hammered but I was able to walk her back to her dorm room.”
            “You were in her dorm room?”
            “And that’s all I remember until I woke up the next morning in my own bed, with a broken condom on.  I don’t remember having sex with her, I don’t remember how I got home; I don’t even have any rubbers.  There was no decision made on my part to cheat on you.”
            “But you did.”
            “Until I saw that rubber the next morning, I thought I was still faithful.”
            At that moment, Beth walked into The Great Wall with two girl friends.
He saw Beth in the distance. 
            “Well this explains the Xanax and Librax,” Kim said.
            “Right.”
             Beth made eye contact with John-Paul.  She separated herself from her friends because she recognized the troubled look on his face.  She walked toward his booth.
Finally she said:  “Is that it?”
            “It gets worse,” he said.
“How did it get worse?  You kept seeing her?  You fell in love with her? What?”
            Kim, irritated and impatient now, struck the table with her small fist: “How does it get worse?”
            Now Beth is at the booth and finally able to see Kim.  “Kim!” she said startled.
            “It was your sister.  The girl was Beth.  I had no idea until weeks later that you two were stepsisters.”
            Beth and Kim both grasped what’s going down. 
            “Kim is the girlfriend?” Beth asked.
            Kim stood, grabbed the jacket, ripped the ring and chain from her neck and threw it into his Egg Foo Young.  In a sneering hard whisper Kim spluttered out: “I loved you, I trusted you, I was going to marry you. Maybe in time I could have forgiven you. But you did it with her? Her? You fucked my stepsister? The last person in the world I’d — this is truly unforgivable.”
            Then she turned to Beth: “You are and always have been the wicked stepsister.  I hope you burn in hell,” and ran out the door sobbing.
            “Kim, wait,” Beth called out running after her sister.  She stopped and turned and with eyebrows and arms raised high and gave John-Paul a look that said, “Aren’t you coming?” 
            He shook his head no then dropped his head and looked straight down at the engagement ring and chain half submerged in brown gravy. He was drained dry of all emotions except for relief.  All the secrets and lies were out now. He had never felt this wiped out. He had been so lonely with all this held inside him the past few weeks. How he had ached to share this with Beth.
After a few minutes Beth walked back in and sat down in Kim’s spot. “Let’s just hope for both of our sakes she cannot lay her hands on a gun tonight.  She’s off the charts crazy.”
Nothing was said for a couple minutes.
 “Well here’s another fine mess you’ve gotten us into,” she said. She picked up a dried noodle and threw it at him.  “You should have told me as soon as you saw that family Christmas photo that Kim was your girlfriend.”
He knew he must let her vent.
“Don’t be angry.”
“I’m angry because all of this could have been avoided, a different ending crafted if you would have just been the same man I know you are, and trusted me.  You came to me and confided in me and treated me as a partner when you found the broken condom.  You were so supportive, honorable, and yes, even magnificent during the entire abortion experience and aftermath,” she said.
“But for three weeks you could study in my room, have supper with me, and every day say nothing.  Jesus, John-Paul I thought we were more than that,” she said.
“We are.”
“Did you really think that I’d ring her up and say ‘hi Kim, guess what, I fucked your boyfriend’?”
“I don’t know what I was thinking.  I was scared.  I was lying to the two women who meant the most to me.  I was trying to contain everything and manage it so no one got hurt,” he said.
You don’t manage life, JP, you gird yourself with a belief system and then live your life accordingly.”
“It wasn’t valorous of you to come clean with Kim about everything, although I’m sure that’s what you were thinking.  Remember when we talked about this and I said ‘The better part of valor is discretion’? — This is what I was talking about.”
“You know damn well I would never tell her about us.  Even if you two ended up getting married and having fifteen kids, it would have been our life-long secret. And do you know why?  Because it was a freaking accident and I care so much for you.  No one planned anything. It just happened. It was between us,” she said.  “I would have convinced you not to confess.” She concluded.    
She took Kim’s fork and fished the necklace and ring from his dinner plate and dropped it into a glass of ice water.
“Is something else going on here?” she asked him cocking her head.
She stirred the necklace vigorously and when she was satisfied she laid them on the cloth napkin and started to blot them dry.  “A 4% chance at forgiveness,” she said.
Beth removed the ring and placed it beside his plate.  Then she put the broken chain in her pocket.  “She steals all my jewelry.” 
He covered his mouth with his hand and tried not to smile.
She stood to go.  “You’re not mortally wounded.  You can learn from this.  You can pick up the pieces and try not to make the same mistake.
“And you, Beth, what about you?”
“I’ll get over this. I tend to move on pretty quickly.  Holding a grudge is so unhealthy,” she said.   “And as for you, there is something else going on here. We’re not finished. I need to keep an eye on you, make sure you get back on the straight and narrow.  Next semester, after the holiday break, I expect you back in my dorm room each afternoon for study hall.”
                                                                      The End

​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.

​When a girl touches your dick you don’t need to ask for a certificate of intention, word.
          She said you raped her.
          The bitch lied, I ain’t no tree jumper.
          They found semen in her vagina, d-n-a tests affirm it’s yours.
          They didn’t need no d-n-a, just had to ask me. Hey, she came to my crib, on her own volition, word. Nobody forced her. We were watching TV and she reached over for my dick, rubbed it until it was pointing due north, she even kissed it and then like a promise kept she sat on it until I came like an out of season Mississippi flood so sure they found my semen in her pussy.
          Why do you think she lied...if she did?
          If she did! Come on, let’s get this bitch moving. Are you gonna’ handle my appeal or what?
          We haven’t decided yet. The ACLU has to establish some legal malefaction took place.
          Malefact this! They gave me a lawyer and the first thing he said, not asking me if I was innocent or not, first thing – plead guilty and get a lighter sentence. Yeah, I got your lighter.
Here I am nine years later locked up like a blathering, word, baboon on a bogus hummer fighting off pervs who want a piece of me. They added one year because I clocked a motherfucker who was reaching for me in the shower. Shit I never even been strapped and they got me facing a dime now.
          Strapped?
          Carrying a piece, a gun.
          Your file says that your sentence, after your plea, was...
          My file my file! Does it also say that the bitch was no virgin? Ask Vinnie-the-pipe, or Georgie-skin-head, they each got a piece of her pussy and who knows how many other cell warriors worked the sides of her pudenda.
          Why do you think she claimed you raped her and not Vinnie Pipe or Georgie whatever?
          Skin-head. Because she wanted me to be her man. Vinnie was a limping acne case scrambling for meds and Georgie skin-head made you want to taste some brake fluid before you’d consider committing to be an item with Mister forget-about-it.
          Brake fluid?
          Pills the shrink gives the cons who are too close to the edge. Shit, she talked up and down the street as if we were fucking engaged. When I said no way, we’re just into some good sexualizationing and from me to you not all that good but it’s a no contest far better than the fee fee in the joint.
Fee fee?
Fake pussy used for jacking off made by rolling a towel into a tube and then putting a plastic bag inside and adding lotion. But that’s all of which went down with me and her. Listen, listen hard. I did nothing that wasn’t consensual. Consensual? Shit, I was the one who had to consense. And she has the temerity, word, she had the balls, women don’t have balls but you know what I’m saying when she laid her claim down! Talk about hell hath no wrath like a woman scorned.
          I didn’t expect that quote from you, to be frank.
          It’s from The Mourning Bride, by William Congreve, English. English peoples have a way with words.
          Your file says you never even graduated high school.
          I read my ass off in the prison library. That’s the only place I can sit and not watch my butt. I got all kindsa’ things in my head now like, when I’m out in population I’m gonna’ find her and...
          If you tell me you’re going to commit an unlawful act it’s my responsibility to report it.
          You going to rep me and handle my appeal or not?
          Let’s talk some more and please, nothing about any intention for revenge.
          God is a mean-spirited, pugnacious bully bent on revenge, Walt Whitman. God is bent on revenge. Not me.
          You didn’t finish Whitman. Bent on revenge against His children for failing to live up to his impossible standards.
          You been reading books, too.
          How does it work to be able to spend a lot of time in the prison library?
          A woman runs it. Got me a Cadillac job. She specifically asked that I be her assistant so now I got my work-duty covered in dusty books instead of breathing shitty steam in the laundry room. She even brings in a salad for me which is a lot better than the choke sandwiches they serve for lunch.
          Choke sandwich?
          Peanut butter with no jelly. We got a nice thing going me and her.
          You’re not...don’t tell me if you do but please, do not get involved with a civilian, the woman running the library because if...
          Hey, cease and desist. Mrs. Bergenwald is fifty-three and fat for days. You’d have to fuck a crease in her thigh before you even got close to her pussy. Involved with Mrs. B? Hey no disrespect but she is a dump truck with a degree in books.
          Okay, back to the subject. Maybe there’s something I’m missing because right now it’s a she-said he-said. I need more.
          Like what?
          If I knew I wouldn’t be asking for more...more detail.
          Such as?
          I’m searching for...let’s do a linear chronological history.
          You’re going to send me back to the library with linear chronological shit.
          Starting with when it all started.
          When what “it” started?
          I mean when you first saw her, met her and all the events leading to her claim.
          Hey man I can’t be responsible for when she decided to be low down bottom feeder. You’d need a Doctor Freud which I read about in the library who has an obvious fixation on mommy, sex and shit. He pushes the envelope but when you open the puppy it’s empty. Freud’s an ill motherfucker if you ask me.
          You’re an interesting man.
          If you said that to me on the block I’d have to clarify I ain’t no June bug.
          June bug?
          You know, sort of a con who lays down like an obedient punk only to be dominated by the infamous others.  
          Not my intention.
          Why infamous? Shouldn’t it be unfamous?
          You have no formal education yet you have educated yourself in the prison library.
          Are you talking to yourself because what you’re putting down ain’t any kinda’ news.
          Just notating elements of your makeup that may impress the infamous, or if you wish, unfamous others. Including the fact that you obviously have a good memory and...
That’s sometimes the bad news, too. Some shit I ‘member I could do without. Your father ever clock your mother and drop-kick you for objecting? Forget I asked. Talk to me as if I didn’t say that or if I did you had no way of hearing because I mumbled beyond your comprehension, word. Why are you smiling?
You have a way of talking, almost like Bob Dylan, a unique kind of street rhythm.
          Dylan! The dude sings like he got a half eaten saltine stranded in his esophagus, word, but I like the other Dylan. Dylan Thomas. “Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.” I got enough rage boiling inside of me to put out the lights. Forget I said that. What else?
          Well, I’ll share my findings with my supervisor and...
          Findings? People with good education too many times time ten use words to cover up other words. What the fuck are findings you gotta’ share about me?
          How about more information required for a recommendation that we consider filing an appeal on your behalf.
          Consider. Who is the considering honcho who may not be all that considerate?
          In this case we have a triad. Three full time staff attorneys and I make my pitch to go to bat for you in court and if necessary, hearings attesting to the worthiness of your situation. Until than it’s important that you do not get into any trouble, any fights or...
          Sometimes a face-off is unavoidable unless you’re pussy and that ain’t my scene I mean some wanna-be border brother might try and yoke me up just for a rollie and I ain’t having all that.
          Yoke you up for...
          Come from behind and stab me for a cigarette. I mean in the slam the log is so crooked it won’t sit still. Cons seldom come out of the same hole. Specially if they’re chasing the dragon.
          Chasing the...
          Dope fiend...needing their hit no matter the odds they’re busier than a one legged man in a butt kicking contest doing whatever it takes and most times if you don’t watch your back it’s your ass for the taking. Listen to me distracting from the issue which is loud and clear. Tell me, how long before you’ll know, before I know if you’re going to get my ass out of this insane making crazy bat-shit cave?
          Whoa...you’re moving too fast.
Too fast. Shit, when you’re doing time a minute’s as long as year. Too fast your ass.
Okay. If the board agrees then I and most likely another attorney will visit with you, go through specifics of your encounter with her...
          I already specificked with you.
          Yes, and with another attorney, we’ll record it, take it back to the office and schematically plan the judicial approach to get your case on the docket for serious adjudication.
          You talk your shit and adjudicate my butt.
          Who knows, we may actually be successful in getting you...well, it won’t be easy as legal forces that put you here are not all that inclined to...for lack of a better phrase, to see the light.
          “The real tragedy of life is when men are afraid of the light.” Plato said that. If I don’t get out of this joint sooner than forfuckingever I won’t be responsible for what you may be afraid might go down.
          Plato also said courage is knowing what not to fear.
          I didn’t get to that part yet.
          I have my work to do in prepping your appeal. I will be in touch.
          Wait wait wait...you don’t have to go.
          Is there additional information regarding you, her, other people involved in...
          No it’s just that when you split I go back to the yards with predictable and careful talk. With you, I mean it’s real. As long as you’re here with me and the guard outside the door, it can take as long as it takes that is until lock-down. I mean...well, can we conversate some more.
          Hmmm...yes, sure we can. I’ll keep my pad and make notes if it’s relevant or in case the guard looks through the peep hole and see that we’re working on your case.
          You got my vote.
          What would you like to...to “conversate” about?
          Anything, everything, current events, God, the devil, stupid shit people do, like all the isms.
          All the isms?
          Sexism, racism, religious-isms.
          Your choice.
          You know why racism works?
          I don’t know that it does work.
          Simple. It makes people feel better about themselves when they can put someone down, anyone that can be i-d’d as not them. The most ignorant beer-bellied cracker can diss blacks, Jews, Latinos and the shortest con does a diss about midgets. Why? Because it makes his empty fucking existence meaningful. There is a power to hating.
          A greater power to accepting our differences.
          You sound like a bumper sticker.
          Hey, you’re the guy who asked me to not leave.
          No insult intended.
          Yes it was but that’s okay. More?
          More? More...yeah...let’s see more of...I got one: Truth is the greatest enemy of the state. Who said that?
          Our current president?
          It fits but no. Goebbels. You know who that is, was?
          Part of Hitler’s cabal.
          Nailed it. You ever been to Mexico?
          Talk about a non-sequitur.
          Better sequitur than back to lock up. On the back of city busses for everybody to read it says in Spanish but you don’t talk Spanish do you?
          No.
          It says We’re Mexicans and we say fuck your mother. For any and everybody to read. My kinda’ people.
           You never gave me a linear run-down about when you first met her.
          Why are you hot on that?
          Hello! You want me to file an appeal saying that the woman who is accusing you of rape is lying. I need a time-line, a detailed description, a time-line from the moment you met to when you had consensual sex. Consensual is the crucial word. So please, detail your experiences that...
          Experiences...shit, that’s the name everybody gives to their mistakes...experiences. Me, I made a gross mistake piping the bitch because she...
          You never answered my request.
          Which was?
          When you first met her and step by step until...
          Oh so that’s what you mean by chronological linear shit.
          Yes. So?
          Okay, sure. Let’s see...it was in the market, Ralph’s supermarket, I was in the aisle, the frozen food shit because I hate to cook...hate, I don’t know how to cook...when up in front was this foxy frame, I mean wearing a skirt that would get her twenty lashes in Arabia with tits out to Thursday I still remember she was wearing a shirt or a woman calls it a blouse I guess with the top two buttons not buttoned and no bra...I mean those were some young titties believe you me standing up on their own with no means of support. That’s how it went down.
          I need more. How did you connect?
          She dropped something, bent down to pick it up, her boobs almost falling out so the gentleman that I was, am, went over to help. That’s it.
          What it?
          How we chronologicallized, you know...what’s the word you use, linear...yeah we lineared from that drop on.
          And?
          You’re starting to bug me with your mores and ands.
          If I’m to represent you and file an appeal I need...
          Specifics yeah, okay...we got to talking and you know shit happened.
          From the supermarket?
          Not right out front. We exchanged phone numbers and shit, even went to a movie together, I bought the popcorn, and it was cool like we were an item-to-be depending on well until that time when she came over to visit, she said she’d cook me some dinner, we’d watch a movie she brought over, it was horny too and like I said she started rubbing my joint and before you know it...I mean at first she didn’t want to do the ultimate but all women say no to prove that she’s not that kind of girl which she most definitely is and finally of course she gave in I mean like I said when a bitch strokes your dick she better be ready for the big show if you know what I’m saying.
          Did she resist?
          Of course, that’s what makes it hot. A woman says not yet, you know she resists and man insists and Dr. Freud the rhyme is on time because when it comes to doing the nasty not yet is a foreign language untranslated because the only word an erect dick hears is now, n – o – w in hot demands to feel the juicy squish of a woman’s better part.
          You had intercourse with her even though she was saying not yet?
          That’s the game. Hot. You know, a little not yet, a little please, a little tease, and just in time I had her bent over because...
You said she sat on your dick, not had her bent over.
Hey, man, don’t disparage, word, a dude who likes a good butt to look at while I’m piping the slit...talking about butts did you know that there were 19,000 butt augmentations, word, by doctors in USA last year?
          It doesn’t sound like the sex was consensual. Was it? Yes or no.
          By the time it was over it was consensual as hell. What are you getting at?
          You forced her, didn’t you.
          She got me hot and bothered and aggressed from the get-go, no forcing from out front, and once the heat is turned up to full boil, come on, there’s no undoing a hard dick by any other means before the mount Vesuvius occurs, no u-turning back, even Doctor Freud is in harmony with the fact that sexual heat is not to be denied so give me a break, the bitch was asking for it. Where are you going?
          Guard!
          He wait a minute there’s...
          We can’t take your case. There is no basis for an appeal. You forced sex on a woman who said not yet, who said no, who resisted.
          Women do that. That’s their number. The bitch was asking for it!
          I have to go now.
          You must be some kinda of perv not to understand.
Goodbye.
Hey come back! Knock knock. Who’s there? Your mother? Your mother who? Your motherfuck you, you faggot!
                                                                                -     -

