RED I was putting the blankets away in the home goods section when my walkie-talkie came to life, nearly ending mine in the process. It cut into the quiet like the blare of an on-coming train. Precious seconds passed before I was finally able to fumble down the stepladder, disconnect the device from my belt and bring it to my lips.
“Say again?” “Debbie, you need to come outside,” he said. It was Clarke. His voice wasn’t in its usual somber timber, instead, it sounded tightly coiled, like a spring, ready and waiting to explode. No one can’t tell anything from his voice most times. That’s why he manned the telephone for customer service. Nothing gets him rattled. That drop of something that’s always been there since Harry hired him several months ago grew into a pond. I didn’t want to not trust him or be one of those people that always side-eyed veteran’s but being around Clarke was like being in a cage with a barely leashed tiger without mace. His eyes would lock onto a target with an intensity incapable from a human and he prowled the aisles with the graceful steps of a predator. I’m a Texas girl and would rather jump into a fire than be rude, but Harry was kind enough to make sure our shifts didn’t coincide most times when I asked. Most times. “Now.” That’s all he said, and then a loud bang loosened my grip on the walkie-talkie. It clattered to the ground as I raced to the front of the empty store out into the blazing heat of June. Harry was religious, so no one was in the patch he called a parking lot other than a car and Clarke, who was standing next to it by the driver’s side. I could see Clarke because he was so tall and his hair that Harry sometimes joked as resembling a stop sign wasn’t easy to miss either. And that wasn’t the only thing red. When I got closer, blood stained the inside of the window shield, dripping from the ends to form a macabre crimson rainbow. I took in the familiar blue of the van, a van that I’ve seen more than a thousand times, and for a heart-stopping moment, my mouth formed ‘dad’ before my eyes fell on the incense swinging from the rear-view mirror, the words #1 BOSS! stamped on both sides. “Harry!” I screamed, terrified by how terrified my voice sounded to my own ears. My feet took me from the other side of the van to the open window, stumbling past Clarke who was silent and waiting, the shock dulling my awareness of the danger I was coming closer to. All my eyes could see was the red. It became obscured with wet as I swatted at my empty pockets with one hand while trying to open the car door with the other, but it was wet too and my feet kept slipping on it, as if Harry had been leaning outside of the window when he’d gotten shot. “Help me Clarke!” I continued fighting with the door to no avail until I whipped back around to Clarke, anger boiling over in my stomach, but the sight of him, towering right there before my eyes, killed the words before they left my lips. Red painted his face. His eyes were like ice and I was left frozen, only able to watch as he raised the gun I hadn’t noticed before from his side to point at my forehead. “The boys and I used to ask each other a question when we were in ‘Nam,” he said, the words low, barely disturbing the singing of the cicadas around us. “How many bullets does it take to kill a person?” The muzzle lovingly kissed my forehead like a mother would. “Clarke...” “How many bullets does it take to kill a person?” he repeated. “One,” I stuttered, barely able to push the words out through the tightness of my throat. His lips pulled back into a sinister smile, the first I’ve ever seen from him. “Harry had a different answer,” he said, and he stepped away. I remained frozen as he kept moving back until his faded yellow jacket disappeared into the dense forest line bordering Harry’s shop. It wasn’t until I could hear a police siren nearing that I finally slumped to the ground, uncaring that I was rolling around in his blood. If I was born in New York instead of Texas, I would have told Ron to pack up his aqua eyes and flashy smile and do his own shift for once. I would have stopped covering for heavy-stomached Rebecca. I wouldn’t have felt the need to restock those blankets at the top of the shelf. I would have told Harry not to hire Clarke. If only I was born in New York.
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Disturbing the Peace |
Mary Marca lives in southern California and enjoys reading, writing, traveling, and her family. After teaching writing to college students for twenty years, she’s finally enjoying the time to explore, and submit, her own work. Her short stories have been published most recently in Literary Yard, Ariel Chart, Writing in a Woman's Voice, as well as a CNF piece in Writing in a Woman's Voice, (as Marianne Renn). |
DREAMER
“You . . . you are the one . . . the girl whose face has been haunting my dreams. I can’t believe I’ve finally found you. Come, we must get to know each other better.”
Margaret was thrilled, but she wished she had been able to change out of her school uniform, and she made a mental note not to turn her back on him because there was a run in her black nylons. She smiled in what she hoped was a devastating way and followed her idol into the house.
Margaret entered through a small side door and collided with Jennifer in the dark hall. “What are you doing, Dumbo?” Margaret snapped, “You know Mum said no running inside the house!”
“Be quiet! Don't call me that, or I'm telling. Mum told me to run and get the sponge she left in the downstairs bathroom, so I am!” And with that she bounded down the stairs towards the basement rooms.
Margaret pursed her lips and rolled her eyes, “Kids!” She pushed into the kitchen filled with the aroma of cooking onion.
“Hi, Mum! What smells so good?” The one thing Margaret liked about her mother running the rooming house near the University of Toronto was that she was there most days when Margaret arrived home from ninth grade at an all-girls high school.
“I'm making Shepherd's Pie. How was your day?”
“Same old stuff. Except that there's a rumor going around that our Latin teacher didn't come back after Christmas because she's pregnant. Isn't that awful? She's not even married!”
“Maybe it's not true. Don't believe everything you hear, Margaret. Change out of your uniform. Someone's coming to see 2C this evening. I've finished the room, but I need you to give the bathroom a once-over before you start your homework.”
Margaret wrinkled her nose. “I hate bathrooms,” she mumbled as she walked through the living room to the bedroom she shared with her mother and sister. These three rooms were their own private world. Their bathroom, down the hall, was shared by the other tenants on the first floor.
A few minutes later she emerged wearing black slacks and one of her father's old white shirts. He had been dead just over a year and she felt close to him when wearing it.
“Why am I so fat?” she sighed.
Her mother smiled fondly. “Don't worry, you'll get thinner when you hit your mid-teens, but you're not fat you're . . .”
“I know ‘just well-built!’” Margaret rolled her eyes in exasperation, then laughed as her mother flicked a tea towel at her saying,
“Get going, dinner will be ready soon!”
Margaret ran up the back stairs with scouring powder, sponges and a toilet brush. After knocking tentatively on the door, she tried the handle. It was locked, and then she heard a flush.
Oh my God! Margaret thought as she blushed and backed up when she saw who stepped through the door.
“Hi!” Twenty-year old Eddie smiled nonchalantly at her as he walked down the hall to his room.
“Damn! Why couldn't it have been Dr. 'Ram or Mrs. Belken?” she fumed as she sprinkled powder in the sink. Eddie was sooo cute and she had seized every opportunity to watch him since he had moved in three months ago. He was tall and blonde and slender, just like Fabian—everything she idolized in a man. How embarrassing it was to meet him coming from the toilet! She scrubbed furiously, stopping in one corner over a stubborn spot—then froze.