​Selena practically hopped down the baking aisle in the Wal-Mart. She snatched up a chocolate cake mix, fudge frosting, and a number one-shaped candle. She tossed the things on top of a twelve-pack of Coca-Cola, a package of steaks, hotdogs, ground beef and Blue Bird flour. She touched her new haircut for the umpteenth time: a wavy bob that she had just gotten that morning. She had been thinking of blue highlights, but had decided to keep her jetty locks at the last minute.
“Selena!”
Selena turned and spotted Lillian coming towards her. The woman had dyed her hair blonde, but hadn’t kept it up, so the roots were pitch-black, the blonde strands frayed. Selena was suddenly glad that she hadn’t chosen the highlights. Lillian squeezed Selena a little too hard.
“What are you shopping for?” said Lillian. “Looks like you’re gonna have some fun!”
“It’s my and Jim’s one year anniversary,” said Selena, hopping up and down, her hair bouncing around her light face. Her gold earrings tinkled like tiny bells. She was much too happy to pay attention to Lillian’s strange odor. It was a sweet, pungent smell that gave her headaches. “We met one year ago today.”
Lillian frowned, and then tried to smile. The fluorescent lights gleamed on her greasy cheeks.
“What?” said Selena.
Lillian looked at the floor.
“What’s the matter?” Selena grabbed her arms.
Lillian sighed and led her to the clothing section of the store. Among the nightgowns, with their smiling cartoon faces, she said in a low voice, “Remember when Dan and I went driving in the woods yesterday?”
“Yeah.”
“Well…” Lillian squeezed her eyes shut, as if preparing to take a plunge. “We saw Jim and Cassie out there.”
Selena’s throat closed, but she couldn’t run. Her ears strained, even as she struggled to make herself deaf. Maybe what Lillian had to say had nothing to do with what she was thinking? But still, Jim out in the woods with Cassie, and not with Selena? The fire of jealousy reared its horrid head before Lillian confirmed anything.
“They had come in separate cars.”
They were together. The words cut Selena’s mind before she could stop them.
“We saw them in the bushes from on top of the hill, you know, where the road goes up and you can see the river?”
Selena squeezed the cart handle until her fingers ached.
“They were doing it in there.”
#
The smell of chocolate cake wafted in from the kitchen. Coca-Cola hissed on ice as Lillian poured a can into a glass. She passed it to Selena, who stared at the table. Making herself a glass, Lillian spread the newspaper out on the red and orange tablecloth and read. She gasped and said something, but Selena could hardly comprehend. Her insides twisted in different directions. Angry tears stung her eyes.
Lillian grasped her hand. “Are you going to be okay?”
Selena stared at a small leaf on the tablecloth. It seemed to be in free-fall.
“Selena?” said Lillian.
“He’s coming here at four.” Selena glanced at the clock. It was 3:50. “He’s been with her all morning, hasn’t he.”
Lillian groaned. “I think so.” She patted Lillian’s hand. “Dan, is the cake ready?”
“I’m just getting it out,” said Dan. The oven opened with a squeak. The stovetop clinked as he set the cake on top of it.
Selena shivered. In ten minutes, Jim would be there. What was she going to tell him? There was going to be a confrontation. Her stomach twisted. If Jim shed one tear…
Selena gulped the Coca-Cola like it was liquor. “Dan?”
“Yeah?” He stepped into the dining room.
“Can you throw him out when he comes?” She couldn’t even say Jim’s name.
“Sure.” Dan patted her shoulder. “He’ll be here soon. You better go to your room.”
Selena bit her lip and went to her room like a lost soul. She clutched the glass of pop to her, as if it was a charm that could keep her safe. Setting the glass on her dresser, she lay down. She ran her hand over the blue, green, and yellow quilt. She picked at the yarn poking up from the center of one of the squares. It still looked like a piece of fuzzy white grass to her, even after all these years.
The pain in the back of her throat tightened. A few tears slid from her eyes, and then the dam broke. She screamed into her yellow pillow and pounded on the bed. Why would Jim choose that troll Cassie over her? What did Cassie do, make Jim drunk? How could he be so stupid as to take anything from Cassie? She would twist Cassie’s head off if she had the strength to do it! She would tell Jim exactly what she thought of him. She couldn’t think of anything bad when it came to him.
Suddenly, a car drove into the drive. Selena stiffened. It was Jim. She ran to the window and looked out. The dented car door swung open. A cow had run into his door a few months ago, when it had panicked and run for the car instead of the forest. Jim stepped out. A few inches taller than her, not too slender, his dark eyes gentle and smiling, he had no trace of guilt on him. He had a bouquet of wildflowers in his work-worn hand. He helped build houses in the rich neighborhoods. Selena gripped the curtain. The audacity of him, coming here in such a fashion!
The front door opened before Jim reached it. Selena couldn’t see, but she knew that Dan had come out. They were speaking. Their voices rose, but Selena couldn’t hear what they were saying. Jim started shouting. Selena couldn’t tear herself from the window, couldn’t open it to hear, and couldn’t run out there to stand up for herself. The two men suddenly came into view. Dan had Jim by the shirt and flung him against his car. He pulled a gun from his pants and pointed it at Jim’s face.
Slapping her hands to her mouth, Selena rushed for the front door, but Lillian caught her in the hallway.
“Be strong, Selena! You can’t go out there, or you’ll just be Jim’s whore, probably second to Cassie.”
Selena pushed against Lillian. “He’ll shoot him!”
Lillian braced her feet against the floor. “Dan won’t shoot, but Jim doesn’t know that.” Lillian shoved Selena back into her room. A car roared to life and backed out of the drive. It was as if a lifeline connected to Selena’s heart snapped. Nausea rose to her throat and she collapsed on the bed, insensible of anything.
#
“Drink this,” said Lillian, pushing hot cocoa into Selena’s limp hand. “Grab it, or it’ll spill all over.”
Selena cupped it against her.
“I have to go to work,” said Lillian. “I made breakfast, okay?”
Selena looked blearily up at her. “What day is it?”
“Monday.”
Selena struggled to count from Friday, when she had discovered Jim’s betrayal. How many days was that? Lillian had stayed with her that long? She had a dim recollection of Lillian bringing over a duffel bag. They had watched a movie and eaten cake. At least, Lillian had eaten the cake. That strange smell that followed Lillian all over now filled the house, especially the couch, where she slept every night. It lurked in Selena’s nose, and stuck to her clothes. Maybe it was this smell that left her knees weak and her head spinning.
“Are you going to be okay?” said Lillian.
“Go to work, Lillian,” said Selena in a broken voice.
“I’m going to the store after work. I should be back around 7:30.”
Selena nodded absently. How did the patrons eat with Lillian’s pungent odor wafting through the restaurant? Lillian’s company was comforting, but now Selena just wanted to be left alone, maybe air out the house. She couldn’t mourn properly when she couldn’t breathe.
Lillian sighed. “Maybe we’ll do something tonight, okay?”
“Okay.”
Lillian went out the door. As soon as it clicked shut, Selena curled into a ball and cried herself to sleep. Her dreams attacked her with Jim’s face. He was reaching for her, calling to her with that ever-gentle smile that graced his face whenever he saw her. She tossed and turned in agony, until she jerked awake. Her wall clock read 11:03. The gravel in the drive crackled. An engine turned off. A door slammed shut. Who was visiting at this hour? It couldn’t be Dan, because Dan worked today. Lillian worked too far away to come back for lunch.
Rap-rap-rap! The door shuddered.
“Selena,” Jim’s voice called. “Selena, baby, open the door.”
Selena’s insides twisted into a knot. No one was here to protect her from Jim. If she opened the door—no, no, she had to be strong! What was she going to do? One tear would drag her back into his arms.
“Selena.” Jim’s voice cracked.
Panic rose to her throat. She scrambled on the floor for her shoes and shoved them on.
“Selena, open the door,” he sobbed.
Snatching her Realtree sweater, Selena fled for the back door. Slipping out, she closed it just enough to keep out the autumn draft, and raced to the back fence. She pushed through the gate, hoping the hinges wouldn’t squeak. Nothing but forest lay before her. The town was to her left, but she couldn’t risk Jim driving through and seeing her, or having a snitch spotting her and then telling Jim. She needed to hide.
She’d go to the broken-down hunting cabin. It wasn’t far. By then, Jim would be gone, and then she could come right back. Good plan.
As she hurried along the unused dirt road, the forest grew quiet. It must have been her presence. A blue jay would start squawking to alert everything that she was out and about in a few minutes.
The sun moved over the bare trees. She seemed to have been walking forever. What if Jim really hadn’t been cheating on her? What if Lillian was lying to her? But Lillian had no cause to do that. Maybe Lillian had seen wrong? Selena glanced back. Something massive moved in the long grass. Chills ran down her spine and she kept walking. Why hadn’t she brought any protection? She had run out of the house like a madwoman.
Her legs ached, but she couldn’t stop her long march. The trees looked the same, as if she hadn’t moved at all. When she looked back, she saw nothing but a wall of autumn trees swallowing the old twisting road. On and on she went, until the trees opened into a meadow. The road hugged the tree line.
At the other end of the meadow was an old hunting cabin with weathered sides and warped shingles. The windows looked like tiny dots that a child could barely fit through. A mountain towered behind it. She glanced at her watch. Three o’clock. She halted and sat down on a rock. She had been out here longer than expected. Surely Jim was gone by now.
The thought of him tore her heart. She could almost feel the blood sliding through her bones to puddle on the insides of her feet.
“Jim.” Tears spilled from her chin and dripped onto her jeans. They formed small dark blue spots, little broken hearts. If a bear came and ate her right now, Jim would be sorry.
A twig snapped in the forest. Selena jerked her head up and wiped the blur from her eyes. What was it, a deer, an elk? Please don’t be a bear or a cougar! If it was a bear, she could climb a tree and maybe it would leave her alone. There were wild dogs out here—and people had spotted a wolf pack.
“No, no.” She shook her head. She was being paranoid. People walked out here all the time and didn’t get eaten. Some got treed, but there was a climbing tree not far from her. There was nothing to worry about.
Orange and black rose from the long grass and two intense eyes stared at her. Selena’s heart went into her mouth. What was this? She almost couldn’t comprehend the apparition before her. Tigers didn’t exist in the White Mountains of Arizona. It was sitting down, looking her in the eye. A broken chain dangled from a collar around its neck. Was it hungry? Did tigers maul people even if they weren’t hungry? How fast could they run?
The cabin’s behind me. She backed away from the tiger. It watched every little movement. How close was she to the cabin? She stole a glance at it. As soon as her eyes left the tiger’s face, it stood and took several steps towards her.
A small whimper escaped her lips and she stared into its face. She held her hands up, as if motioning a madman to lower his gun. Those green eyes pierced her soul and she squeezed her eyes shut. Her heart jumped into her throat. What was she thinking? It could be in her face right now! She forced her eyes open. The tiger was closer. Her feet slipped on the rocks as she struggled backward down the incline and into the meadow. The tiger’s eyes glittered in the shade, smiling at her.
“Help me,” Selena murmured. “No…no…”
She glanced at the cabin. She could make it if she could run. How much of a head start would she need to beat the tiger to the cabin? A guttural snarl drained the blood from her limbs. She looked back to the tiger—it bounded into the meadow. Its head lowered, ears flattening, and it sprinted towards her. Its powerful muscles undulated beneath the sleek coat. The tail stuck out behind it, whipping the air and gleaming in the autumn sun.
Selena shrieked and dashed for the cabin. Her short legs stumbled over the rough terrain. The expanse of the meadow seemed to spread wider and wider. The cabin got no bigger than when she had seen it from the road. Thump! Thump! Thump! The tiger’s paws beat the ground behind her. She could almost feel the sharp claws ripping down her back, exposing her warm skin to the cold air. She couldn’t coax anymore speed into her weak legs, and yet, somehow, she leaped onto the porch.
Shoving through the door, she flung it shut. The tiger rose up on its hind legs and slammed its massive paws on the door. It claws knocked pieces of wood to the floor. Selena yanked the bolt down and backed up. How close the tiger had been! Had she looked back…her head spun.
A frustrated snarl sounded on the other side of the door. The tiger glared at her through the cracks in the walls as it circled the cabin, looking for an entrance, if it decided not to rip through the rotting wood.
Gasping for air that wouldn’t come, Selena sank down in the middle of the floor and watched the orange and black coat appear and disappear through the gaps.
#
Lillian pulled into the drive and turned her music off. The sudden silence seemed jarring. Stepping out, she opened the back door and pulled out a pink cake she had bought from the Safeway deli. Hopefully this would cheer the sufferer inside the house for a bit. Lillian was eating a lot of cake these days. She glanced at her reflection in the car windows. Her figure hadn’t suffered yet, but she needed to lay off the sweets before her hips ballooned.
She glanced at the house and took a deep breath. Would her offering be received? She had to try. Stepping to the door, she knocked.
“Please work,” she whispered.
The lock clicked and the door opened. A pair of puffy eyes gazed at her in confusion.
“Jim,” said Lillian, “I heard Selena went with my brother.” Was that a little too crass?
Jim looked at his socked feet. “Yeah, well…”
“I’m so sorry. I had no idea that they were having…this must be awful for you. I brought a cake for you.” That should fix her first blunder. Wouldn’t he let her in?
“Thanks, but I don’t want anything.” He looked ready to fall apart, and Lillian knew he was weak right now. She had to strike while the fire was hot. She pushed into the house and set the cake on the table. Jim wrinkled his nose, staying by the door to keep away from that strange perfume she wore. Lillian had left a trail behind her that he could practically see.
“Talk to me, Jim,” said Lillian, as she rummaged through his cupboards for plates and forks. “How were you today? Did you go to work?”
“No.”
“You poor thing. I had no idea that Selena could be so mean.” She set the dishes on the table and pulled the lid off the cake. “She didn’t even tell me. I guess she didn’t want me to tell you. Dan didn’t even tell me, can you believe it?” She cut a piece of cake for Jim and set it on a plate. “My own brother wouldn’t tell me. He’s your friend, too, isn’t he? I would have told you, Jim. I’m your friend.”
Jim watched her. He was in despair, but Lillian showing up at his door was just weird. She would have told on her own brother? Lillian did everything with her brother. Sometimes he thought that they were a little too close. She would have told on her friend? She was closer to Selena than she was to him. What was going on? A frown creased his lips.
“Why are you doing this?” he said.
“I know what heartbreak is like,” said Lillian. “Did you hear about that man who owned a tiger in Snowflake? They said it escaped. It might even come this way.” She cut herself a piece. “They said not to go out into the woods until they catch it.” She laughed. “Isn’t that exciting? What if you wake up tomorrow and it’s in your backyard?” She shivered in delight, and then rolled her eyes. “I tried to tell Selena, but she wouldn’t listen. Too busy with Dan.” She covered her mouth and her eyes simpered. “Oh, Jim, I’m sorry. Come eat. You need this.”
Jim came near, eying her, but he didn’t sit down. “You’ve been staying at Selena’s house.”
Lillian’s blood went cold, but she smiled brightly. “What are you talking about? I wasn’t at Selena’s house.”
“You’re her best friend. She’s been hiding in the house. And Dan hasn’t been there. I know. I’ve been waiting for you to be gone so I could talk to Selena.”
Lillian stared at the pink frosting. She admired Jim for being smart, but did he have to be smart now?
“What lie did you tell her about me?”
Lillian leaped to her feet and tried to push past Jim, but he seized her by the arms and shoved her against the wall.
“You’re hurting me,” Lillian wailed.
“What did you tell her?” Jim gave her a rough shake, and her blonde and black bangs slid over her eyes.
“I said I saw you sleeping with Cassie!”
Jim’s face turned to stone. It took every bit of his self-command not to break the wall with her smelly head.
“Why?” he snarled.
Lillian whimpered. “I had to do it.” She looked him in the eye. “I love you! I’m so lonely, and all I have is Dan. I’m sick and tired of him!”
Jim jerked back, as if by touching her his hands would turn green and fall off. “He’s your brother, what’s that supposed to mean?”
Lillian grasped his hands. “He can’t…he can’t make me feel…you don’t understand! I thought I loved him once, but now it’s over. He started looking at other women. I needed someone!”
Jim yanked his hands free, seized her arm and jostled her to the door. He was about to throw her out, but stopped. Not only would Selena open the door if she saw Lillian’s car, but this would be cleared up. He glared into Lillian’s face.
“You’re gonna tell Selena what you did.”
“No! No, Jim, you can’t!” Lillian tried to escape, but his grip tightened and he snatched the keys from her pocket. Without putting his shoes on, he shoved her into the passenger seat of her car and jumped in. He drove like a madman to Selena’s house. His life had almost been decimated by that creature sitting beside him! Had he heard right? She was sleeping with her brother? He glanced at the backseat through the rearview mirror. Had they done it back there? How about where he was sitting? Yuck.
They reached Selena’s house. Jim dragged Lillian across the seats and out the driver’s side so that she couldn’t escape. He pounded on the door. If Selena wouldn’t let him in, he’d force his way in. It struck him that she had been hiding in the house because she was crying her eyes out. How overjoyed she would be when she found out the truth! As for Lillian…his jaw tightened. What could he do to her without landing himself in prison?
The door didn’t open.
Jim had seen Lillian use a house key. He checked her myriad key chains and found it. Opening Selena’s door, he pulled Lillian inside and yanked her along with him as he checked the house for his beloved. When he knew she wasn’t home, he thrust Lillian on the couch in the living room and sat on a chair across from her.
“We’re staying here until Selena comes back.”
#
The light outside had dimmed to murky blue. The inside of the cabin had become a black mass. Selena licked her dry lips with a sticky tongue as her stomach growled. She hadn’t eaten anything that day or the day before, because she had been so depressed. Why couldn’t she have at least nibbled something? Thoughts of those giant burgers at Wendy’s crossed her mind. Succulent. Thick. Dripping with cheese and steaming fresh. Fries. A giant cup of Coca-Cola jingling with frozen ice. Pop always tasted different with ice. She wiggled her freezing toes in her shoes and breathed on her stiff fingers.
What was she going to do? A weight landed on the roof. For a second, it sounded like the thump was inside the cabin. She looked up, heart pattering in her throat. The old rafters creaked as the heavy steps moved across the roof. Each of the gloomy holes in the roof darkened as the tiger’s mass passed over it.
A glowing eye peeked in at her and a low snarl filled the room. She screamed and buried her face in her knees. Her heart thumped, blood pumped in her ears. If only the tiger could be trapped inside the cabin! She gripped her knees tighter. Could she do something like that? She glanced in the direction of the door. She would have to open it. Shivers ran down her spine. She couldn’t even see it! Maybe someone would come looking for her? Who was she kidding? No one came out here unless they were drunk.
She sat there until it was so dark that she couldn’t see her hand in front of her face. The tiger had stopped moving around, but its breath echoed in the cabin. It smelled like blood. Those glowing eyes never left the crack. It was watching. Selena kept her head down. She might starve to death in here. She had to get out!
Creeping to the door, she ran her fingers over the rough wood, until it landed on the hard cold doorknob. The tiger’s gleaming eyes vanished. Whimpering, she pushed the bolt up and pulled the door open with an ugly screech. The great paws sprinted across the roof. Its heavy body landed on the ground in front of the door with a thump! Selena screamed and shoved the door shut, but the tiger’s body slammed against the door and sprawled into the cabin.
Selena hit the floor, aware in a dazed sort of way that the beast was inside with her. Its claws scrabbled on the wood as she scrambled around the door, ran into the doorframe and stumbled out into the night. She almost started running, but retained just enough of her senses to turn around to close the door. She had to step back into the cabin to get a hold of the doorknob. Her pattering fingers almost couldn’t find it. The tiger’s eyes gleamed in the wall of black.
“No!” She pulled the door halfway closed. The tiger sprang and slammed into the door. It shut with a bang and knocked Selena off her feet. She tumbled down the three steps that led off the porch and into the long grass.
Icy wind whistled and penetrated her jacket. A wash of stars spread overhead, cut with jagged black on the horizons. The meadow was slightly lit and she could see the blanket of darkness that was the forest. It rustled, as if whispering secrets. The road was over there somewhere.
Selena fled from the cabin, tripping and stumbling on gopher mounds and holes. She hit the incline that led up to the road. Rocks trickled into her shoes and bunched up under her hands and knees as she scrambled up. What if the tiger got out? What if it was running across the meadow towards her? She glanced back, but the meadow was nothing but a black void hissing with disembodied voices.
An awful roar echoed out of it. Selena screamed and struggled to her feet. She ran. Her heart hammered against her chest as if it would break through the breastbone. Her breath ripped her throat. Tears mingled with cold sweat as a stitch cut her side. She slipped on the incline several times, but it kept her on the road.
Another roar drummed in her ears and rattled her brain. She couldn’t see! She almost broke down screaming.
I didn’t go too far, I didn’t go too far! I was walking really slow! These words rang through her head until they were a hum in the back of her brain.
A third booming roar shattered the night air. Was it closer? It echoed off the mountains and seemed to land in front of her. She screamed, tripped on a rut in the road and fell flat on her stomach. The wind knocked out of her. She lay there, shivering, struggling to regain her breath.
Get up, get up! It got out of the cabin!
She dragged herself up and stumbled onward. There were so many roads in this place, all twisting in different directions. She couldn’t see! She had nothing to light her way, not even her phone. She had left it on the table in her mad flight from Jim. Why hadn’t she just answered the door and confronted him? But no! She’d feared that she might lose. That’s why she had let Lillian drag her back to her room, why she let Dan run Jim off. She should have done it herself! She wouldn’t be here if she had! There was some quote from John Wayne she had read once, something about facing up to things and it not being as bad as you feared. These thoughts flashed through her head in mad cacophony.
Out of instinct, Selena looked back, and her heart froze. Something glowing yellow and green had flitted among the trees. They had been small. Deer eyes? Please be deer eyes! No, deer liked to stay by the highway at night because of predators. What if it wasn’t just the tiger? She rushed to a tree and scrambled into its branches. Safe. This was safe. Tigers couldn’t climb trees, could they? Lions couldn’t…or could they? She couldn’t remember!
The pair of eyes moved beneath her, weightless and silent, as if they were entities of their own. An ugly snarl rumbled from those two sharp lights. And then the bark scratched and the eyes moved up, towards her! Selena shrieked and scrambled as high as she could go. Small branches broke under weight.
“No, no, no!”
Crawling onto a semi-thick branch, she moved away from the eyes, and from the safety of the trunk. It was too dark to see how high up she was, but the air felt more open. The wind seemed stronger as it rocked the branch back and forth. The glowing eyes reached a level with her. Selena screamed. Her hands and knees slipped and she almost broke her face on the branch. Twigs scraped her cheeks, just missing her eyes.
The branch suddenly bent downward! She screamed and gripped the invisible wood with arms and legs. It didn’t completely break, and it swung into the trunk. Rough bark smacked her head, arms and legs. The branch snapped free and she plummeted through the darkness.
I’m going to die.
Crunch! She hit leaves and pine needles, with the branch on top of her. Nothing broke. The landing hardly hurt. She might live!
The eyes scrambled down and leaped at her face! A flash of men bracing sharp sticks at oncoming horses crossed her mind. What movie was that? Her body moved on its own to imitate those men. She swung the branch up, braced it on the ground, and pointed it at the eyes. Heavy weight slammed on the wood. It burst in all directions and shattered. The tiger snarled and rolled somewhere into the darkness. Selena pushed herself up, head spinning as her body threatened to faint. Warm liquid coated her front, but she couldn’t comprehend what it was, or whether it belonged to her or the tiger.
The yellow pinpoints rose up and snarled. It was still alive, and on the ground with her! She scrambled up. Her leg twinged, but she hardly noticed as she sprinted down the road. The yellow globs followed. They kept pace, but didn’t catch her. Something slid through pine needles and dead leaves, like someone was raking.
Dogs in the distance started wailing. Their howls vibrated Selena’s eardrums. They couldn’t be dogs! They were ghosts! Thousands of moaning ghosts surrounding her like a vortex of damned souls. The creature lurking behind her was the devil. The raking noise was his scythe dragging the ground.
A single light gleamed among the trees, a porch light. Was that her backyard? Had she found her way home? Her feet grew lighter. Everything was going to be okay. She slammed into the tall wooden fence. All the lights were on inside the house, but it didn’t occur to Selena who was inside. It was enough that the lights were there. The wails had reached a fevered pitch, but they were dogs again.
Yanking the gate open, she dashed inside and locked it. Safe. The tiger’s yellow eyes glared at her through the slats, and rose up on its hind legs. Wicked claws gleamed in the pale light as it gripped the fence and hauled itself up. The stick from the tree had gone clear through its shoulder. That’s what had been dragging through the leaves. Its massive head was half as big as her body and three times as wide. Its glimmering orbs never left her face.
Selena’s head spun and she tore for the back door. The porch light gleamed on it, like a heavenly light. Arms and legs flailed as they struggled to make the jellified muscles work. The raking sound commenced as the tiger charged.
Don’t look back, don’t look back.
She slammed into the door, it swung open, and she fell inside. The tiger darted out of the darkness, reached the entrance, and Selena kicked the door shut. The tiger’s head slammed into the thick wood. Shrieking, Selena rolled into a ball and covered her head. Her little smiling mother, wearing a blue camp dress as she cooked bread over an open fire, crossed her mind. Selena was going to go to her right now.
“Selena!”
Selena looked up in confusion. “Jim!” She couldn’t remember what he had done. She scrambled to her feet and staggered towards him. He caught her in his arms. No giant wall or elephant gun could make her feel safer. The only arms that beat his were those of her tiny smiling mother.
“What happened to you?” he cried, checking her all over.
Selena looked down at herself and her head swam. She was covered in blood. Was it hers? Was she dying? Jim’s hands shook. He believed she was dying, too. Small tears threatened his eyes, but he had enough sense to think. It wasn’t his baby’s blood.
“Whose blood is this?” He cupped her face in his warm hands. “What happened?”
Selena suddenly remembered. “It’s outside!” She gripped his shoulders. “It’s outside!”
“What’s outside?”
A cold, pungent draft swept into the kitchen.
Selena shrieked. The tiger was in the house!
Jim rushed into the living room, leaving Selena in the kitchen and leaning on the counter.
“It’s gonna eat you!” Selena staggered after him. “Jim, come back!”
“Lillian!” Jim shouted.
At first, Selena was relieved that it was Lillian who had opened the door. But when she reached the living room, she realized that Lillian had run out the door. Terror gripped her anew.
“It’s gonna get her!”
Lillian had already reached her car, but had forgotten that Jim still had her keys. She slammed her fists on the top of the car. She had to hide, call Dan to pick her up by the casino. It wasn’t too far away. Dan could get her car in the morning. She dashed down the street and sprinted through the trees.
“Lillian!” Jim’s furious voice hollered from the open door, but he couldn’t see her. She refused to take out her phone now. He might see the glowing screen, and then she’d be screwed. How was she going to face Selena at work tomorrow? She’d just ignore her. She didn’t have to confess anything. Jim would tell Selena, and that gullible drama queen would believe him. They deserved to be ridiculous together. Lillian had her pride. She didn’t need that, and she didn’t need Jim. Besides, she was going to leave him as soon as Dan wanted her back.
Lillian stopped running and glared at the small light on the porch. They were probably making up right now, and crying in each other’s arms. Their love wasn’t real like hers and Dan’s. Jim only liked Selena because she was pretty, and Selena was with Jim because he possessed what Selena had never heard of: brains. Together, they made a complete body.
“I’m just too smart,” she growled under her breath, and continued on to the casino.
When the porch light had vanished among the trees, she whipped out her phone and dialed up Dan. It rang a few times, and then he answered.
“Where have you been all day?” said Dan.
“Jim found out what I did,” Lillian wailed into the phone. “He made me wait at Selena’s house so I could confess! You gotta come get me. I’ll be at the casino.”
“Where’s your car?”
“Jim has my keys so I couldn’t leave.”
A low moan sounded behind her. Lillian jumped and spun around, staring into the trees. Dan said something, but it sounded like a warble in the background. The dogs were still howling. She had been too anxious to notice. Now the sounds seemed to shriek, “Run back! Run back!” Or was that Dan telling her to go back?
“You still there?” said Dan.
Two yellow points, at the height of a person, appeared in the black. An awful roar ripped the air! Lillian’s legs froze. The scream died in her throat. The pinpoints bounded towards her and a hot furry body slammed into her. Claws gouged deep into her stomach and face. Lillian slammed the ground. Crackles rushed up her spine and seemed to run into her skull. Steaming breath, stinking of blood, enclosed around her head. Her flesh broke open and her face crunched. Strangely, it didn’t hurt.
#
The scent of burning wood filled the house as the fire crackled in the stove. Rain pattered on the roof as wind whipped the trees. Cups of cocoa cooled on an end table beside a brown La-Z-Boy. Jim rocked it with his feet, his arm around Selena who cuddled against him, her feet tucked beneath her. He clasped her hand, which rested on his stomach. Through the picture window, they watched orange, red, and gold leaves flutter from the trees, and pine needles stab the soggy ground.
Over and over again, Selena’s mind alighted on her mother’s words, while she had talked to her last night on the phone. “Don’t be silly, Selena. Cassie’s Jim’s cousin. Didn’t you know that? Lillian was prob’ly lying. She gets it on with her brother, you know.” How did her mother know so much? It made sense, then, why Lillian had run out of the house. She didn’t want to confront her. Lillian had made the mistake that Selena had, except the tiger got Lillian and had lost Selena. It would never have a second chance.
She glanced at the cups of cocoa. Beside them lay a newspaper. The ceramic mug, teeming with happy snowmen, partially covered a front page headline: Escaped Tiger Shot and Killed Near Hondah Resort and Casino.

Composer, author, and actor Charles Griffin was born and raised in New York. He currently lives in Orlando and teaches in Full Sail University’s Bachelor of Science in Music Production degree program. His original music has been performed in 20 countries in venues like Washington DC’s Kennedy Center, New York’s Merkin and Weill recital halls, the American Cathedral in Paris, and festivals such as Aspen, SpoletoUSA and Mexico’s International Cervantino. He founded the Central Florida Composers Forum in 2011, and has been a volunteer panelist for United Arts of Central Florida since 2015. For three years he hosted Zero Crossings, a radio show dedicated to contemporary classical music, on WPRK 91.5fm. In 2017 he wrote, produced and performed in an improv/sketch show for the Orlando Fringe Festival and took lead roles in several short indie films. Upcoming projects include a series of lecture-seminars for the 2018 Epcot International Festival of the Arts and a new piece for the Orlando Philharmonic that will premiere in May 2018. He is working on a creative writing bachelor’s degree. In his spare time, he nerds out with his sons, raises chickens illegally, does Crossfit, explores permaculture, and travels with his girlfriend. For more information, visit http://charlesgriffin.net

​I’m bleeding out in the trunk of my own Cadillac, three days after my fifty-first birthday. Some gift. Beaten and stabbed and tossed in the trunk of my own fucking car. The blood is pooling in my goddamned ear and my guts are ribbons and my own wheezing heartbeat is louder than the rain outside. Bleeding out alone. Humiliating, but I accept it. Goes with the territory. Part of the lifestyle. 