She felt a pair of muscular arms slide around her waist and warm breath on the back of her neck.
“Margaret, I've been waiting to catch you alone like this,” Eddie breathed into her hair. “You smell wonderful!” His arms tightened and she felt her heart melt as he began to nibble at her neck. She turned slowly to face him.
“Oh, Eddie,” she sighed. “I've waited too, hoping you'd somehow know how I've felt about you all these months.”
He kissed her then, softly, tenderly as she rubbed her hands along his back, wiping the gritty cleansing powder on his sweater. Then she remembered that it contained bleach and pictured white finger streaks on his dark blue sweater, so she began little rapid, patting, circular motions, trying to brush it off again. Eddie's kisses became more passionate and his mouth dropped to her throat, then down to the open neck of her shirt. His fingers found the top button, but he stopped, gazed deeply into her eyes, and took her hand.
“Come!” He led her into the hallway then turned and swept her off her feet, kissing her as he carried her down the hall towards his room. Halfway there, his arms began to sag, and he gently set her on her feet again. Margaret smiled, wishing once more she was thinner. At the door he fumbled his key in the lock, then pushed it open and drew her inside.
Margaret sighed, refocused on the stubborn spot and continued scrubbing. Next was the toilet. She hated toilets, so she scrubbed fast and furious. She finished, flushed and banged down the lid. Gathering up her cleaning materials she decided to take the scenic route—down the front stairs. Her heart leapt as she glanced at Eddie's closed door, but he didn't appear. She continued down the broad staircase with the carved mahogany balustrade, lifting her chin and picturing a Victorian bride sweeping down the stairs. She almost bumped into Charles from 3A on his way home from classes.
“Oh, hi Charles,” she said flatly.
He was short with dark curly hair, twenty-one, and going to be a priest. He sometimes came down to watch their television and had long boring discussions with her mother. He also seemed to delight in teasing her, saying she reminded him of his little sister.
“Margaret! What are you doing on this side of the house? Hoping to catch a glimpse of Eddie!” he whispered with a wink.
“Be quiet!” Margaret threw him a poisonous scowl and flounced down the stairs.
Her mother was on the phone when the doorbell rang that evening, so she motioned at Margaret to answer the door. After smoothing down her hair and tucking in her sweater she raced along the hallway to the front door and opened it.
“Hi, I’m Todd Brennan. I've come about the room you have for rent.”
She looked up into the bluest eyes she had ever seen. He smiled and his even white teeth glinted in the entryway light.
“Of course, come in.” She stepped back, straightening her shoulders, which she knew had the effect of making her bust stick out. She tried to sound very official and adult.
“I'm Margaret. My mother will be out in a moment. She's on a long distance phone call and asked me to start showing you around.”
Margaret stared at his handsome chiseled face framed by wavy blonde hair. He was gorgeous.
“This is the entry hall,” she indicated the wide space around them, and then she walked up the broad staircase, swaying her hips in her best imitation of Marilyn Monroe.
“House rules are that all visitors must be out by 10 p.m. on weekdays and midnight on weekends.” She hoped she sounded mature and sophisticated.
She opened the door of the large room that was 2C. It had a fireplace, neatly made twin beds, a couch, two easy chairs, and a table with two upright chairs set under a tall window. It was larger and better furnished than their living room downstairs.
“It's fully furnished and we hand out one clean sheet and pillowcase for each bed every Saturday morning.” Margaret had strolled up to the fireplace as she talked, while Todd looked around. She positioned herself at one end, and by raising herself slightly on her toes, she was able to casually drape her arm along the mantel while she watched the back of Todd's neck.
She continued her description, “The kitchen and bathroom are down...”
Slowly Todd turned around, and his eyes locked on hers. Instantly a current ran between them. He took two steps towards her, then stopped. He swallowed, overcome by emotion, then spoke quietly, passionately, “I've been waiting all my life for this moment!”
Margaret caught her breath and whispered, “I know, I feel it too.” She slowly removed her arm from the mantel and opened both her arms wide. He rushed to her embrace, covering her face with small kisses. She leaned her head back a little, trying to keep her hair off her face so he didn't keep getting it caught in his mouth. She linked her arms around his neck, leaning into his embrace. She eyed the couch beside her and shuffled sideways trying to position herself so she could drop back on it pulling him on top of her. Todd was breathing heavily as his hands raced in circles around her back.
Suddenly, through the door walked Margaret's mother.
“ . . . and bathroom are down the hall,” Margaret finished saying.
From across the room Todd's eyes switched from Margaret's face to the older woman. “You must be Mrs McGillicuddy. Hi. I'm Todd Brennan, we talked on the phone.” They smiled at each other and shook hands, and Margaret let her arm drop from the mantel.
“Have you seen the kitchen yet?”
“No, your daughter just mentioned that it’s down the hall.” Todd smiled at Margaret then followed her mother out into the hallway. Margaret sighed, shrugged, and ran downstairs to finish her homework.
One Saturday morning several weeks later, Margaret was put in charge of the sheet exchange because her mother was serving at a wedding reception at her part-time job in the University Women's Club. Margaret waited patiently for Todd or Eddie to pick up their sheets.
“Oh, hi.” She spoke in a monotone as Charles appeared at the door.
“How are you doing today, Margaret?” Charles smiled as he handed over his and his roommate's dirty linen.
“OK, I guess,” Margaret replied, dumping the sheets on the floor behind her. She picked up a clean replacement sheet, tested the weight to determine the correct size, then passed it to him.
“Where's your mother?”
“Working. She'll be back around 4. Why?” She handed him the second sheet and two pillowcases.
“There's a Mozart concert on T.V. tonight, and I was wondering if she'd let me watch it with her. I'll come back later and ask. Thanks.” Charles hefted the clean linen and left.
Boring, boring, boring! And short! Margaret thought as she shut the kitchen door.
From her position stretched out on the floor in front of the television, Jennifer whined, “Isn't there anything else on!”
“Jennifer, this is beautiful music, you should learn to appreciate it. Besides, it's your bedtime, so go get ready.”
Jennifer groaned but did as she was told. Margaret was getting restless too, but had learned the longer she stayed quiet, the later she stayed up. However, when the concert ended an hour later she was struggling to suppress her yawns.
“Thanks, Mrs McGillicuddy. Van Cliburn is a favorite of mine; I haven't heard him play in months.”
Her mother smiled warmly, “Oh don't mention it. I enjoyed it too. Glad to have your company.”
“Goodnight. And goodnight, Margaret. I hope you weren't too bored!” Charles smiled.
“What do you mean bored? I enjoyed every minute of it! What do you think I am, a child?”
Charles just smiled at her and turned to leave as she stared daggers into his back.
Later that evening Margaret awoke as her mother got up out of bed. “What's the matter, Mum?”