“Leverage,” I said to Vinnie during visitation at the state pen in Deven a year and a half ago. I slid the Boston Globe across the table. $200 Million Gardner Museum Art Heist. 

“I already read about it. Leverage for me or for you, Bobby?” Vinnie asked, like he was in the middle of a conversation and only I was at the beginning. He licked his thumb and started flipping pages. 

“For you. For you, Vinnie.” 

Vinnie licked and turned, eyes down. 

“Maybe for me later,” I said, smiling. “Because why the fuck not be honest? I wanna earn my stripes. You’re five years into a twenty-two year bid. A bargaining chip with the Feds for early release. You can move up to Don and maybe then you make me Capo. Win-win.”

“Or you could just leverage this with the Patriarca and get Capo without me. You could offer this up to them instead.” Vinnie sniffed, folded the paper up and slid it back across the table. 

“The Patriarca needs you. They’re squabbling. I’m offering this up to you, Vinnie. I want this for you. Not for nothing, but you’re like a god to me. You’re terrifying. In a good way. A degree in Business from Boston College and yet you bit so many people on your way to making Capo that I’m surprised your breath doesn’t smell like iron.” 

A twitch of a microscopic smile flashed across Vinnie’s face and vanished. His pride was his only weakness, his only tell. But who knows if he was prouder of the business degree or how he earned the nickname Vinnie the Animal. Still, he kept studying me. A shark looking for a whiff of chum. I shifted in my seat, waiting for an end to this exploding silence.  Maybe he is like a god. Because maybe that’s not pride at all. Maybe he’s thinking things I can’t possibly guess at. Like he knows shit I can’t comprehend. In that silence rose the murmur of other inmates having conversations in the room around us and the fluorescent hum of the lights above us and the guard was over by the door jacking off his baton in slo-mo, and finally Vinnie passed his judgment and said, “The FBI will be all over this.” 

“You’re right. They’re staking out my house already. I need to lay low for a while. I’m antsy.” 

“Antsy. Who’d you use?”

“Connor helped me case it out. Their security is total shit. Two guards. Some old bastard patrolling and a chubby stoner kid at the desk. We faked being cops and the kid let us waltz right in. We duct taped those guards up like fucking mummies! Sliced the paintings right out of the frames. We did the whole job in less than ninety minutes. We took everything to Merlino’s auto body shop in Dorchester and now Guarente has them stashed up in Maine. ”

“You get a good look at one of those Rembrandts you took, The Storm on the Sea of Galilee? You didn’t fuck up that one with the razors, I hope.”

“Connor pointed. I cut. I don’t know what we took, really. But I was pretty precise, I think. Which one was that?”

“Pretty precise. You think. Fucking A. Monkeys like you don’t appreciate shit. It’s the painting about a miracle Jesus does. He’s on a boat with his disciples, right? He’s sleeping in the back when a storm kicks in. Shit’s outta control. Bunch of the guys are dealing with the mast. One’s fucking with the rudder, getting nothing done. One guy is puking over the side. A couple are just stunned. They don’t know what the fuck to do, and they’re not trying. Everyone else is waking up Jesus. Rembrandt himself is on the boat too, unlucky number thirteen. He’s holding on to his hat with one hand and he’s clinging to a rope with the other. You wanna know why he painted himself in there? Because his own life was so fucking stormy.  Three of his four children died. His wife and his mother too. He was bankrupt. And in the painting, he’s the only one looking at us. The only one. Like he’s telling us, “hang on, in a minute the boss is gonna calm everything the fuck down. He’s scared, but he trusts. He trusts. The disciples are all acting like pussies. They’re crying, and asking “Teacher, don’t you give a shit that we’re gonna die?”  And the rest isn’t in the painting but it’s in the Bible. Rembrandt knew what’s what. Jesus stood up and said, “Peace, be still.” And instantly, it was over. Still waters, everywhere. But the kicker is that his crew, they don’t really know him yet, or what’s he’s capable of. And now they’re more scared of Jesus than they were of the storm ten seconds before. Fickle bitches. But they came around, all of them. Even Judas came around in the end. So again I ask: did you fuck that one up?”

I wanted to throw up over the side of the fucking table, and I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t have a hat or a goddamned rope. I was one fucking rudderless sonofabitch. I was about to finally stammer out some weak denial when Vinnie the Animal raised his hand in blessing. 

“Peace, be still,” Vinnie said. No murmur. No fluorescent hum. No nothing. He stood and motioned for me to approach, his arms outstretched.
 

Sarah Feary is a student of Winter Park, Florida’s Full Sail University, and majors in Creative Writing for Entertainment. Sarah aspires to become a published author of fiction after graduation, and is currently working on a collection of short stories.

​It was just after three when the music started playing. Troy, having stumbled into bed only an hour ago, emerged from a particularly poisonous dream with a start. The song was Jimi Hendrix’s “Foxy Lady,” and it was fucking blasting. Ordinarily, Troy would have been only too happy to crack a beer and enjoy the listening experience, but he had to be at work in less than four hours. The thought of more alcohol also made his stomach roll. His mouth tasted like the floor of a birdcage, and he got up to fetch himself a glass of water and some diazepam.
            He shuffled into his living room and switched on the light. The cockroach meeting on his coffee table hastily adjourned. He grubbed amid the liquor and prescription bottles, knocking over empties which rolled to the carpet. None of the prescription bottle labels bore his name. He bitched under his breath when he discovered that he had painkillers aplenty, but no sedatives. Desperate times called for desperate measures, so he crunched an antihistamine tablet. The bitter crumbs stuck to his teeth and tongue, but he chewed some more and took a few pulls of orange juice straight from the carton.
            Back in his bedroom, Bill Withers had replaced Jimi Hendrix. Some prick with no rhythm was singing along and stumbling over the lyrics. Bill Withers gave way to Foghat. Once Dave Peverett had finished complimenting his slow ridin’ woman, there came the silly opening synth riff of “Light My Fire.” In the darkness, Troy sighed and rolled from bed again.
            Like the prescription bottles of painkillers on his coffee table, the pump action leaning against his dresser technically didn’t belong to him. According to Horny Lou, Troy’s connection and sometimes partner in inchoate crime, it was still registered to a Duane P. Kilpatrick. Troy had dubbed the shotgun Courtney Love because it was always loaded. In case of broken glass, a common occurrence in his walk-up, he stopped to slip into his battered sneakers before letting himself out into the hall. Holding Courtney Love out of sight, he stepped up to his neighbor’s door and pounded with his fist. Inside, he could hear the lyric-bungling prick really belting it.
            “Try to set the night on…FIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIRE!”
            Troy took a big step back, then gave the door a smooth, practiced front kick. There was a crunch that sounded to Troy like the world’s biggest bite of celery, and the door exploded inward on its hinges. He stepped through, one arm out to shield himself. In his experience, doors tended to bounce off the wall and come flying back at him, but this time the interior knob embedded itself in the ancient drywall. He strode through the dark kitchenette and living room toward the sickly lamplight spilling through the open bedroom door.
      The room was covered in papers, magazines and books, and reeked of unwashed armpits. A laptop sat open on the bed. On the screen was a porno. The offending sound system turned out to be a CD deck and a single Bose speaker. The Jim Morrison wannabe’s attention was on composing a text message. He had his face bent to the screen of his smart phone, and several chins pooched from his jawline. He had his hair in a man bun that might have been fetching if he’d had more hair. His moobs rested on his beach ball gut. Troy’s lip curled.
       “Light My Fire” began to fade, and in the brief silence before another song could start, Troy gave Courtney Love a brisk pump and took aim. Startled by the noise, his neighbor looked up. Once his eyes landed on Courtney Love, they went wide, almost popping from their sockets. He shrieked and dove for the floor. Everything on his body jiggled as he landed, and a tremor ran through the floorboards.
           “Please don’t kill me!” said the trembling mound of flesh.
          At the word “kill,” a little voice in Troy’s head piped up about that one band, The Buggles. What was their one huge song called? Troy couldn’t get the title straight, but he knew it had to do with videos and radios. 
           “You aaaaare the radio staaaar,” Troy sang in a startlingly clear, pleasant tenor before shooting the Bose to spinning bits. Within the tiny room, the noise was a thunderclap, but silence descended on its heels like a fuzzy blanket. The CD deck went right on spinning the disc in the tray, indifferent to its speaker partner’s untimely demise. Troy walked out, leaving his neighbor blubbering.
            In the blessed peace and quiet of his own bed, the antihistamine tablet had started to kick. After deciding he would treat himself to a proper music app and a decent pair of earbuds for his phone, Troy fell into a deep sleep.
                                                                            END

 
Eight to four Molly Carr wore a smile at the bookshop. At four-oh-two she tossed it aside like a wire bra, eager to relax her muscles. Her job and life suffered from monotony: wake up, eat, go to work, go home, eat, go to sleep. Monday through Friday. The weekend differed only in eating and sleeping more. Perhaps because she remained single and lonely. Or she expressed little interest in making someone else happy, when she failed to do the same for herself.
Her love life like a string of canceled sitcoms, every guy she dated either her masculinized or narcissistic. Her longest relationship lasted a week. She struggled with commitment. She feared courting one person too long would become boring and one-dimensional, their emotional mystery dissolving like a litmus test. She wanted more. She wanted… a man from the romance novels she read. Austen’s Wentworth. Bronte’s Heathcliff. Forster’s Emerson. Fairy tale men. Gentlemen.
“Excuse me?”
Molly snapped out of her daydream at the velvety voice. A man two inches taller stood beside her, leaning against the frosted signpost. His eyes like the Arctic Ocean, cold and blue. His mouth a fossilized frown in a five o’clock shadow, as if happiness eluded him much the same. His black shoulder-length hair streaked with gray. His olive skin possessed a soft glow, aura-like, as if incandescent. He dressed in dark wash straight jeans, an off-white basketweave sport shirt, and a black three-quarter length topcoat. He looked the part of a tourist, but his accent suggested mainland.
After her once-over, Molly raised an eyebrow.
The man gestured at the sign. “Do you know when the next trolley’s due?”
Molly looked down the street, mentally pinching herself. The man’s appearance intrigued her; the tall drink of water made her mouth dry. She realized her stomach fluttered. She licked her chapped lips, eyes on the avenue. “Three minutes.”
“Is it ever late?”
“Usually early.”
“So I’d be late if I was on time?”
“It’s one way to look at it.”
“But since I’m early, I have a nice lady to keep me company.”
Molly regarded the man. The last time someone called her “nice”… too long ago to recall. Not as if her demeanor bordered mean, just more indifferent. Especially to men, since one thing dwelled in their minds, and never the topic of Eyre.
She half-turned, keeping the street in her periphery. She hoped the trolley would live up to its reputation and kindly interject. “Who says I’m nice? Because I’m making small talk?”
The man straightened, grasping the post with a leather-gloved hand. “You haven’t pulled out your phone yet and become anti-social.”
Molly’s heartbeat quickened. She found the man’s blunt manner attractive. In her experience, it tended to be a trait of honesty. “I hate phones. Does that make me anti-social?”
“It’s one way to look at it.”
Molly bit the inside of her lip, suppressing a smirk. Witty, another characteristic she admired.
The man ran his finger down the post, drawing a line in the frost. He removed his gloves, stuffed them in his coat pockets, and outstretched his hand. “Armand.”
Taken aback, Molly’s mind cartwheeled. Her cheeks flushed. Had the man caught her dwelling on his broad chest? She swore she maintained disinterest, but her eyes always gave her away. Armand’s gaze failed to stray. Maybe he was a gentleman and genuinely intrigued by her… like Gilbert Markham.
Molly cast Wildfell Hall out of her head and briefly shook Armand’s hand. A tingle coursed up her arm and raised goose bumps. “Molly.”
Armand glanced down. “Molly Gibson?”
Molly stared at him blankly for a moment, and realized he referred to her book. She forgot she held a copy of Wives and Daughters, like oftentimes she searched for the reading glasses found resting on her head.
She blushed, caught off guard. A man who knew classic romance. Was he an author? Maybe a publisher? Possibly a historical scholar? He maintained the look and seemed to be quite the multi-layered man.
Armand spoke in a low voice, as if sharing a secret. “Better than Cynthia.”
Molly chuckled, and stopped herself, embarrassed by her lack of self-control. “Yes, there is that. You’ve read Gaskell?”
“A few. Wives and Daughters, North and South, Cranford. I’m rather partial to the former.”
“It’s one of my favorites.”
Armand nodded at the bookshop. “Did you just buy it?”
“I… work there, actually.”
Molly kicked herself at the admission. Armand infatuated her to the point of mindless behavior. She knew better than to tell a strange man where she worked. Next he would be stalking her, popping in the bookshop daily, waiting for her at the trolley stop, following her home. Yet something about him comforted her. He was a conversationalist, not egotistical like most men she encountered.
Armand looked down the street anxiously, seeming more worried the trolley would end his interaction. “Are you off to tea or calling it a day?”
Molly turned her head enough to see there was no sign of the trolley, and hoped for once it ran late. She locked gazes with Armand, now finding it harder to look away; his eyes inviting, like a cold shower on a hot summer day.
“Tea after four? Maybe for a night owl. I’m much too boring.”
“Boring? You work at a bookshop. There are a million worlds beyond one door. And any one book can light up anyone’s life. It’s fascinating. Which means…”
“I’m still boring?”
Armand shook his head, placed his hands in his coat pockets, and leaned back against the signpost. “You’re much too charming to be boring.”
A rumble and echo of shifting gears broke Molly’s trance. She whirled and dropped her book, catching a glimpse of the approaching trolley. Armand crouched and picked it up. He handed it over, disappointment etched on his face.
Molly’s heart sank. Her body broke into a sweat, nervous. She knew she should say something, act on her emotions. Her lips parted, closed, opened again. “Thank you.”
Armand’s eyes twinkled, captivating Molly. “Of course. I can’t have you leaving romance behind.”
Molly’s mind stammered. Her heart hammered. She needed to say something. If she bit her tongue, regret would only eat her alive.
She gestured at the trolley, which grumbled closer. “Where are you headed?”
“The plaza. On foot. I hope we can meet again. Maybe next time somewhere more… enchanting.”
Molly clutched the book to her chest as the trolley eased up to the curb. Tendrils of exhaust swirled around her ankles, like tentacles eager to pull her away. The pneumatic doors swished open and passengers filtered forth. Molly held Armand’s gaze, knowing she should ask him out, wishing he would pop the question. Yet at the same time she felt it too forward. She met the man a mere five minutes ago.
“Miss?”
Molly turned her head and saw the driver waiting for her, fingers tapping the door handle. She regarded Armand. “Goodbye.”
The words felt like a punch to the stomach. She blew off the first man enthralling her with beauty and Bronte. Beauty. Molly never thought of the opposite sex as beautiful.
Armand’s face seemed to light up, almost glow, as if the off streetlamp cast a glare. A ghost of a smile passed over his lips. “Goodbye, Molly.”
She smirked, blushed, and entered the trolley. The doors shut behind her, like prison bars cutting off her love life. She found an empty seat and plopped down, gazing out the smudged window, searching for Armand. She spotted him walking toward the plaza, head down, hands in his pockets. The trolley lurched forward and exhaust billowed before her. She squinted and shifted, hoping for a glimpse. When the fog finally dissipated, Armand disappeared.
*****
 