“Shhh. Don't wake Jennifer. I can hear music coming from down the hall. I think it's Mr. Cook again.” She buttoned her robe.
Slipping out of bed, Margaret followed her through the darkness, to the door of their kitchen.
“Stay there,” her mother said.
She watched her mother pad softly down the dimly lit hallway. Light was streaming from under the door of 1B, and she could hear laughter and music. Her mother knocked gently at first, then louder. The music softened, then light flooded the hall as Mr. Cook opened his door. Margaret could only catch the occasional whispered word.
“Mr. Cook . . . no visitors after midnight . . . other tenants . . . young students . . . “
There was a murmur as Mr. Cook leaned down and good-naturedly patted her shoulder. “Ahhh, Mrs. Mac, come on . . . just this once. . . Oh, all right.” Giggling, two women and a man wobbled their way towards the front door. Margaret heard the door shut and the bolt slide into place.
“Good night, Mr. Cook.” Her mother spoke resolutely to the man still lounging against his doorway.
“No hard feelings, eh Mrs. Mac?” He draped an arm over her shoulder, “After all, we Brits must stick together!”
Margaret saw her mother's face illuminated by the light from his room. When he was sober, Mr. Cook was a pleasant, polite man, but when he was drunk he became “difficult”, her mother said.
“All right, Mr. Cook, now let’s both get some sleep.” She smiled as she gently removed his arm and turned back towards her own rooms. She stepped inside the kitchen, closed the door, held up her finger to Margaret for silence, then softly reopened the door. They listened. After a few moments they heard a scraping sound.
“I thought so. The Divil! He's got them climbing in the window.” With that, Margaret’s mother marched back down the hallway and knocked grimly on the door. It opened and Mr. Cook loomed as a dark shadow.
Margaret heard her mother speak firmly but holding to a whisper, ever aware of the other tenants. “I must insist that your friends leave immediately. I can't have this kind of activity in this house. We have students and single women staying here. You agreed to the rules when I rented you this room.”
Margaret was proud of her mother for standing up to the man. But her pride turned to fear as she heard him shout back.
“Wait a minute, Mrs. McGillicuddy, I'm not one of your damn students! I'm a grown man entitled to some of life's little pleasures!” His voice boomed through the house as his friends stood in a bewildered huddle in his doorway. From upstairs Margaret heard movement, then the sound of doors opening as he continued to shout. Frightened, she walked cautiously closer, not sure how she could help.
When the big man backed her mother into the main entry hall, shaking his finger in her face, Margaret hurried forward. Just then Charles rushed down the stairs and positioned himself between her mother and Mr. Cook.
He spoke quietly, looking straight up at the big man. “Don't talk to Mrs. McGillicuddy that way. It's her job to enforce the rules of the house.”
Glancing up at the staircase, Margaret saw Eddie and Todd hanging over the balustrade, watching.
“Get out of my way, you little twerp!” Mr. Cook shoved Charles and he sprawled on the carpet. As he struggled to rise, Mr. Cook towered over him yelling, “Who do you think you are? Stay out of this or I'll knock you silly!”
Todd and Eddie started down the stairs as Margaret’s mother turned to her. “Call the police!” she commanded.
As Margaret turned to run down the hallway she caught a glimpse of Charles getting up and could hear Mr. Cook pleading, “Ahhh Mrs Mac, I didn't mean any harm. He's OK, aren't you mate?”
Two officers arrived just as Mr. Cook's friends drove off. Margaret was sent to bed—like a child!' she thought—while the adults went into 1B to discuss the incident.
She lay on her bed and mulled over what had happened. Charles had certainly surprised her; she didn't think he could be that brave. She felt a new warmth and respect for him, but she was disappointed that neither Eddie nor Todd had been the one to step forward. Her thoughts in turmoil, she lay awake until her mother came in.
“What happened?” Margaret whispered.
“We decided not to press charges, since it wasn't much more than a push,” her mother whispered back as she took off her robe and crawled into the double bed beside Jennifer. She let out a long sigh. “However, Mr. Cook agreed it would be best for him to find another place to live. He'll be leaving on Friday.”
“I don’t understand,” Margaret protested as she snuggled under the blankets of the twin bed. “He was really nasty. If Charles hadn't been there he might have hurt you! Why don't you kick him out now?”
“Come on, Margaret, try to have a little understanding. He's not a bad man; he just isn't himself when he drinks. Now—enough talking, I'm exhausted. Settle down and let's get some sleep.”
The next Saturday Margaret was again in charge of the sheet exchange. Eddie and Todd arrived together.
“Well, hello men. Time to air your dirty laundry, eh?” Margaret chuckled as she hauled in their dirty sheets and added them to the growing pile behind her.
“Yeah,” Eddie said.
“Sure,” Todd said.
They took their clean sheets and left. Margaret shrugged, “Gorgeous! But no sense of humor!”
Next came Charles. He handed her the soiled sheets. “Make sure you give me the right sizes. I don't want doubles for our single beds,” he teased.
“Huh!” Margaret good-naturedly chided him, “I've been doing this for six months, and I haven't made one mistake! I can tell size by the difference in weight. Besides, you're the last one down, so these must be right!”
They laughed as he took the sheets and pillowcases from her.
Now, he has a sense of humor, thought Margaret as she leaned to watch him walk down the hallway.
Charles stopped, turned, and walked back. He stood and looked at her with a puzzled frown on his face. Slowly, he put back one sheet and the pillowcases, opened the other sheet and shook it out. “I think I have made the mistake,” he said looking directly into Margaret's eyes. “I never really saw you before.”
And with that he swirled the sheet around them both, and they sank onto the floor, cushioned by the pile of laundry. He took her face in his hands and kissed her tenderly on her lips. She responded and felt a warm glow that spread down to her toes. As they kissed Charles wrapped his arms around her and they rolled over and over in a passionate embrace, tangling themselves in a cloud of white.
She pushed him away, and struggling to disentangle herself from the sheets, sat upright. “Wait! No!” she said, throwing one edge of the sheet over his head.
“Charles, wait!” she called down the hall to his retreating back. He turned at the foot of the stairs with the neatly folded sheets still tucked under one arm.
“What's the matter, Margaret?”
She walked slowly down the hallway towards him. “I . . . I wanted to thank you for standing by Mum, the other night.”
“You mean falling down by her, don't you?” he laughed.
She returned his smile, “No, I mean it, you were great. You were the only one who came to help.”
“You don't have to thank me. I was glad to do it, but I think we'd better get your mother to install a fireman’s pole in the stairwell, so I can get down here quicker next time!”
Margaret giggled as she glanced up and pictured him sliding down from the third floor. Her smile faded and her throat felt suddenly constricted. She looked down at the carpet, “Charles, I . . . I just . . . I just want you to know . . .” she hesitated, then finished rapidly, “that I think you're really neat.” Her heart pounded and her cheeks burned as she looked him full in the face.