Molly stepped off the trolley a block within the Warehouse District. Her flat a studio apartment in The Lofts, a drab four-story complex from the Roaring 20’s sandwiched between a deli and butcher shop. The rest of the neighborhood rested on its deathbed. Dismal brownstone facades and boarded up businesses suffocated the sparsely lit streets. Scattered about, recent glimmers of hope: an abandoned body shop turned nightclub, a market born from a failed pharmacy. Smog hung in the air, smelling of processing plants and factories, threatening to wilt the remaining trees better off artificial.
Like a camel in a desert, Molly adapted to her surroundings. Save for the homeless, a small population resided in the District. Molly felt it matched her personality. Removed, frigid, unattractive, and uninviting. The last place anyone would call home.
Molly’s gaze trained on the sidewalk, counting… five cracks to her flat… four. Her mind meandered to Armand. She smiled unknowingly. Those penetrating eyes, cold but caring. His silky voice. His long, lovely hair. His passion for Persuasion, Pride and Prejudice, and the like. Molly’s eyes refocused. Three… no wait, two? The last crack, the compound fracture.
Molly looked up, addled. She could not stop thinking about the man. She suddenly realized how an addict felt, the brain centered on a single stimulant. It confused her. Why did her heart pound and stomach somersault? It was more than Armand’s looks. Maybe because he seemed sincerely empathetic, as if he wanted to know her, desired more than a one-night stand in a cheap motel. Or she jumped to conclusions.
She ascended the brick steps and entered The Lofts. As usual, the lobby sat dim and deserted. A Victorian round table littered with two-year-old magazines and a beige double-end sofa fashioned close quarters. Red and black Art Deco carpet covered the floor from the front doors to the fifth story. Molly headed upstairs to her flat, eager to curl up with her book and a bag of sunflower seeds.
She paused outside door 42, fished out the key, and slipped into her apartment. Apple-cinnamon lingered in the air, remnants of a half-burned candle, instantly comforting her. She flipped the switch and kicked off her pumps. The ceiling lamps flickered on, revealing the studio as she left it. Dishes neatly stacked in the kitchen sink. Yesterday’s laundry folded on the living room coffee table. A TBR pile of romance classics on the dresser in her bedroom. Molly set her book down on her shoes and made a beeline for the latter. She opened the top drawer and tossed a pair of sweats and a T-shirt on the bed. She changed out of her constricting work clothes, leaving them in a pile on the hardwood floor.
Like a prisoner unshackled, she sighed and strolled to the kitchen. She opened a cupboard, grabbed her bag of sunflower seeds in a discard dish, and backtracked to the front door for Wives and Daughters. She could not wait to get her mind off Armand. A silly distraction, a fantasy; a one-time encounter, like a passerby, never to be seen again. A man best left to her dreams.
Molly plopped down in the gray wing chair by the window overlooking the street. She set her seeds in her lap and paged through the paperback. It flipped open as if creased, revealing a black bookmark. Molly stared at it, surprised. She guessed a customer forgot it, one of the trade-ins at the shop. Her own a mere paper scrap, the simplest of placeholders.
She picked up the bookmark and turned it. The image changed. Holographic, the blackness revealed three burning candles, a blue rose, and a reddish-orange phrase in Constantia font: 8:00pm, Collingwood.
Molly stared at it, brow knitted. Collingwood? The hotel shut down for years, decades even, yet another ghost of a business in the Warehouse District. The bookmark’s previous owner probably used the hologram for a last-second notepad… a room reservation. Molly turned it back and forth, watching the image switch as if in a revolving door. She held it still. A reddish-orange mark in the bottom right-hand corner caught her eye. An “A.”
She dropped the bookmark, startled, separating Wives and Daughters. An “A” for Armand. She knew it! But it seemed ridiculous. “A” could signify Alex or Adam or Amanda. The possibilities endless. Besides, it was a reservation for the Collingwood. Holograms nonexistent back then, maybe instead the note served as a rendezvous. Or yet to serve its purpose.
Molly’s emotions slalomed. Armand left the bookmark hoping she would save a place for him tonight, make time in her busy schedule of reading and seeding. Her cheeks flushed. What if the invitation was for her and she blew it off feigning a schedule conflict? And she hung out alone as usual, another night on the town. A tidal wave of guilt crashed over her. She looked at the wall clock: 7:28pm. She gazed out the window. The streetlamps flickered. The brewery across the street, dark and hollow, casting a pall on the vacant block.
Molly rationalized with her guilt. She had a half-hour to dress casual and walk three blocks. What would it hurt, besides her dignity? If she arrived at Collingwood without being mugged, and Armand nowhere to be found, she would head back home with confirmation she lived in a little girl’s fantasy world. The thought the man waited for her as the bookmark suggested seemed preposterous. Why wouldn’t he leave his phone number or email address? Or was he a hopeless romantic? Molly doubted anything could be romantic about an abandoned building full of rats and spiders. And why would Armand want to meet with her anyways? What if he was a serial killer? The Collingwood sounded like the perfect crime scene.
Molly set her seeds and book on the end table, but clutched the bookmark like a Dear John letter. She glanced at the clock: 7:30pm. Still plenty of time to change for an evening stroll. Molly stood and headed to the kitchen. Excuses barraged her. Too busy to go out and meet a strange man. Dishes to wash, laundry to put away, carpet to vacuum. What if Armand waited for her? What would it do for her? Give her hope she might not live alone the rest of her life? Make her feel pretty for a few hours? Let her escape her tedium and break out of her hermetic shell?
Molly’s legs detoured to the bedroom before her brain could object. She knew she would regret not going if she sat at home. She would toss and turn until morning wishing she ventured to the Collingwood. And the more birthday candles she lit, the tougher it became to meet a single attractive man.
She stared at her reflection above the dresser. No masking the mid-thirties, bags formed beneath her eyes. Brows flecked with gray. Frown lines at the corners of the mouth. Molly killed her insecurities. What was she worried about? Far from a man in his twenties, Armand’s silver-streaked hair complimented his unflinching gaze. Molly shook her head. The bookmark was proof he found her physically alluring, right? He wanted to meet her, spend time with her, get to know her.
She opened the top drawer. Years since her last night out, she felt uncertain what to wear. Part of her wanted to impress Armand with a dress and heels, but she knew it might deter him. Better to be herself and meet his expectations rather than show up like she worked the block. She changed into a red bra and blouse with black slacks. She added lip gloss and her gold rosary, which dangled unseen. She eyed her hair and shrugged. Good enough; its short length maintained its style.
She crossed the studio to the living room. She glanced at the clock: 7:40pm. Plenty of time to walk a few blocks. Molly grabbed her gray waist-length coat off the broken floor lamp and slipped it on. She reached over the chair and yanked the bookmark from Wives and Daughters. She tilted it, triggering the hologram. The candles, the blue rose, same time and place. Molly cast it back to blackness. Doubt overcame her again. What if Armand used the bookmark to lure women, like some kind of Jack the Ripper?
Molly pocketed the bookmark and buttoned her coat. Her conscience would do anything to prevent her from going out and having a good time. From now on she listened to her gut. She slipped on her shoes, headed out the door, and locked it. Momentarily, she felt as if she left behind her old self, like a butterfly emerging from a cocoon. No more dusty and boring bookworm. Ladies and gentlemen, meet the new and improved Molly Carr, now in High Definition!
She bit back a grin. She refused to let giddiness get the best of her. She needed to maintain her composure, keep her guard up. About to wander the streets of the Warehouse District, behaving like a schoolgirl would only garner unwanted attention. As she headed downstairs, Molly wished she brought her book for self-defense. At least she could fend off a rapist with classic romance.
She stepped outside and paused on the front steps. She took a deep breath and sighed into the chill air. The block seemed dead as a ghost town, which meant either her walk would be relaxing or prowlers lurked in the shadows. She made a mental note to swing wide of the alleys. She stuffed her hands in her pockets and strolled down the sidewalk. Her heartbeat quickened. Her eyes darted to every silhouette. Despite the cold, she broke into a sweat.
Worry dashed her hopes of romance. What was she thinking? She could be cuddled up with her book, warm and cozy. But no, she acted on impulse. Now here she sauntered paranoid and scared. She stepped up her pace to a speed walk. She rounded the corner onto Middlemarch. A woman and young child in matching pink duffle coats approached her, hand in hand. The mother smiled as they passed, tightening her grip, feeling the same anxiety. Molly managed a half-smirk, relating, reassured she wasn’t alone. Her gaze wandered ahead. A lime taxi cruised by, its roof sign flickering, its backseat passengers bickering. The last open business across the street went dark, closing early.
Molly walked faster yet. The corner streetlamp spotlighted a husky man in a gray sweater and blue stocking cap following the crosswalk. He paused midway and locked his sights on Molly, as if stunned to see a woman out at this hour. She avoided eye contact and headed right onto Brunswick. There the hotel loomed, crowding the left side of the block. A rusted wrought iron fence encircled the front courtyard; once sprawling with gardens and cherry blossoms, now brown and wilted. The mocha four-story facade weathered and crumbled. The biting breeze rattled the walls of windows in their splintered panes. Wide whitewashed steps led to boarded double doors, above which dangled a sign, marred and missing hand-carved letters:
Molly scanned the perimeter. Deserted; no passersby, or a man awaiting her arrival. Though she lacked a watch, she knew she turned up a few minutes early. Or late and Armand a no-show. She crossed the street, again whittling would-he-why-would-what-if thoughts.
She followed the littered walk to the gate, locked tight with a padlock and chain. She peered through the bars. In her mind’s eye, she saw a man in a black suit and top hat arm in arm with a bejeweled woman draped in Siberian fur. A porter in a red button-down uniform smiled and grabbed their luggage.
Molly jumped as a shadow engulfed her.
Armand stood beside her, aglow, clad in the same jeans, sport shirt, and topcoat. “It’s funny. If you stare at something long enough, it takes on a life of its own.”
Molly smiled sheepishly, caught red-handed in her daydreaming. “I found your bookmark.”
“Right where you left off?”
“Yes. And where did we leave off?”
“At the trolley. Leaving romance behind.”
“And did I leave it there? Or did your bookmark save the spot?”
“I do hope it saved.”
Molly blushed, her cheeks feeling like candles in the bitter cold. She felt suddenly aware of her bodily reaction. The rushing adrenaline, staccato heartbeat, the slight quiver in her knees. She melted like chocolate in Armand’s presence; she let her guard down, she opened up. Something about him gave her warmth and a sense of security.
Armand’s mysterious aura brightened like a fed flame. His face glowed, seeming almost cherubic, eyes shimmering like aquamarine agates. The colors in his garb became vibrant; the fibers in his shirt pulsed and his topcoat fluttered. He reached out and grabbed the gate padlock. It unlocked at his touch. The chain unraveled and clanked on the ground.
Armand pushed the gate open. “After you.”
Molly’s lips parted, but the words dissolved on the tip of her tongue. Did Armand possess a skeleton key to Collingwood? Had he plotted the evening rendezvous? Of course, the bookmark living proof. Again, Molly questioned his intentions. Was he wooing her or whisking her off into a sadistic trap? She decided there was no turning back.
She followed in his footsteps, which became shadowed as his aura brightened. The surrounding courtyard revived, as if invigorated by the light. The snow melted and browns faded to greens. White and pink flowers sprouted on the cherry blossoms, their rose-like redolence catching on the breeze. The ice on the walk transformed to tufts of moss. The tulip gardens along the fence bloomed into yellow, orange, and white petals. Water gushed from the overgrowth, a hidden fountain awakening from its bone-dry sleep.
Molly gasped, startled. Her head swam, maybe from the overabundance of pungency or the shock of surrealism. For a split second she wondered if it was real, but quickly decided to live in the moment. If a dream or hallucination, she only had herself to blame, and the literature she consumed. The man before her could simply be a guide, leading her to the summery marvel.
Armand ascended the front steps; with each footfall the whitewash shed like snakeskin to reveal green marble. He paused beneath the hotel sign. His aura magically replaced the missing letters and filled them with sizzling, bright red neon.
Armand turned heel and bowed. “Welcome to Collingwood, Miss Molly. I will be your host for the evening. May I take your coat?”
Molly blushed, all of it too good to be true. “I’ll keep my coat… but you can take my hand.”
Armand accepted the offer and grasped Molly’s fingers as she carefully ascended the steps, still unconvinced the ice melted. He half-turned and she watched the entrance refurbish. The eight snow-covered 2x4s morphed into gold garland. A fresh coat of brick red paint coated the double doors like a drawn shade, brightening the woodwork from top to bottom. The tarnished brass handles shined similarly, polishing before Molly’s eyes.
Armand pulled down the garland with his free hand and the doors opened automatically. “After you.”
Molly crossed the threshold and glimpsed the forlorn interior. An unfurnished lobby of rotted floorboards, peeling walls, cobwebbed vaulted ceilings, and a dilapidated desk looked like a gust would blow them over. The moment Armand joined Molly’s side everything changed. The oak underfoot glossed and sparkled. Floral wallpaper rolled up from the baseboards. An invisible feather duster cleared the cobwebs and constructed a shimmering crystal chandelier out of thin air. The concierge desk straightened and flushed out like an expanding cardboard box.
Molly looked at Armand, speechless, wondering if she slept back home with her book in hand and sunflower seeds in her lap.
Armand put an index finger to his lips, encouraging her silence. “This way, milady. This is merely the lobby. The ballroom awaits.”
Molly stumbled over her own two feet, feeling lost in a daze. “Ballroom? But I don’t… I don’t dance.”
Armand led her across the lobby. “Then we’ll just hold hands and glide aimlessly beneath the moonlight.”
“Wait. Armand?”
He looked over his shoulder with a glint in his eye, hair dangling against his cheek. He stopped and placed his hands on Molly’s forearms. “I know. It’s all so sudden… so fast.” He pointed to the left of the desk. “I promise beyond those doors you’ll wish the night would never end. Trust me.”
Even though Molly barely knew the man, she trusted him. His calm demeanor emanated warmth, or was it his strange aura? Either way, in a short time, he swept her off her feet, and the night was young. Who was this man? Where did he come from? Was all of this real or a ruse from a master magician?
Armand guided Molly to the left-hand doors. Again, they opened at will and she peered past him, catching a sliver of the hotel’s forgotten past. The floor coated in dust, chunks of plaster and shattered crystals. The three walls of windows cracked and clouded. A broken chandelier dangled by a rusted chain. The skylight resembled the rest of the glass: cobwebbed, snow-covered, and littered with dead leaves from autumns ago.
Armand’s aura blazed, and he raised Molly’s hand in the air. The ballroom beautified in a heartbeat. The dust peeled back like a blanket and revealed a reflective, hardwood parquet floor. The windows cleared, repaired, and sparkled. Gold tapestries unfurled down the walls. Light encircled the couple like a halo, the chandelier’s gold, crystals, and silver chain twinkling. The snow on the skylight melted and the leaves blew off, opening the ceiling to the cloudless night and crescent moon.
Molly felt enamored, entranced, and bedazzled beyond belief. In the moment, she hesitated to let herself be romanced. What did she have to lose? If for only one night, it would live on in her dreams.
Armand bowed. Molly grinned and curtsied. Her jaw dropped. Her clothes changed. Her winter weather wear became a red evening gown, matching pumps, and sun hat. Again, her head swam.
Armand’s eyes flashed, piercing, yet pleading. “May I have this dance, Miss Molly?”
“To no music?”
The glass walls reverberated and a symphony drifted into the ballroom. Molly knew Orchestra Hall resided on the other side of the city and outdoor concerts hibernated in the winter, but reality left in Armand’s presence. She followed his lead as they sashayed across the smooth parquet. While dancing eluded her since childhood, her feet glided like skates on an ice rink, matching Armand’s fluid steps. As they crossed the room, she imagined being encircled by beaming guests, each amazed at their hidden talent. Armand dipped her playfully. She relaxed in his arms and gazed at the night sky, the moon bright above the glinting chandelier.
Armand reeled Molly in, face to face, their lips inches apart.
Lost in his twinkling blues, Molly rose the magical tide. She moistened her lips and found her voice. “At the trolley… How come nothing changed then?”
Armand half-smiled, though his eyes upheld sincerity. “I can’t change beauty. It’s why I can’t change you, Miss Molly. Nor would I ever dream of it.”
“But the city… the streets around you?”
“I see allure… class… grandiose.”
“You see all of that? Yet I see…”
“When you leave tonight, you’ll see all of that, too.”
The immaterial maestro drummed up the orchestra as the symphony rolled into the final movement. Armand and Molly danced toward the far end of the ballroom, reverse turning and twirling. Their eyes locked on one another, searching for passion, desire, and unbridled trust, in which they both shared and let flow through their fingertips.
The brass and strings intermingled in lustful harmony, and parted abruptly, fading out. Armand and Molly’s last dance steps echoed off the parquet. They stood still and held each others hands gently, reluctant to let go.
Molly’s stomach fluttered and sent a tremble through her arms. “Armand, I don’t think I want the night to end.”
Armand nodded with a hint of sadness in his eyes. “Nor do I. But there will be others… won’t there?”
“I hope so.”
Their fingers caressed as they slid free.
Armand gestured to the glass wall. “Care to join me for a breath of fresh air?”
Then and there, Molly realized her entire body overheated, from the dancing and romancing, and a cool breeze never sounded better. “I would love to.”
Armand stepped to the windows. His aura glared off the glass and they slid apart. Molly followed his lead. She closed her eyes momentarily, embracing the icy night as it chilled her exposed skin. Armand held her hand and guided her to the end of the marble balcony. Below, beneath the moonlight, lay a pond — unfrozen as if filled with salt water — encircled by glowing Chinese lanterns. White lilies dotted the surface, dazzling like ten-karat diamonds. The frosted, shoreline willows resembled wedding dress trains in a winter cathedral.
Molly watched her breath plume over the ornate railing. She looked to Armand. Breathless, not only in appearance but oxygen, his aura warmed the world.
Molly tugged his hand, turning him toward her. Her eyes massaged his face: chiseled jaw, curly locks on the cheeks, mesmerizing mouth. She wanted to feel his lips on hers more than ever.
He leaned down, removed her hat, and kissed her forehead. She trembled, wanting more, yearning to lose herself within him. He embraced her, resting his chin on her head as his aura encompassed them like a spotlight on the world’s stage. Warmth coursed through Molly. Her shivers subsided. She felt her heart swell with unconditional love and empathy, everything Armand felt and shared in the moment. Her vision blurred and refined. She wanted to stay this way forever, in Armand’s arms, careless, safe, and cherished.
He let her go, pulled back, and handed her the hat. “We must say goodnight, Miss Molly.”
Her eyes glistened with tears, the thought of parting near unbearable. “If we must.”
“We must.” He lifted her chin with his finger. “And tomorrow you can tell me if your world brightened.”
She smiled. “I will.”
Armand clasped her right hand in both of his. “Until the trolley.”
“Thank you, Armand, for tonight.”
“I should thank you. It was my pleasure.”
Armand flashed a half-smile and returned to the hotel. Molly lingered on the balcony, wishing the night endless, still wondering if she would awake in her lonely flat. The world of dusty books and boredom seemed galaxies away.
She turned, put on her hat, and left the pond to the moonlight. As she entered the hotel, she expected the worst, but the magical renovation remained, even in Armand’s absence. She strolled through the ballroom to the lobby, and it looked the same, as if never abandoned. She stepped out the double doors and the gardens still bloomed; her evening gown fluttered with the flowers. Would it all revert when she left the gates, like Cinderella at midnight?
She walked backwards out of the courtyard and onto the sidewalk, waiting for Collingwood to transform before her eyes. It remained the same. The neon sign continued its sizzling invitation.
Molly smiled, grateful, but confused. She turned to the street. The streetlamps burned bright. The alleys clean and vacant. The buildings freshly painted and occupied. Handfuls of well-dressed pedestrians passed by and lingered at glinting glass storefronts. A soft snow fell as a trolley paused up the block, picking up a single passenger.
Molly sighed as she headed up the walk. She now saw the world through Armand’s eyes. Allure… class… grandiose.
The beauty there all along.