“What . . ?” Slowly he smiled. “Thanks, Margaret. That's a really nice thing to say.” He tapped her shoulder, “You're a good kid.” He turned to go up the stairs, “See you.”
“See you.” Margaret watched him for a moment, then floated back to the kitchen, closed the door and leaned against it, glowing.
Jennifer burst into the room swinging her roller skates, “I'm going to skate with . . . Why are you just standing there looking goofy?”
Walking forward, Margaret narrowed her eyes at her sister, “Why don't you go take a skate on Bloor Street, Dumbo? Preferably in front of a street car!”
“I'm telling Mum you said that!” Jennifer pushed past her and slammed the door as she ran outside.
Margaret growled, “I'll be glad when she grows up!” Then she knelt down and started to gather the sheets together. As the mound formed in the middle of the floor, she stopped, staring thoughtfully at the soft pile as images of Charles flitted through her mind.
“So. I'm a good kid, eh?” She found the corners of the cover sheet and pulled them straight. She stood up. “We'll have to see about that.” She looped the ends of the cover sheet, tied them into a knot and pulled it tight. “Yes, indeed. We'll definitely have to see about that!”
Dennis J. Kafalas is the author of: “Keeping Bees” Dime Show Review, 2018 · “Mistaken Impression” The Shallows, Cold Creek Literary Review, 2017 · “When The Train Stops” Edify Fiction, 2017 · "Spending A Day" Shoreline Anthology (Stillwater River Press, 2016) · An Obvious Life (Dare Empire E-Media e-book, 2012) · Whale Pirates, (Debut Press paperback, 2003; e-book, 2012) · Inspired Learners, Active Minds: A Guide for The English Classroom (Rowman&Littlefield Educational Publishers, 2009). To learn more, please visit denniskafalas.com |
My Letters to Max
My beloved husband, sadly we are apart. We barely missed each other on the train platform. I followed the tilt of your black fedora as it moved above the others—so tall! I called, “Max! Max!” but my voice was one among the din of many hoping to bond one last time. My eyes followed the gray and white feather in the band of your hat bobbing like a gull on the sea, lamenting we were destined to travel different paths. I hope now you are as settled as I am and that the time we’re apart moves quickly.
My work consists of sorting clothes by fabric: cotton, wool, flannel, the occasional leather or silk piled into containers the size of horse drawn carts. It’s backbreaking, so I’ll compose letters to pass the time. Today, I remember our first date, when you came and sat in the parlor with mother and me, shy, rubbing your hands together, and gently placing your teacup ever so softly onto the saucer, afraid the thin plate might crack. I thought you too deliberate, slow-witted, no fun--my God, just put it down! And when you spoke of your profession, accounting, I wondered if I’d survive this meeting hour my father had arranged with your business partner. Interesting, isn’t it, how fathers want their daughters to marry well? They seek men of means, those who will improve the fathers’ social status while mothers only want men with kind eyes, gentlemen. I thought this as you sat across from me on the edge of the upholstered chair, back straight, nervous, brown eyes averting mine. Had father no sense? Had he not known after seventeen years of living under his roof what type of husband I’d prefer? Certainly, I’m no beauty, but a man whose voice was barely audible and who lacked passion for anything other than figures and balances, was his choice? You sensed my agitation and asked—to my surprise—if we might go for a walk. Mother agreed to let us go alone, “Such a beautiful spring day,” she said, “why not?” It was then I saw the smile in your eyes, a deep, soft glow.
As we walked, you spoke of family, your twin toddler nephews who were full of energy, and your brother whose wife was a gentile. “Quite the scandal,” you said, sarcastically.
“She hasn’t converted?”
“No. My brother is more likely to leave the Faith if mother continues to pester him.” You said I should know what I’m getting into if we were to be married, and I paused. “Sorry, Elena, I don’t mean to be presumptuous.”
“Not at all,” I said, thinking you were fair. “Why don’t you call on me another day, and we’ll talk more.”
“Thank you,” you said with a tip of your hat. You didn’t say, “I had a wonderful time” or “It was a pleasure,” no, instead a humble goodbye for the opportunity to talk and meet again. Of course, you smiled, and waited until I was behind the door. Oddly, you stood on the sidewalk for a few moments staring at the house, so as not to forget, possibly? I admired your square shoulders, thin nose, small ears, and round face—maybe Father was wise after all. “You made an impression,” Mother said teasingly, looking through the parlor window. “Otherwise, he’d be gone by now.”
I blushed; I wanted to know more about the tall, quiet man.
So that is how I’ve spent today, reliving the moment the spark of our life took hold. We’ll see what tomorrow brings.
My Dearest Max,
I woke from a pleasant dream: we were ice-skating, hand in hand, before sunset on the night we decided to marry. How we could’ve been on the same lake since childhood and never met astonished me, my future husband skinning his knees on the same ice or stealing the scarf of a neighborhood girl, all before my eyes. Children laughed and fell; teenagers chased each other and screamed in delight while we glided closer to the bonfire on the shore. With the backs of our woolen parkas warming against the flames you said, “I want to ask Father for your hand. Do you approve?”
“Of course! When?”
“After Hanukah,” and I was disappointed in having to wait, to keep the joyful secret for another eight days, but you were right. We’d respectfully observe the Festival of Light as the faithful should, our happiness could wait. My impatience proved to be a gift. With the lighting of each Menorah candle, my excitement grew, and I hopped from bed each day blessed with the thought of our future so near at hand. I listened to the flame of each lit candle, “May the Lord cause you to flourish / both you and your children,” and I imagined a boy and a girl: one tall like his father, the other with her daddy’s thin nose and my hazel eyes. Father noticed my devotion and commented, “I now see a woman lighting the Menorah. One ready to marry, perhaps?” With a smile he said, “I was right to grant the young man’s request to visit.”
So, it was you, Max, who’d arranged our first meeting, not Father! I was flattered to be an object of affection, and it was just like you to quietly plan—should I say scheme?—to meet the young girl who walked past your office on errands to the market. No wonder your hands shook, much was invested in a first impression. Father asked, “If Max were to ask for my oldest in marriage, would you be pleased?”
“Oh, yes,” I said, overwhelmed with blissful thoughts of a wedding, a honeymoon, of becoming a wife and mother.
Not long after, we planned a small ceremony for the spring and found a third floor apartment near the park. “Many stairs,” Father said, “better for you to visit me.”
He was right, the stairs were a chore and it would lead to our first disagreement. You insisted after the miscarriage that we look for another apartment, but I said no. “Elena, I can’t expect you to use these stairs, be reasonable.”
“Did you not think this might happen when we agreed to rent it?” I said sourly, disappointed in myself. I intended to climb the steps until my water broke if need be to prove I was a capable wife and woman.
Later, upon returning from work you said, “Elena, this place will not do. Tomorrow, I’ll find another.”
I didn’t respond, instead I let tears fall. I said, finally, “I’m not ready to leave,” and you understood. With your arms around me, I heard, “There’ll be plenty of little ones. You’ll see,” amid the lilting chatter of children playing below in the alley.
In time, I understood the infant was your loss, too, and I’d been selfish. I was then more considerate of your feelings. I said, “How could I expect my mother to help with a child while we live atop a mountain?” and you smiled, visibly relieved. Max, I’m sorry I was sullen and left you to flounder in your grief. It’s my greatest regret, My Love: I was selfish. You were kind and patient and your practical wanting of a new apartment masked the pain I should’ve seen and felt. You grieved for me and for our child, and you did so alone. I promise that’ll never happen when we’re together again. Of course, I know little of the outside world or of our army’s success, but I hope. I pray God keeps you safe.
I admit I grow weary as the workday grinds on, but I think of your brave service and understand I must push on and do my part, as well.
My Dearest Max,
Today, as I sorted, I found a brochure for a hotel in Zakopana, not far from where we honeymooned. I laughed then when you tasted the salty Oscypek cheese for the first time. I held you closely as we sat by Lake Morskie Oko, the blue of its cold water a testament to God’s magnificence. We spent our first evening as husband and wife watching the sun gently slide behind the Tatry Mountains, the stillness of the air around us alive with anticipation of our wedded night together. The room’s pine board floors and walls cast a soft, clean scent, and the white sheets were crisp, fresh. We undressed in the moonlight, then slid into bed with cold feet. You were hesitant to begin, only caressing my cheek with a finger. I wondered, “Was it my face that won your heart?”
“No. It was the mystery. Who was that girl who passed by on the same day at the same time?”
“How romantic,” I said, teasingly. “I should’ve known that punctuality was a seduction for accountants.”
“And figures,” you said, sliding a warm hand to my hip. We kissed, my skin responding to the smoothness of touch, the warmth of lips on my neck. Gently, you slid on top of me, and I accepted you. All the time we’d invested came to this moment, our becoming one, a family. Later, as we lay together, I was relieved to think the man I knew in public was the same in private. I was aware of the veil some men hid behind, the true self only known in private, and I admit I was a bit nervous, but now I was content. I’d trusted in you, Max: I was safe in your arms, within our small inn nestled at the foot of the glorious mountains towering over us, protecting us.
My Dearest Max,
I can’t sleep. While everyone in the barrack dreams, my fatigue won’t let me rest. Instead, I lay on the floor staring through the cracks in the wood slats, watching the stars that call to me. They stand alone, clear and strong in the darkness, sirens to Eternity and my soul’s rest. Is it wrong to wish my heart would still, for the ache in my limbs to float away? Would God finally admit I’ve witnessed enough pain to enter Heaven? He asks so much of me to handle the clothes of our brothers and sisters, the clothes of children and babies who’ve perished in the gas chambers. Just today, a baby’s small rattle fell from the worn pocket of a black woolen coat and time stopped. Its round, pink orb tinkled as it rolled to my feet. I was unsure if my eyes deceived me, was I dreaming? I no longer know what is real. Clothes pass through my hands as their lives pass from this earth—am I not as guilty as the Nazis who perpetuate this horrible vanity? I, who gives the coin and jewelry from the pockets of the murdered to the Germans, commit a sin against my fellow man. Max, this grieves me greatly, but you would be proud to know that I’ve atoned for my sin by giving my ration of bread to a young woman, Natalie, who shares my wooden bunk. I’ve taken the vow of poverty so I may enter Heaven. It’s comforting to lie here now, as my letters to you swirl round and round in my mind. Isn’t it interesting how time and toil have condensed our life together into exquisite moments: the smile in your eyes, the feel of your strong hands holding mine, or your footsteps on the stairs? I have the child’s rattle, too, tucked under my tattered shirt. Let the guards find me with it tomorrow: “LORD...I look in triumph upon my enemies.”
I feel the sleep of the ages upon me now Max and, before I close my eyes, I promise to find you again, my shy, tall man who called upon me and humbly offered his love.
END
Ain’t Patty’s Day
I’d spent all day on it, I hadn’t even shaved, and it had still been a waste of time. “Give me a break, already,” I said to the empty apartment.
This was the same project I’d failed last semester, thanks to a freak flu outbreak that kept me in bed for a week. It was the main reason I hadn’t graduated on time, along with the speech class my advisor had told me to take. I had passed it, but it had not, in fact, fulfilled my requirements for Humanities credits. I now found myself in a mind-numbing freshman philosophy class, discussing whether life had any purpose. “Who cares? I still need to get a job,” had been my sole contribution to the discussion thus far.
I had complained bitterly to the administration about my advisor’s numbskull advice but I still had to stick around for an extra year, to the tune of another twelve thousand in tuition. My family’s situation hadn’t helped any.
“Miguel, hijo, I didn’t want to tell you this, but your father’s had a pay cut recently,” my mother whispered on the phone. “We would like to help you out on the year’s tuition, but we didn’t foresee you needing to stay an extra year. We don’t have the money to cover the expenses. You’ll have to get a loan.”
“A pay cut? What happened?”
“Cariño, you know how bad the recession was. It’s finally caught up to his pay. I’m sure things will pick back up again, but for now, we’re pretty tight. We’ll co-sign for you and do what we can if you need us to help you out with some of your payments, but it’s best if you finish up your degree this year. I didn’t want to alarm you, but at least it gives you a little extra incentive to make sure you graduate this semester.”
As if I needed the added pressure. It was embarrassing enough to see my friends graduate and go on to get great jobs at tech companies and manufacturing plants. I wasn’t the only one from my freshman class graduating a year late, but most of the other fifth-year seniors had much better reasons, like paid internships and co-op work assignments. I’d often run into my hallmate from freshman year, Aaron, at the gym. He was planning on buying a house in another year. He’d done an internship in some company that made catheters and was able to live in a dirt-cheap place in the middle of nowhere and save the rest. He was pretty much set for life with his glowing recommendations, job experience, and the nest-egg he’d put aside. He also had a great scholarship so he wasn’t using any of that on tuition. Seeing him really made me want to pump some iron.
The program was due on Monday. It accounted for a full seventy percent of the grade for that class and with my lack of results today I had serious doubts I would make it.
Nevertheless, I had decided tonight would be a good night, the annual “Ain’t Patty’s Day” bar crawl, a Clemson tradition. The real St. Patrick’s Day fell during spring break, but there was no way students would pass up a chance to get wasted, and the bars were pleased to oblige. It was my last year, and I wasn’t going to miss it.
I checked my watch: quarter to seven. I had another hour to wait for Dave and I was definitely not going to be able to concentrate on this piece-of-crap program.