Andrew Hinshaw resides in the Midwest due to a series of questionable decisions. Once a DJ and dog food factory lineman, he now works in a field more suited to his background in psychology. In his free time, he spends his days looking stoic in photos and participating in workshops hosted by author and instructor Seth Harwood. This is his first published short story. 

Gary shifted in the bus’s uncomfortable foam seat and let his mind drift to his absent wife as he stared out at the snowcapped Rockies. Stacy had finally fallen asleep after having fought against it, as most children do. Her head rested in his lap and her legs stretched out onto the adjacent window seat. Gary couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept more than a few hours. He envied her that. Despite her pallor, she looked content. For the tenth time Gary pulled out the folded itinerary from his shirt pocket, and verified they’d make it to Baltimore on time. As it stood now, they’d be able to spend a few hours in Huntsville as he’d promised, assuming there was no blown tires or delayed transfers during their thirty hour journey across the Midwest.
He folded the heavily creased paper and stuffed it back into his shirt pocket. He’d brought a book, but it remained packed in his faded olive drab duffle bag that sat on the floor between his feet. Gary used to love getting lost in a good book, but after Madeline had left, he could never focus, often finding himself in the middle and not recalling what he’d read moments before.
Instead, he’d amused himself for the last hour by watching two young brothers bickering across the bus’s aisle. One had been attempting to read Stranger in a Strange Land (Gary spotted it as they boarded; it had been one of Madeline’s favorites). The other, much to his bookish brother’s chagrin, kept trying to swipe a silver flask from the back pocket of a drunken man slumped forward a few seats ahead.
Gary’s smile faded as he looked down at Stacy. He tugged at the bottom of her new dress, pulling it down over her thin legs. He’d purchased the dress just a few hours before on their way to the Denver bus station. On the corner of Sixteenth and Curtis, just feet away from construction workers clad in reflective vests, Stacy had stopped and stared through a dusty storefront window. A featureless face of a child-sized mannequin, ashen and polished smooth, stared back. The doll was clad in a white and yellow summer dress with a narrow, shiny black belt. Madeline had had one just like it.
“Tell me again,” Stacy said. She hadn’t fallen asleep after all.
Gary looked down to see that Stacy was staring forward at the faded paisley blue seat back. She reached out with a small, pink index finger to pick at what looked like a cigarette burn in the fabric.
“I thought you wanted to see the mountains?”
“No,” Stacy pouted, furrowing her brow. She brought her hand to her mouth to stifle a wet cough. “I don't care about the mountains! I want to hear the story.”
Gary let out an exaggerated sigh. “You’re a tough negotiator. But, okay.” He rubbed his face in an attempt to rouse himself, ignoring the calluses that scraped against his greying stubble. “There was once a lovely lady named Madeline. She was very special and very pretty and very smart. She loved all things about the cosmos. And when she was a little girl like you--when all the other kids busied themselves with games and dolls--she spent all her time dreaming of going up into space.”
Stacy looked up at Gary and her face beamed as if his words were pure gold. He looked up at the bus’s grey ceiling, as if he could see right through it, past the clouds above and into the stars beyond.
“And that dream almost came true,” Gary said. “Madeline was a final applicant for NASA’s Astronaut Candidate Program.”
“Applicant?”
“Don’t you remember?” He looked back down at her with raised eyebrows.
Stacy traced a tattoo on Gary’s forearm that read 4TH INF DIV as she searched for the answer. “Other people who wanted to go to space too, silly,” Gary said before continuing. “And unfortunately, despite all her hard work, they picked one of them instead. But she wasn’t discouraged; she knew she’d find some way to go, even if others could go before her.” Gary smiled a crooked smile. “You know, she used to say the only thing she could love more than all the stars above was a little girl of her own.”
Gary bopped Stacy’s nose with his finger. She giggled.
“So, with her plans delayed, Madeline did the next best thing: she got a job working at Space Camp at the Huntsville U.S. Space and Rocket Center, to show little kids, just like you, how awesome space was.”
“Is that why she left, daddy? Because you didn't want to go to space, too?”
Gary looked again through the window (or squircle, as Madeline would’ve called it because of its rounded corners) and out at the passing trees. The mountains behind the trees remained static and unchanging, as if the landscape was nothing more than a lie, a clever rendition. Gary imagined shattering the glass and pressing a finger through the fabrication on the other side.  “Yes,” he said. “I suppose that could be why.”
“Is she there now?”
“Not yet.” He looked down at Stacy and pushed strands of blonde hair behind her ear. “Going to space is really complex. She’s still preparing, but I think she’ll leave soon. And if we get there in time, she’ll be able to take Asti with her.”
At this, Stacy looked down at the small orange and white cooler containing her dead fish. It sat next to her small pink suitcase and both were stuffed under the seat to their left. She craned her neck to look back up at Gary. “Why can't Asti come with us all the way to Mary-Land?”
“They only specialize in helping little girls there,” Gary said. “I’m sorry babe, Asti’s beyond even Dr. Grey’s abilities. Now let’s try and get some sleep.”
As Stacy slept, Gary watched as the mountains levelled out and turned into the flatlands of Kansas. The bus’s engine thrummed through the floor as the pale-yellow hay fields slowly disappeared, replaced with the quaint red and brown buildings of Kansas City. Stacy awoke some time later and, laying her head against Gary’s chest, joined him in silence. Together they watched the buildings become less and less frequent, replaced with empty blackness of night and the steady rhythm of the passing highway lights. As night turned to morning, the landscape changed to the lush greens and sweeping hills of Missouri as they neared St. Louis.
The bus transfer was unremarkable. Despite the salty scent of exhaust and the forgettable view of warped chain link fencing and distant, drab buildings, Gary tried to take some time to stretch and move around before boarding. He tried to get Stacy to eat but she refused. They boarded early into the mostly barren bus. A bespectacled elderly couple sat near the front and offered kind smiles as Gary and Stacy headed down the aisle. He let Stacy pick, and they settled into their seats in the very back for the rest of their trip towards their first stop in Huntsville.
Gary checked his tactical watch on the underside of his wrist. Seven hours to go. They’d arrive in Huntsville at three in the afternoon and would have just over two hours before having to leave again for Baltimore. Then, they’d have another full day of travelling, including two more transfers before arriving in Maryland.
As they drove through Nashville, Gary watched with regret as they passed from afar the Grand Ole Opry. Aside from a purple sign, he couldn’t see much of the building as it was surrounded by green trees and intricately shaped shrubs. Perhaps in the future he and Stacy could go there. He’d show her what real music was.
“This is our stop,” Gary said as the bus came to a halt. “You okay baby? You hungry?”
She shook her head as she struggled to get to her feet, rubbing puffy eyes with her palms. Gary shouldered his duffle bag and grabbed her suitcase, but Stacy insisted on carrying the cooler. The bus’s front doors opened and the humid Alabaman air flooded the cabin. They walked through the aisle, down the black steps and onto the malt colored concrete. As they headed to the street out front, Stacy dragged her hand along the station’s painted brick walls that failed to hide the graffiti underneath.
Gary hailed a cab. As they neared the Space and Rocket Center, Stacy could hardly wait to exit, giddy that she could see the massive rocket from so far away, despite it being surrounded by the museum’s many large buildings. Gary kept a hand on her shoulder as she stepped out, asking her to stay by his side while he paid. The two of them turned and walked towards the entrance. The large rectangular building reflected the clouds above, its walls made entirely of windows. A sleek SR-71 Blackbird jet sat parked outside, gated with knee high railing. The weathered black paint over the jet’s smooth curves had a dusty chalkboard appearance. Still, Gary felt the retired aircraft was a sight to behold.
Rounding the Blackbird, they passed through two large blue columns and up concrete stairs into the air conditioned building. Gary bought tickets from a pretty blonde with a smile full of braces who stood behind a curved graphite ticket desk. She stood next to a life size astronaut cardboard cutout. 
As they entered the main exhibit area, Gary had a hoped something would catch Stacy’s eye, such as a series of exhibits chronicling America’s part in the space race or the impressive, domed IMAX with a sixty-seven foot screen. Unfortunately, Stacy ignored these things, eyeing the rocket outside through the many large windows.
 She led Gary by hand and they exited the other side of the building and stepped back out onto a hot concrete ramp. Sloping downward, it ended at the edge of a large oblong hexagon of green grass with benches on either side. Stacy momentarily mistook the Saturn I rocket on the other side of the grass as their destination, but Gary lifted her up and rotated right so she could see the much larger Saturn V in the distance. An American flag was painted on the side of the massive, black and white conical rocket, whose base was hidden by green trees with white flowering buds. Gary put Stacy down, and they navigated towards the rocket, heading through swathes of people who gathered around various sites. It was a hot day, despite the increased clouds. Gary’s damp shirt stuck to his back once they arrived.
Stacy stopped and stared up at the Saturn V, her mouth agape from bending her head so far back. To their right, two kids with plaster skin and straight black bangs stood with their father who wore a round straw hat. The man knelt down, closed an eye and lifted a camera to his face, rotating the lenses black barrel. The sidewalk under him curved and narrowed like the tip of a giant red scythe.
“You can touch it if you want,” Gary said from behind her.
The rocket jutted upwards towards the metallic sky, a line of distant bushy, sage green trees drawing a jagged horizon beyond. She hesitated, eyeing the enormous silver fins sticking out from the rocket’s base and the angular, cement blocks that anchored it to the ground. Squat, conical grey engines hung like small huts from the bottom of the rocket but didn’t touch the ground. “Mom’s in there?” Stacy asked, still gawking at the rocket. “Like inside?”
“Yes.” Gary lowered his voice, casting a quick, mischievous glance to the man with the camera. “But we’re not allowed to tell anyone. It’s a secret.”
She turned and looked up at him. “Can we see her?”
“She can’t leave baby. We’ve talked about this.”
She turned back towards the rocket and dropped her gaze down to the cooler that sat in front of her red sneakers. “What if she doesn't like tiger fishes anymore?”
It was a lionfish, but Gary had given up correcting her long ago. “She loves Asti, because she loves you.”
She turned to face him again. “Where do we put her?”
He looked around to make sure no one was listening, then knelt down and beckoned her closer with a single curling finger. “There’s a hidden slot.”
Her eyes widened and she lowered her voice to a whisper. “Where?”
Gary placed a hand on her back and pointed over her shoulder with the other. There was a square opening the width of a deck of cards on the side of one of the massive concrete blocks supporting the rocket. Stacy looked down at the cooler again, then back at Gary. “So we just put Asti in there? That’s it?”
“Yep,” Gary said. “There’s a tank inside.”
Stacy took in a deep, raspy breath and bent down to open the cooler. She reached in and pulled out a clear plastic sandwich bag that had been sitting atop melting ice. Holding the bag in front of her, she examined the dead fish within. Narrow, rusty stripes crossed its cream colored body and its multicolored fins and spines clung to the moisture inside.
The name Astraea was chosen by Madeline after an immortal goddess who abandoned earth to become the constellation Virgo. Stacy, unable to pronounce it, had only ever called the fish Asti. She’d given Astraea to Stacy on her third birthday. It came with a card with a handwritten quote by Henry Van Dyke, which read:
Be glad of life,
because it gives you the chance
to love, work, play
and to look up at the stars.
Gary reached out to retrieve the bag, but Stacy refused to hand it over. She began walking toward the rocket. He grabbed her arm and she turned to face him.
“Sure you don’t want me to go with you, honey?”
“No thanks,” she said, smiling. She mashed away strands of thin hair that had come loose from behind her ear and blew across her face. Her sweet smile dimpled her ivory cheeks but it no longer touched her eyes, giving her the resolute expression of her mother.
Gary swallowed as he let go Stacy’s arm, and watched as his pale-skinned, emaciated daughter, whose dress seemed to have grown larger and looser in just a day's time, turned around and headed towards the defunct rocket. Arriving, she stared again up at the massive conical pillar to the sky, gripping the plastic baggie to her chest.
The man to their right dropped his camera to his chest, still kneeling, and cast a quizzical look towards Gary. Gary replied with a tight smile and the man looked down to one of his kids who were tugging on his pants, pointing at some other distant fascination.
He looked to Stacy and she looked back. He nodded.
The fish’s lifeless body slid out of the bag in one quick blur and disappeared into the small slit in the concrete block. Stacy yelped, dropping the empty bag, which twirled in a soft breeze before hitting the ground. “She bit me!”
Gary ran to Stacy and grabbed her hands, examining both sides. He found no wounds. He knelt down and moved his hands to her shoulders, staring into her eyes. 
“It doesn’t hurt,” Stacy said. “Asti just scared me.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes,” she said, smiling again. “I love you, Daddy.”
Gary’s sucked in a quick breath. Stacy stared back, innocent, loving. No one else existed for that moment, just the two of them, the feel of her soft dress under his fingers, the warmth of her gaze.
He pressed his hand against Stacy’s pink cheek, wiping away a nonexistent tear with his thumb. “I love you too, baby.” He kissed her on the forehead, then stood up and stared down at her. “So...what do you want to do now?”
Stacy’s eyes brightened and she gripped her fists to her chest. Her two front teeth peeked through her pink lips as she smiled. “Ooh! Let’s go to the tornado machine!”
Gary laughed. “Anything you want, sweetie.” He checked his watch before spinning on his heels and looking around. “I think it was near Shuttle Park.”
Gary and Stacy spent the next two hours visiting the sights, including the Cyclone Generator, in which Stacy squawked in delight as her hair twirled above her head. They poked around at the space memorabilia and watched a three hundred sixty degree, high definition view of earth in the IMAX dome. They even stopped at the Mars Grill, and Gary was pleased to see her munch happily away on a corn dog.
Stacy walked two steps to Gary’s one as they exited the center. Gary hailed a cab. As they pulled away from the curb, Gary rolled down the window and Stacy scooted over to sit on his lap.
“Goodbye Asti! Goodbye Mommy!” Stacy yelled as she waved out the window. Gary waved along with her towards the complex containing the enormous rocket. It passed by on their right before disappearing from view. Gary hugged his daughter and kissed her cheek as droplets of rain began to stick to the windshield.
“Her first time?” The portly, mustached cab driver asked. His brown eyes looked at Gary through the narrow glass of the rearview mirror.
“No,” Gary said, still staring ahead at the rain speckled road. “She’s been there once before. With her mother.”
As they exited the cab and approached the bus station, Gary shifted Stacy to his right, avoiding a man on a red bench who exhaled a plume of smoke while chatting on his cell. After collecting their tickets, they boarded immediately. The large, rectangular navy blue bus’s engine hummed and crackled as Gary helped Stacy walk up the stairs. Several passengers had already boarded, a few of them offering lazy, uninterested glances as Gary and Stacy found their seats. Gary stowed their luggage and sat down. Stacy took a window seat, then resumed her position of lying down in his lap. Rain began to drum against the bus’s roof and streak its large windows. Thunder grumbled in the distance as the achromatic clouds now blotted out the sun entirely.
After an hour on the road, exhaustion struck. It was as if gravity had doubled. Gary’s eyelids drooped. Even keeping his jaw closed took effort. He looked down at Stacy, who had fallen into a deep sleep. She looked so fragile, like a porcelain doll. Before she’d laid down, Stacy had pulled out the card from her suitcase that Madeline had given her. Its tattered edges pressed against her chest as she gripped it tight.
Amid the few coughs, hushed conversations and the treble ticking of a passenger’s headphones, Gary heard something else, something odd. It was coming from the passenger in front of him. The woman’s long, curly blond hair spilled partly over the back of her seat. Leaning forward, Gary noted her hair smelled of lilacs and rain, and realized the woman’s dress was not unlike the one Stacy had on now. He reached to touch the woman’s shoulder, but froze when he saw her phone. On the screen was a blurred object with a expanding vapor trail. Below the image, a news caption read: Unexplained Rocket Launch at U.S. Space and Rocket Center.
The bus struck a pothole and jostled Gary awake.
It had gotten darker out. He rubbed his eyes and checked his watch again. Two hours had passed. He looked down at Stacy and rubbed her back. He didn’t want to wake her, but it was time for her pills. “Stacy?” He said, shaking her shoulder. Her hand opened and Madeline’s card fell to the floor. “Stacy baby? Wake up. It’s time for your medicine.”