I heard a muffled “Mraww!” from the kitchen. Waffles stood next to her food bowl, pawing at it so that it scudded along the floor. She was my roommate’s cat, but Stephen was off somewhere with his girlfriend, as usual. “Mraww!” Waffles implored, eyes widening in desperation.
“Yeah, yeah,” I said, pouring kibble into her bowl. Stephen hadn’t fed her in days. That job had fallen to me. The last time he’d been home for more than a few minutes had been Wednesday, when he stuck around to watch the basketball game with me. Even then, he’d been checking his phone constantly, barely listening to anything I said.
This was new for Stephen. I’d rarely seen him talk to a girl, much less date one. Ever since he’d started seeing Julie, he had totally ghosted me. To my knowledge he only came home to grab fresh clothes every once in a while and maybe do some laundry.
At first it had been nice to have the TV to myself, be able to lounge out on the sofa. I’d gotten a head start on my classes this semester without him to distract me with his drinking games and drag me on middle-of-the-night trips to Dairy Queen. I’d probably lost some weight. But there was also no one to bounce ideas off of, and I was even starting to miss being woken up by the grating of the blender when he made his early-morning protein shakes and slammed the door as he went for a jog. At least it prompted me to wake up. Today I had accidentally slept until noon, giving me even less time to work on the program.
“It’s just me and you, Waffles. The abandoned pet and the abandoned roommate. At least we have each other.” Even when we’d hung out together, sometimes I would get the feeling Stephen saw me as his puertorriqueño sidekick. I stuck out, in this school of eighty percent white kids, and by association, Stephen stuck out. My exoticness rubbed off on him by association. He loved to impress girls with his high-school Spanish, but could barely understand the menu at the Mexican restaurant down the street.
Waffles continued scarfing up her food, eyes fixated on the remaining mound. “I’ll give you a little extra,” I said, adding another handful. Sometimes she threw up if she ate too much, but she seemed unusually hungry tonight. I mused about putting Stephen’s room on Air BnB to make some extra cash. It would be helpful to have some stashed away for when I graduated and my loan payments came due.
Back in my room, I stripped off my workout shirt, replacing it with a gaudy green one that said “Beer Me, I’m Irish,” with a large cartoon Guinness mug under the lettering. Three bucks at WalMart, you can’t beat that, and my mocha-colored skin was the perfect punchline.
It was time to pre-game. I grabbed a Yuengling from the fridge, ignoring Stephen’s blackened, rotting salad. I’d guzzled half the beer when my phone pinged. I’m outside. It was Dave.
Sorry man, I didn’t realize what time it was, I replied. I placed the beer can on the desk and was out the door.
Dave had also picked up our buddy Eric. I suppose he was really more of Dave’s buddy; I could barely stand the guy.
“Hey, Miguel,” Eric said to me. “What do you think of the new Civilization game?” He wore a striped green shirt and, I kid you not, sweatpants. No girls were going to talk to us tonight, I could already tell.
The first bar we hit up was TD’s. We got a couple of Millers and sat at the bar to watch the giant flatscreen off to the right. Alabama was playing LSU and the scores were pretty close.
A gaggle of sorority girls came in and ordered a round of vodka cranberries. The girl to my left turned towards the door and let out a shriek.
“Oh my God, Tiffany!” she said, leaping up and bumping my arm. Beer sloshed down my shirt as she ran to embrace the mascara-coated girl who had just entered. They looked like twins, from their identical blonde, straight-ironed hair to their pastel lace sundresses.
“Hey,” I said, “Why don’t you watch out for the rest of us mere mortals next time,” but she was squealing so loudly she didn’t hear me; more likely, I wasn’t wearing frat letters so I was invisible to her.
“Oh my gosh, they have karaoke! Let’s do karaoke!” she screamed. “Yes! Let’s do it, girl!” Tiffany echoed in the same earsplitting pitch. They disappeared into the crowd surrounding the karaoke machine and I elbowed my way to the restroom.
It was already a disgusting mess. The smell of piss radiated from the floor, and my shoes quacked with the stickiness. I was glad for the drain in the floor; who knows how deep in urine it would be otherwise. I rinsed the shirt as best I could without actually taking it off and held it away from my body under the hand dryer.
When I got back, there was no sign of Eric or Dave. “They left,” said the bartender.
“Oh, thanks,” I told her, starting to walk away. They would probably be at Triple T’s by now.
“Hey, you still gotta pay for yours, buddy,” she called out. I threw down a five and went next door.
Triple T’s was packed. I maneuvered to the bar for a rum and coke. The bartenders flew in every direction, snatching up money and rolling out change. They slid a glass towards me on the counter and took the bills proffered. I motioned for them to keep the change.
As usual, the glass was piled to the brim with ice, the Coke and rum almost an afterthought. Always trying to rip people off. I’d ask for it without ice next time. I sipped at it slowly, squeezing between people to find my friends.
Near the pool table I noticed a cute girl from my speech class, her hair done up in a braid with a Kelly-green ribbon woven into it. Two other girls flanked her like guard dogs, and all three had drawn green shamrocks on their cheeks. Maybe I should be glad my friends had ditched me. I approached.
I caught her eye a few steps away and she gave a small wave. Her friends glanced my way to see who she was waving to. “Hey, Lindsey,” I said.
“Hey, Miguel,” she said, sipping her drink. “This is Leah and this is Kimber.” She motioned towards her friends.
We shook hands. “Hi, nice to meet you.”
“I need another drink,” said Leah. “Come with me, Kimber,” she said, locking arms with Kimber and pulling her along.
“How has your night been?” I asked Lindsey.
“It’s been really fun. I haven’t been out in forever. Leah and Kimber are really into it. They’re the ones that convinced me to come. I wasn’t going to, at first.”
“Oh, what had you planned on doing tonight?”
“I was going to make these really cute cookies I saw on Pinterest. They’re shaped like dinosaurs and I just know my nephew would love them.”
“Nice. You seem like you’d be really good at baking.”
“Oh, why’s that?”
“I don’t know, you just seem like you have the patience for it.”
She smiled. “Yeah, I guess it can be pretty frustrating sometimes,” she said. “Especially when it doesn’t turn out like you think it will. Last week I failed pretty badly at making these bunny-shaped bread rolls – they came out of the oven looking like demonic trolls.”
I laughed. “Yeah, if that happened to me it might take a while before I got my confidence back.” Talking about Pinterest at a St. Patrick’s bar crawl might have been the whitest thing I’d ever done in my life.
“I guess I’ve had enough successes that I don’t get too discouraged by the projects that fail. Plus they still tasted pretty good. Kimber really liked them, anyways.”
So far she seemed interested. She was still smiling, and making eye contact. I saw that her drink was almost finished. “Can I get you another drink?” I asked.