    Interstate 8 climbs west out of the Imperial Valley and twists through the rugged mountains upward into East San Diego County. My name is Tommy and I recently graduated from the Border Patrol Academy. I’m assigned to work the graveyard shift at the Campo checkpoint along Interstate 8 which is 65 miles west from the Mexican border crossing and fifty miles east from San Diego. The checkpoint is surrounded by rugged, isolated terrain accessible solely by four-wheel drive vehicles. Thousands of vehicles pass through our checkpoint daily but you wouldn’t realize it working the graveyard shift as wild animals outnumber the vehicles.
    My Senior Agent and mentor is Ben who reached mandatory retirement age. He loves his job and is a widower without children. He is kind, fatherly, and enjoys telling tales of his storied career more than training me. His rotund body is showing wear and tear. He has a limp and bouts of memory loss. Ben’s faithful partner is a drug sniffing German shepherd named “Ruger” who can hold his own in a brawl. We spend most of our shift relaxing in recliner chairs and keep a cooler filled with soft drinks and water. Ben and Ruger nod off from time to time which I don’t mind. Our office is a small trailer. It’s a full moon tonight and the sky is full of stars. A breeze is kicking up the fragrance of the chaparral.
    It’s 0230 and Ruger barks. Ben wakes and grabs the binoculars looking east down the freeway which is dark. “It looks like CHP Officer Wally is on the beat”, Ben remarks.  Although I see nothing, I won’t question a Senior Agent. Ruger is barking relentlessly and dragging Ben to the checkpoint. Ben says, “Hand me a Coke for Wally, Tommy.” I comply but remain dumfounded. The checkpoint is lit with floodlights but I see nothing. Ben and Ruger cross the two lane freeway to the checkpoint.
    Ben crouches down and leans as if peering into a vehicle to speak to a driver. Ruger stands on both legs and Ben holds him close. I watch in disbelief as Ben holds a conversation with an apparition.  Ruger barks and pulls Ben towards our chase car. Ben yells, “Wally just received a radio call to respond to an overturned tanker truck at mile marker 4.  I’m going to assist. Man the fort!” Wally and Ruger race down Interstate 8 with lights and siren. I’m tense and confused. I radio Ben who doesn’t answer. To my relief, I hear Ben request radio assistance from CAL FIRE Station 44, “Overturned fuel truck on fire. Driver trapped. Assisting CHP Officer Wally. Send fire engine and ambulance.” Within minutes, CAL FIRE Engine 44 and an ambulance race by the checkpoint. I run to our four wheel drive truck and speed towards mile marker 4 to assist.
    Mile marker 4 is several miles west from the checkpoint. I see Ben’s chase car emergency lights flashing ahead and his chase car is positioned across the two lane freeway as a safety measure to prevent vehicles from approaching. A coyote darts from the brush, crosses my lane, and disappears into the wilderness. I swerve and narrowly miss the animal but at ninety miles per hour I struggle to gain control and keep from flipping. I maintain control of the truck and park but don’t see Ben or Ruger. There is no overturned tanker truck. Engine 44 is parked alongside the freeway with its emergency lights off. The ambulance is leaving empty. A masculine, calming voice calls to me, “Up here on the bluff, kid.” I climb up on to the bluff and meet Chief Johnny of Engine Company 44. He is tall, thin, and has a thick mane of silver hair and handlebar moustache. He is handsome and I suspect many are happy to be rescued by Johnnie. “Call it a night fellas”, Johnnie commands his men who conclude their search for Ben and Ruger.  
    Johnnie asks, “What’s your name Agent?” I reply, Tommy, Captain.  Johnnie places his arm around my shoulder and raises his head towards the sky remarking, “You can practically count every star”. I’m flustered and quivering.  Johnnie holds me tight and looks me in the eye. In a hushed voice he says, “About thirty years ago, I responded to a tanker truck fire at this very place. Ben and CHP Officer Wally were attempting to extricate the driver. Just as we began spraying the tanker with foam retardant, it blew into flames. The driver was pulled to safety, Ben suffered singed eyebrows but CHP Officer Wally burned to death. There’s no earthly explanation for what happened here tonight but I’ve seen it before. Agents like Ben never forget losing a fellow officer. When their time to die comes, they prefer it occurs doing the job they love and choose to vanish forever into the wilderness. The San Diego Commander of the Border Patrol and I go way back. I’ll call him tonight and explain everything. He’ll understand”. Captain Johnnie and I walk down the bluff to our vehicles. Captain Johnnie waves as Engine 44 returns to the firehouse. I park Ben’s chase car alongside the meridian and will retrieve it later.
    I return to the checkpoint confused. I stare at the star filled sky and learned tonight life holds many secrets. I miss Ben and Ruger and will never forget them. I hope they are together in a better place. Across the freeway a lone coyote exits the brush, sits and stares directly at me. Our eyes meet for a moment and the coyote belts out a howl before returning to the wilderness.
 
End.
 
 
 

Nessie Nankivell has had her work published in Juked Literary Magazine, the Pace Society of Fellows, and has received commissions from ASCAP and the New York Musical Theatre Festival. She is an alumni of Toronto's Soulpepper Theatre Company's Youth Initiative and has had her playwriting showcased in venues throughout New York City. Nessie is a graduate of Pace University. @nessienankivell.

​I couldn’t really be mad at him, that so. I hope you’ll come to understand that. I couldn’t perfect well look into those eyes, lashes like a fern plant, beautiful eyes, and tell him, “Don’t do it, sweetness. Don’t you dare.” He was a scared man, and I couldn’t then be mad at him. Still am not. And if I must remember now, I admit drinking the Pesticyde was my idea. Guess the blame falls on me, in a way. I sat at the kitchen table that evening, and I’m telling him, “No good can come from a hanging anyhow. I don’t figure I’m strong enough to get you down from the beam once you’ve done.” He holds my hand like it were a pup. Nodding, he knows it’s true, me not being strong enough. That’s when I tell him, “Sure though, we’ve got extra Pesticyde?” My husband sighs a yes with those big scared eyes.
We walked through the back door into the night. I’m holding him by the arm, and we see the whiteness of our crop out there in the moonlight. Grapes. Or, I should say, no grapes. The silver vines frown back at us, drying up all the moonlight. Not a thing had grown on our vines in the lifetime of ten of those moons. So, we stand there looking at them, breathing in the dryness. He put every last dime and then some into those vines, and they swallowed each dollar up like it was something sweet. The debt collected in his name owed to the Stig could never be paid off. I suppose through his sorrow neither of us figure a debt could be given like dowry from one name to the next. That night we only thought we were casting my husband’s problems to the sky. When stillness is no longer an option, action has to take its place. We did the best we could, gulls though we were. The farm was not in my name. I owned nothing until they said did.
I was a barley girl from birth, and my mother’s mouth had twisted something slight when I stomped into the kitchen saying I would marry a grape man. My husband had held me high above his head when we danced at our wedding. I’m the youngest mother in my village. By the time we wondered whether we should have a baby I was busy pushing little Tippy out from inside me. Tippy wasn’t mad at him either, sensible little thing.
Tippy was the one who found me the morning after I had gotten the Pesticyde out from the barn. I’m standing over his body, foam around his mouth, shaking my head, thinking I’m not mad, I’m not mad. It’s little Tippy who grabs her cold father’s head by the hair, her tiny fists clenched, and starts pulling his body along the dirt to God knows where. I put a hand on her shoulder and say to her, “Easy Tipps, leave your baba be.” I tell her that Masha will be by soon. I tell her I’m proud she isn’t scared of nothing dead.
I spend most of the day driving the plow, placing handfuls of dust by the legs of the vines. My husband, in his smart and worried way, had told me to save the ashes from his funeral pyre to spread over the soil of our field. Not for anything sentimental, nothing like that, my husband was not a man of unreliable ritual. The ashes would oxidize the field, give it breath. I thank him for that advice as I’m out there dusting the whole grape field with his sooty remainder. But that’s when I spy them: little white critters, little grubby things, seem to live on the stems now. Bigger than an aphid, big as far as little critters go. I remember someone from the Stig told me to keep an eye out for them, told what their name was, but standing out in the field I can’t for the life of me remember. I’ll have to go see them soon. The Stig will be wondering something about money, I know this now.
Tippy flys past the back of my leg, followed up by the blur of white that is Masha’s son, Max. I blow a little scolding into the back of their heads and Max swings around on his heels to jab me with his one-eyed stare. The silky, crusted flap of skin that stretches across his empty socket in a forever-wink bounces the sun into my face. His other eye rolls me up and down until I whimper out that he need be getting back to his mother. Out of the handful of children left in our village, Max is our only prophet. The whole village knows he has dreadful visions and they don’t like him around much. He’s odd and bright, and you can’t well be mad at him for being a prophet on the side. But in between me and myself, I don’t much believe in his profiteering. Just because the kid’s lost an eye in a chemical breach doesn’t mean he’s gone and gotten magic put into him. The truth is that we’re each of us a little mangled up from what they’re putting in the Resources. Everyone has some lump where it shouldn’t be. A person who’s body has been squished or mashed or defiled, at least out here, at least where we live, has got to proclaim themselves a force-defying-nature, or else they’re as bummed as the rest of us and look worse to boot. Or at least that’s how it seems.
We’re sat out on Masha’s porch. “Well,” she says, gazing into her big mug of hot water, “looking forward, you’ll have to track exactly what the white critters are doing to your crops. Exactly what the destruction is.” I have to nod, because Masha always knows just want to say and all. Her shoulders hang heavy from her neck, “What do you think you’ll do about your loans now that he isn’t—” and she stops at isn’t. Because isn’t that just like Masha? Always looking off into the future, and getting some sort of scared about what she sees. I told her I’m not worried about the loans, or the Stig, either way. I tell her once I get these critters gone, I’ll have enough grapes for me and little Tippy, and maybe some extra for Masha, too. Masha rocks on her haunches. The steam from her water makes little tears on her chin. Her bare feet roll on the ground like they’re trying to listen to the earth for an answer. I know that Masha’s been getting a certain kind of call from the Stig, you can see from the way her front door is busted in and splintered. Also from the way she walks in the mornings, hunched. Her hands collect like pine needles on the mug and she says, “Wee Max hasn’t had a vision since last market time.” She rocks a little more. “So maybe we’ll be fine, yet.” I know Masha, I say in my head as I stroke her hair, I know, it’s all right, hush. What I don’t say is, I knew my husband was wrong all along. I knew dead would only mean dead and not free.
I heard the screeching of a prophet boy from around the house, and knew little Tippy must have been teaching him about one thing or another. I left Masha in the dark and found the children by the side of the house. Tippy had a stone in her hand, and she tells me that they were smashing crickets between rocks, because her and Max liked the smell of the dead little crickets. Not her fault! Tippy’s telling me she had to find out if the boy’s fingers would smell the same when smashed. I give one hard shout and Tipps bolts for our house. Max stands wet with slobber and tears running the ridges of his ribs. The child clearly hadn’t eaten much more than an onion since he was a babe. They were born the same time, our babies. Masha and I practically pumped the wee ones out one on top of the other. Tippy is thin as reed while she’s tall as one, but Max, with his swollen belly and one milky eye, is only knee high to a firefly. Sometimes things won’t be fair.
“Have you any dreams this week, Max?” I ask him, because I don’t well know what else to say. His eye draws a line up from my feet to my face, slow as the sun, and he says after a sniff, “Those seeds you and mama bought. Bad seeds. I saw it.” “Well that makes you and me both,” I tell him. “The man you bought them from,” he’s telling me, “I seen that man, and he’s going to flood the mountain from the bottom up and the top down.” Good God, what child actor is this that can draw such a likeness to Death himself? I nod my head at the prophet boy, trying to keep it casual. I give a double thumbs up. And I kept nodding and walking backwards, away from Max and his crushed finger, back around the front of the house where Masha was still looking out into the dark. She’s telling me, “Love, they won’t forget about loans just because he gone.” I nodded at Masha, keeping it cool, very cool, walking backwards, and didn’t change my way of going until I had made it all the way through the field between our houses, until I had backed all the way through my front door.
That night I get into bed with Tippy—we’ve already used my and husband’s bed for firewood—and I pull her to me. There’s something about the smell of that child’s head that makes my eyes flutter and snap like a flag in the wind. I hold her close, and I breathe the sweat off her hair. Tippy flats her palms over my mouth, and holds them there so I can’t breathe. I can feel her cocky smile through the darkness. I let her hold her hands on my mouth because they smell so good. I am scared because we have no money and no grapes, and my husband is all over the field, giving breath to expensive seeds that are probably bust. I didn’t fall asleep that night so much as pass out because I think little Tippy went and suffocated me. I held her skinny bottom so strong in my arms, that I probably suffocated her too. We both dream about the mountains flooding from the bottom up and the top down.
 
The whole next week the air was bushy with smells of rain but we don’t get so much as morning dew. I take the fried leaves of our grape vines, and I hold them between my fingers. I spit on one thinking, drink up, but what difference will it make watering just one leaf? My husband, in that worried way, bought our special seeds a few years back. I tell him we aren’t in a folktale, but he tells me these seeds have been enhanced, they’ve been touched by the Engineers. He says if we want to keep up, we have to throw our parents’ seeds away. Soon the whole town’s got the new seeds, so I keep quiet with my thoughts. But, these seeds they must have needed as much water as a river because they never seemed to get enough to drink.
As I was standing there with the leaf, shiny with my spit, out of the dust stepped a copper. It’s the way a copper will walk sluggish as any living thing that gets me feeling nervous. They always walk up so slow, giving you plenty of time to think of all the things you’re guilty of. The copper touches our vines, and I growl at him all quiet so he can’t hear. But, growl I did. “Got some news from the State,” he’s telling me as I lean an elbow over my hoe. That so? I think. The copper looks around the field, back at the house, “You owe money, eh?” I nod. “The State has a deal for all the farms on the hill owing.” I nod again though I can hear Tippy shouting and Max crying, the two of them tumbling towards us from behind the house. “The State has recently sponsored an acquisition between Exralle and the rivers.” We’re squinting at each other mutually. “Which means Exralle owns the river, and all like-aquatic resources in the region. Should be great news for the market.” What does this have to with our market down the hill? “I’m here to inform you that should there be flooding, you have the right to that forest.” And then he tosses his dark head somewhere vague up the mountain, as if we both know which forest he’s talking about. “Forest Rights. From the State.” He looks pleased. I’m asking him, “Do I have rights to the water?” “No. It’s a Resource. Property of Exralle.” I chew my upper lip, how they love to correct you. “A river flowing to the ocean,” he pauses, rubs his stomach, “is such a waste of water.”
He makes now to leave. “Hey,” I call out to him because a fire got set in me quick like a little spark. “Why is the debt still owed on this land? Good luck asking my husband for money. I’ll show you where he rests but he won’t have much to say.” The copper fingers the leaves on my vines. He laughs some and says, “The land is yours. Isn’t that supposed to make you people happy?” His words were thick and like the stench of meat. I found myself grabbing his shoulder with my cold paws and begging him, “You lied to us.” And them from much to much a close distance I saw his eyes fix on little Tippy as she came tumbling through the vines, Max’s shirt between her teeth. Tippy giggles venom all over me and the fleshy man, but Max stops dead. “I seen you,” he blares out, “I seen you and you’re the end of us all!” I try to reach out for him, but his spider legs scurry under the vines, out of reach. He circles us and wails, “Water sold to an invisible hand! Dirty motherfucker!” That last word nearly knocked out my feet from below me. Where did he pick up something so exotic? Sure enough though, the copper had his earful and now he’s lunging after the child. I see the shining baton snap out of it’s sleeve on the belt. The black metal slaps against Max’s bare shoulder. The cloud of his single eye slams shut with a little puff. I see him paw his face, catching the blood on his cheek. If he was special before because of his one eye, he must be the jewel of the nation now with only one. Oh, god.
Without a thought or a prayer I’ve already thrown my body between the man and child. The stick comes down on my stomach, and stomach goes numb. I push Max’s wriggling body under a row of vines. The stick comes down again cold against my cheek. Blink and widen my eyes, trying to see past the dark. Blood on my lips feels like egg yolk. Then there was the stick one more time, gently, almost tenderly, on each cheek of my buttocks. The copper’s breath pushing through the risen ashes, which trails off into air. Both children were out of sight, so I welcome the ashes as they settle on my dress sort of like what you would call an embrace.
 
I figure I wasn’t speaking clear enough when I wished for water. Because what we got in the fields now has got more sewage in it than any water worth boiling. The dam at the end of the valley shot up like lightning after the copper came to the house. The water looked like it had wandered back up from some unholy drain. When the river was clogged up enough Tippy liked to lay between our vines with her face down in the stuff, looking dead as yesterday. But on the days the dam lets out I work those fields. Strange little grapes have started popping from the vines. They’re bright yellow like a furious star. The colour of bile, they are. The Stig comes to market with new soil because ours is bust and they promise us their new dirt doesn’t care about a little flooding. It’s crafted by the Engineers to marry the new seeds. I’m talking to Masha about it in the square. I ask, “Do you think I need be getting that new soil?” She sighs, she doesn’t know. “Masha, I’m all washed up,” I tell her. I know it’s no good because Masha hasn’t seen a dollar since her husband took their sheep and made off up the mountain without her two years past. Folks around us dart by with withered bags, wrinkled from when they were full enough to right burst. I rub Masha’s little back under the shade of a plastic tarp. A concrete-coloured lizard runs over our toes. I tell Masha of a mother, Nisa, who only needed go into a copper’s private office and ask for her husband’s debts to be forgotten, and it worked. Or so I heard. She said it only lasted a minute, only a matter of asking. I’ll ask.
But the heat under that candy-blue plastic must have been too much in the dark Masha must have just lost her wits for a minute. You can’t be rightly mad at her for talking nonsense. She shouts hot, “You better damn well buy that new soil. Borrow money on the land, save your grapes.” With one swipe, she throws my hands off her back. “You’re a plain fool,” she’s saying, “Kill your husband and now you ask forgiveness from those dogs? We all have to pay. We all do. No one is getting out for free.” I nod, I know, but here again someone’s taken Masha’s words from her. “But it’s not fair, Mashie. You know it isn’t, that so,” I say. Her spine there welded itself into frost. She looks at the ground and says, “I have twice the coppers prowling my windows at nights now, did you know? Ever since you screamed whatever nonsense at that pig, I have to put up with double.” Oh god, she doesn’t know, she didn’t see. I’m saying to her, “That copper was coming at me wild, I didn’t do nothing wrong. And once he came down on wee Max I forgot all about it anyhow.” Masha pulls her face away from the ground, her cheeks wet with moonlight. She cocks her head and says Max’s name and turns to face me and says it again. “They saw him? They saw my boy?” I can hear the blood in my ears. “Only a moment, he was running and dust was all over.”
Masha’s telling me that the Stig have been stealing the children of her people for a ransom sum that nobody can pay. Something about a list. Something about a scar. I can’t hear not even a word about it because now I’m crying and trying to rub all the mistakes out from under my skin. The market melts into a pile of stones around me. Left alone, I’m looking at ashes and lizards. Ringing around wild in my brain is the shadow of Masha’s creaking voice: “What have you done, girl?”
We’re told now that it’s Election Day. Masha isn’t no where to be found. We haven’t seen her or blinded little Max in near two days. Tippy’s been chewing on my hand all morning. I pull her along behind me on the mud road, and her face has brown patches that looked like mud too. But it’s not mud, it’s just my blood all dried up around her mouth because she won’t stop her gnawing on me. I don’t tell my daughter to stop.
We’re told we have been lucky. We have elections every season. That is so many elections, we’re told, so many times to be grateful for our State. This time everyone’s been called to the market square for a to-do about the Progressionists before the ballots are cast. Near each day the farmers come down to the square to try get someone to answer for the bust seeds, and I’m pushing around their solid bodies seeking for a person who can help me sort out my debt. I ask a woman selling paper cups of corn by the side of the crowd and she just sucks her teeth and tells me, “Today isn’t the day to ask for help, sure enough.” She spits a kernel from her mouth to my feet and turns to pick up one of the naked children squatting at her feet. I ask the corn woman about the crowd and she tells me there’s been an attack on our State, people have died, and the party is here to tell us the what-all. She asks if I want to buy some corn.
There’s a stage been set up at one side of the square. It waits for us. The awnings on the empty market stalls hang motionless, keeping to themselves. A Stig copper pushes a mother to the ground, telling her baby to cut its crying. People keep their gaze sidelong, or otherwise at the ground because they don’t right well know where to look. I can feel Tipp’s teeth on my hand and I don’t so much mind. Two hours die under our watch and then three black lorries pull in behind the stage. Our congress leader, enormous and shiny-faced, the head of Progressionists in our province, went making his way to the microphone.
“Many of you,” the congress leader’s voice blasted out of hidden speakers, “have never known a time of terror like these past two days.” Which terror? “Our nation felt the blows of hatred against her back, but the people, we have kept her standing tall.” What blows? Has Masha heard something? I look all over the square now, trying to find her face. “Still,” every hard sound out of his mouth slapped itself on my chest. The speakers must have been close by where Tippy and I were standing. “Still, your government was faced with the arduous charge of finding those responsible, and bringing them to the full task of the law.” Tippy glares up at several birds flying by overhead singing of their light freedom. Now’s not a good time, I tell them.
“The coordinated bombing, shooting, and destruction of two military outposts in the capital are nothing short of genocidal.” I pout my lip in understanding, hoping no one notices I’ve been a dumb ox and know nothing of what they’re talking. “At first there was not a shred of evidence. Yesterday we scoured the country. We breached every terrorist cell. We turned over every chair, every hair. Though it looked impossible—and for many it would have been—the Progressist Security Council has located the infidel.” Everyone around me takes a little gasp. Infidel. It’s a word you blush to hear because you know it’s bad, even though the word seems like it never really had a straight meaning so no one ever fully understands. “And we have him here today.” They take a gasp with fear now. “He is from your village.” A huge gasp, and one fainting girl, that so. “But he offers us a confession before his execution.” Everyone cheers, so I join in clapping and tell Tippy to get up off the ground.
The next part is a very hard thing to tell. I hope you will forgive me, and not be rightly mad if I can’t put down the proper words. I remember a something like a pile of coats lain on the ground behind the congress leader. The speakers filled my ears like bathwater as I noticed the little heap. I asked Tippy if she saw it too.
“The Progressist Party recognizes the collective conscience of the society will only be put at ease once the punishment of death is awarded to the offender.” An officer at the back of the stage comes tumbling forward and pulls up the pile of black cloth. My body shudders deep into the earth before I even make sense of how, or when, or what all—forgive me, I should simply say before I even made sense.
“A child,” I bawl out like a wild thing was ripping from my breast. Most everyone gave me glares to hush up, but I keep screaming because it’s Maxie. It’s little Max they have up there, with his moonish face all lost and a black cloth wrapping up both ghosted eyes. His feet sweep the stage as he’s carried by an officer from one side of the platform to the next. The prophet boy strung up for hungry eyes. “A child?” I demand sense from the officers, from my neighbors, “Why do they have a child?” But my fright must have sounded something wonderfully hellish because others start joining in, but they’re yelling with rage and relief. Men start pushing to the front. They wear faces that pretend to understand, as if they aren’t just creatures watching a kill. A man will always try to act as though his madness is more than just the beast inside him. Whereas a human mother doesn’t ever need reminding she’s an animal inside.
Tippy’s starts clawing her way up my side to get a sight of the stage. Her hands clutch my hair and up she hoists herself onto my shoulder. “Mama, they’ve got Maxie,” she says over the shouting, unsure of her question. I need to get to the stage, to get that child, to get Masha’s boy out of the hands of the officer and the congress leader, out of the black rope tied to his wrists and neck. I slide off to the side of the crowd to try to get round and hold Tippy sound above my head. This is only gives her a better view, but know also it’s better than her little self being stomped to the mud. We finally heave out of the side of the crowd, only to slip and fall at the feet of the most coppers I’ve ever well seen in my life. One snatches my arm and holds my backside against his groin. He tells me to stay put, to relax, makes his sweat to mix with mine. Tippy stands facing us, her arms twisting behind her back. I don’t want her to see but if I tell her to turn around she’ll find the Stig meaning to kill Max. As the copper grinds me down, I look in my daughter’s eyes and tell her, hush, Tipp, hush. “Whore,” his spit is in my ear, the stench of the word of law dripping on my cheek. They’re pushing Max, without much struggle no how, up to the microphone. Maybe I’m lucky because my arms got slick with mud, and I steal out of the copper’s grip. Below the missing eyes is his wee mouth is held against the microphone, “I ask mercy in God’s name,” but the anger of our village raises to the sky and I can’t hear another word. How grown up he had sounded. I almost felt proud, I know him, that’s our boy!
But what fool talk is this of three days past? Three days ago I’d seen him playing with my girl by the shade of the house. How did these military men fly down on this boy so quickly if the crime had been so unsolvable in the first place? I’m asking myself this and who all knows what else, and I’m screaming wild for Masha. Where was Masha to tell me this wasn’t all my fault? And, my God, I see them draw out a pistol. They’re moving so slowly that it all seems like a sick game. I feel Tippy screaming hot against my neck. I hold her tight enough to my body I could have drawn blood from the both of us. And then the sky cracked open. Then I turned to run.
I ran. I pray, please, try to find a way to not be mad with me. How could I plainly have done much else? What with the crowds, my child, the air giving in. If I got a hold of him, if I snatched his hollow little body from the Stig, then what? Getting away from the square seemed so easy, or maybe I’m just forgetting. I ran right up the valley road, splashing water in my face and in my eyes because the rain came down in long grunts. Masha’s house was breached by the river that had finally crept up from below. I stopped calling out for her. I stopped looking for Masha, and for that you must also forgive me. My daughter and me pulled through the field between her house and ours. The vines were now corpses floating on a wet desert of waste. Tippy swam up by the window by our door, peeped in and shook her head. Our home looked like it was in denial, the expression that all half-flooded houses have. Standing where our vines and ash used to be, not needing to say a word, we there decided that the house was dead. Together, Tippy and me looked up the mountains to the forest.
Four birds, swallows, followed us up through the flooded fields of corn and soy leading to the higher mountains. Swallows are a fair sign of spring. The good people of this war, the revolutionaries, made a speech in the market square some months ago and the words had never shaken from my mind. They said, “The people shall be the ones to bring spring.” It is a lovely thought, yes. But we are not swallows. We are not birds.
The ground dried as we rose. Took me half the walk for to realize I was the one following Tippy. She knew the way to the forest well. I figure she had made her way up here quite a bit more than she’d let me on to know. “We’ll go where the others made gone,” she smiles at me, hair licking across her face in the wind. The others, I’m wondering. My girl picked dried blood off cuts on my arms, gentle as a cow until we came atop a path cut into the forest’s mouth. Given all the what-how going on, it perhaps was not the time to be halted by just how darling Tippy looked springing through the forest. I wanted to swallow her whole. I wanted to put my child inside of me, like two bodies sharing the same bones, and keep each other warm forever.
She led us right to the camp of all the other forest livers. They sat among the vines and orange cedar, and looked down on our valley with soupy, tired eyes. I knew some but all knew Tippy. The women told me most men had money on their heads to the Stig, a good most of the people had been flooded out. All were farmers who couldn’t bear to till the earth that was so ruined by our government. I asked about Masha, but no one knew. When I fear for her and I think of her prophet boy a rage sweeps me skywards. A woman I came to know, her name was Talent, she told me, “Calm your anger. It will only make blunt the mind you still have left.” She had strong hands and helped my daughter and me on that first cold evening. I asked if she knew where Masha was, if she knew Max. Talent had heard through something she called channels that the Stig was looking for someone who could have set off those bombs and that it was just bad luck they had picked our boy. “They want all the farmers outside the faith to learn obedience. They’re getting ornery in the south, and the Stig wants them taught. Was your friend a believer of the other faith?” I nodded, yes. I had tried not to consider that deep and ancient difference between Masha’s family and my own. Talent turned the embers of the fire on their tender bellies. “They know how to turn us all against them. Then they make us prideful of what we have. Rather, what we are.” Unpleased with her words, she looked at her earthy hands and said, “rather, prideful of what we are not.” I asked her what to do seeing as I could testify that I knew Max wasn’t nowhere near no other side of the valley. Talent, her faced scattered like a fallen building, said it would be smartest if I just stayed put and quiet in the forest for a while. “For the sake of your girl.”
This is why I’ve written to you. I ask you to see reason. We are still here in the pines, looking down on our valley like it was some sort of wolf. The water rises and brings new waste with it. I camp with Talent, who is showing Tippy and myself which and what all to eat in the forest. My girl hauls back a dead animal each morning by the time I’ve woken up. I tell her I’m proud she isn’t scared of nothing dead. She never has been. But the night is a wicked kind of cold and brings only the faces of Max and Masha and my husband on its winds.
I am not a letter writer. This, admit I must, is my first. Engineers are people to be respected, I know that. I ask, when you made the new seeds for our fields and sold them to the Stig, you surely had no idea it would cause such an awful mess? My heart aches to know you did not. But the problem is bad now, that so. Perhaps you are the only ones who know how to help.
We wait in the forests above the little western village that’s been swallowed by the dam. I still look for Masha coming up the trail, and now I wait for you. The mountains remain all kinds of beautiful, and hopefully will stay in such a lovely way until you can be here looking at them for yourself. You created a whole new kind of seed, a new kind of life. I think that is what we need again now.
The situation is urgent. We cannot bring spring alone. We are not birds.