“Oh, that’s really nice of you,” she said. “Yes, please.”
“What would you like?”
“I think I’ll stick with another one of these – it’s a vodka cranberry.”
“I’ll be right back.” She held out her empty glass and I plucked it from her light grasp. I turned back towards the bar, shuffling through the mass of people which had grown even denser in the five minutes since I’d last gone through them.
I fought my way to the front and caught the bartender’s attention after a line of beribboned bachelorettes filled their orders. I had no small bills left so I paid with a twenty. The bar tender placed the change in front of me along with the drink. I picked up the drink but before I could get the change, the crew-cut guy next to me swiped it and crumpled it into his pocket.
“Hey,” I said, “That was mine.”
“I don’t think so. I just bought a drink.” His eyes pointed vaguely in my direction but did not establish contact with mine.
I called the bar tender over. “Hey, Miss,” I called, “Didn’t you just put my change on the counter? I paid with a twenty? This guy took it.”
“I’m sorry, sweetie, I’m really not responsible for what happens once it goes on the counter. This is a busy night and I can’t stop just because you can’t keep control of your cash. I’ve got a lot of other customers to tend to.”
“Thanks for nothing,” I said under my breath. Then I turned to the thief. “Hey, man,” I said. “Why don’t you just give it back and we’ll go our separate ways?”
“Even the bartender doesn’t remember. Why should I listen to you, Beaner?”
“The hell did you just call me? Give me my fucking money.”
“Yeah? And what if I don’t?” he crossed his arms over his chest. “Do you want to take it outside?”
I didn’t want to take it outside; I just wanted to get this drink back to Lindsey and continue our conversation, along with my fifteen dollars in change, but next thing I knew, the bouncer was standing right next to me. “Are you the one causing trouble over here?”
“I’m not causing any trouble. This guy stole my change.” I pointed at the guy with the crew-cut.
“Did you steal his change?”
“I don’t know what he’s talking about. He said he wanted to take it outside.”
“Oh, blame the brown person, as usual!”
“That’s enough. You’re coming with me. And leave that drink on the counter. No alcohol outside.”
“Dude, it’s fine, he can have the money, relax.” I was willing to cut my losses, at this point.
“Too late for that. It’s too crowded for anyone starting trouble in here. Could get dangerous.”
Back on the sidewalk. Forlornly, I tried to catch Lindsey’s eye through the window, but she wasn’t paying attention. Another guy approached her - Dave, that rat bastard. I was so pissed at him and Eric; if they had just waited for me to come back from the bathroom, none of this would have happened.
Thanks to the drunken asshole, I didn’t have much money, so I headed to Nick’s, the cheapest bar, known as the hipster bar. They had cans of Old Milwaukee for a buck fifty.
I had a few of them and stewed in my own juices for a while, long enough to build up a sizable stack of empty cans when I saw Lindsey and her friends walk in.
“Hey!” I called out to them. I could tell Lindsey had seen me by the way she didn’t turn her head in my direction, not even a smidgen.
I ambled over to them. “I’m sorry, Lindsey,” I said. “I was going to get you a drink but then this racist guy, he stole my change, and I just wanted it back, but then, they kicked me out and said I was starting trouble, and I just wanted to talk to you some more…” I knew I was sounding desperate and drunk, but I was past the point of inhibition, the beer had done its job, it had lubricated my throat and my brain was trying to pull the brakes but there wasn’t enough friction.
“…I was just really looking forward to tonight, you know, and I wanted to talk to you. I haven’t had a very good semester. I was supposed to graduate last year but I flunked my Design class, and my advisor told me to take the wrong class, and then my mom told me the other day that my dad got a demotion, which is like a promotion but the opposite, they give you less pay instead of more, and now I feel, like, so selfish for having to stay an extra year, I mean my family is worried about money and here I am, a fifth-year senior, and I’m still not doing well in my design class, and here I am trying to enjoy myself and I get kicked out because of some drunk guy who steals my money and now I’m embarrassing myself in front of you.“
Kimber snarled. “Yeah, you are. Why don’t you just leave her alone? No one wants to hear your sob story.”
Lindsey glanced at me, as if afraid to make eye contact, the way I looked at homeless people when I knew they were going to ask me for money that I wasn’t going to give them but I didn’t want to treat them like outright pariahs. “Listen, Miguel, it sounds like a lot is going on in your life right now. I don’t really know you so I don’t want to tell you what to do but I think maybe you could spend your time figuring some of that out instead of dumping it all on me when I’m trying to have a nice time with my girlfriends.”
I felt like I had been slapped in the face. “Oh, yeah, totally. I don’t know why I’m even talking to you. Enjoy your night.” I turned and walked out.
I still had no idea where Dave and Eric were. They hadn’t answered any of my texts. Knowing them, they’d probably gone to Eric’s place to play Call of Duty or something.
I didn’t want to wait around for an Uber. I was too embarrassed, so I walked to the Little Caesar’s and ordered a five-dollar pizza. There was a long wait, but I was drunk enough that time wasn’t plodding along at its usual pace. I probably waited thirty minutes but it felt like five or ten. At least I would have a meal for tomorrow out of this mess of a night. I ate a slice as soon as they handed me the box, letting the molten cheese burn the roof of my mouth. I was at the perfect stage of drunkenness, where everything you eat tastes like manna.
A homeless man crept out of the shadows. “Hey man, could you spare a slice for someone down on their luck this evening?”
“Sorry, man. I gotta save money. This is gonna be my food for tomorrow and I gotta really penny-pinch right now.”
“Oh yeah, college boy, gotta pench those pennies! You must really be hurting! Ha! If you don’t feel like giving me anything then don’t, but don’t you tell me about money problems!”
I felt like a petty idiot, but at this point I didn’t want to admit it so I just scrambled down the street away from him.
I’d never taken the bus before but I figured it was a good time to try it out. There was a small group at the bus stop, all staring at their phones. The bus pulled up.
“Hey,” said the driver, “you can’t bring that in here.”
“What do you mean?”
“Can’t have pizza boxes in the bus. Might make a mess. You’re gonna have to get rid of it or find another way home.”
“When’s the next bus?”
“Should be along in another forty-five minutes.”
There was no way I would finish this whole pizza before then and I didn’t want to wait another forty-five minutes. Where was that homeless dude when I needed him? I ran down the street to find him, but he had disappeared. I left the pizza box next to a trash can, hoping he would find it.
The bus smelled of artificial lemon disinfectant, not quite succeeding in hiding the hideous odor underneath. “Does it always smell like this?” I asked.
“Not all the time. Tonight’s a bad one,” said the driver. “Had to stop and clean it after the last trip. Got a lot of pukers.”
I tried to look out the window, but it was so dark I quickly lost track of where we were when we turned off the main road. Everything seemed to be swirling around.
“Is this Ridgecrest Heights?” I asked the other riders. The boy singing country songs in the back didn’t pause. A girl with a familiar shamrock on her cheek held a plastic bag in front of her which she had already vomited into several times. It was Kimber, her eyes watery and bloodshot. Vacant-eyed, she looked past me and seemed about to answer me but all that came bubbling out was more puke, hurled straight into the plastic bag.
“Hey, can I help you?” I asked her. Her eyes met mine but seemed to look through me.
“You don’t want to help me. You just want to feel better about yourself, you selfish prick. You’re just as drunk as me.”
“Fine, be that way. I just thought I could hold your hair back, or something.”
“That’s a bunch of horse shit,” Kimber spoke up, her voice gravely, eyes flashing maliciously. “You’re just a spoiled male who thinks the world owes him something. Lindsey was just trying to be nice to you, but you were obviously making her uncomfortable. And yeah, you’re being selfish; you had to stay a whole fucking year, wasting your family’s money, because you flunked some classes? You probably went out drinking like you’re doing now and failed on purpose, so that you’d get one more year of partying and pretending you’re the center of the universe, because you know that once you get out of here, once you’re in the real world, you’re nothing but another shitty college graduate who doesn’t know jack. You think I’m some kind of damsel in distress and that if you’re nice enough to me you’ll finally get laid. You can go to hell.”
I saw my hand reach up and slap her across the face. An ugly red mark rose up in the shape of my palm. The shamrock stood out in stark contrast.
A toothy grin settled on her face. “I knew you were an asshole.”
I was stunned. I had just hit a girl, in public. Were there cameras on this bus? The driver didn’t seem to be paying any attention. Kimber stared at me with her nasty smirk. “What are you going to do now?”
I hit the button for the next stop. A short, thin kid, probably some freshman who’d spent his night at the library, gawked at me. The other riders were too far gone to notice anything had happened. As the bus screeched to a stop I fled from the bus’s fluorescent lights, into the darkness of an empty field.
I had no idea where I had landed. I sloshed through the detritus-coated undergrowth by the side of the road. There were no street lights, only some light from the moon, dissipated by rainclouds.
I cursed myself for choosing to take the bus tonight. Just my luck, to end up talking to a crazy bitch and now find myself here, my shoes squishing with every step.
In short order, my shoes were covered in mud, my pants were wet at the bottom and clung to my calves like an extra skin, and I hurled my guts out onto the side of the road. My stomach still roiled, but I wasn’t sure if it was because of what I’d drunk or because of what I’d done. Could I be charged with assault? It would be easy to pick me out from the few Hispanic students. My drunkenness muddled everything. If it had been dry I might have laid down in one of the fields I was passing through and slept it off for a few hours until I was sober enough to think clearly.
An owl hooted, the lazy “coo-coo, coo-coo” seemingly coming from all directions at once. I had stepped on something soft. I looked down to see a flash of color, pink and orange. It was a bouquet of flowers, the kind you get your girlfriend when you’re trying to cover for forgetting to buy her a birthday present. A few feet away, I saw another bouquet. I went to pick that one up as well, and saw that it was laying next to a stone set into the ground with an inscription. In the dim moonlight, I saw slabs coming up from the ground in ordered rows.
With a shudder, it dawned on me: I was in a cemetery.
I started running, away from the tombstones, away from the rotting flowers and the fog. I began to think Kimber had cursed me. I felt covered in some invisible ectoplasm that might call out to the spirits here, a special signal for them to come out and torment me. I ran, but all of a sudden I hit a barrier, landing on my side with a thud.
Thunder sounded in the distance. The wind had been knocked out of me. As I lay, gasping for breath, I had a thought about my program. The tension in the prosthetic arm. I was using the wrong formula - I’d confused the metal alloy with nylon wire. How could I be so stupid? I knew exactly how to fix it.
I scrambled up, filled with a new energy. I had tripped on a low wire fence. I scrambled to my feet and continued running, now completely covered in mud. Eventually I came to a road sign and I realized where I was – on the road behind the supermarket. I slowed down and let the rain soak me, in the hopes of cleaning my clothes a little.
Despite the horrible night, I felt lighter than I had before I’d left. I actually skipped through the puddles on the sidewalk of the apartment complex and grinned at my reflection in the windshields of the parked cars. “I’m going to make it,” I told myself. “Class of 2015, here I am.” I couldn’t wait to get back to the project, to input the changes and see it come together.
The key slid into the cheap lock. I was home. Shedding my soaked pants, my stinking shirt, I dumped them directly into the washer. I noticed the door to my room was slightly ajar.
“Waffles must have gotten in,” I said aloud to the apartment. After the night I’d had, I looked forward to the little fuzzball, even with her tendency to carve up my arms with her claws.
I walked in, instantly greeted with a foul stench. I almost retched again. Then I saw, on the desk, the beer can I’d only half-finished, tipped on its side next to my laptop, lying in a mud-colored puddle of beer and cat puke. My computer, ruined, had a note stuck to the screen:
“Wanted to chat, bro, but you were out. Julie said she’d move in with me. Bad news, she’s allergic to cats. Can you take Waffles when you move out?”
Sickly
I started to shake my leg under the table and my unease heightened as the editor’s wife came over to pour some wine for everyone. As she went around the table and poured the wine, I sunk into a persistent observation of the wine while it flowed into each glass. It came to me that the bottle’s shape and its aesthetics were so random. The wine, such a deep color. Why red, I thought. Why do I even recognize it as red. I noticed that I was tearing down the prejudices I had that made it seem like I lived in order and structure. In that moment, I discovered that wine is random.
After wine was had I began to calm, until I cognized that the alcohol I had consumed was generating chemical changes in my body, resulting in a more mellow version of myself. I then proceeded to obsessively examine my thoughts. What are these thoughts, why am I having them, why do I think, and why can’t I stop thinking, I thought. For a still interval I became immediately distracted by the wooden table that lay before me, and I rubbed it subtly. I tilted my head in awe as if I saw something of great amazement for the first time. I told myself that it was merely just a slab of wood, and I rebelled against my own unawareness by retaliating, what makes it wood... why is it here... and why does it so happen to look and feel this way, brown and smooth.
Why does everything happen to be like this... why is it all this way, I thought. In a terrifying minute, I discerned that the universe and my perception of it is truly specific and chaotic, rather than consolidated under organization and utmost normality. As I continued to pluck the nuances of absurdity out of a standard dinner party, I found myself in continually ascending angst. I could not function for I was relapsing back into a state of debilitating pondering during the most simple of actions. I took a sip of water and paused myself, for in my consciousness I had to muse about the water’s peculiarity. I was scrutinizing my food more so than eating it, in which I was hungry. Then in the course of my meal, I felt a great illness come on. I succumbed to nausea, a dull headache that I can not explain. It radiated throughout the entirety of my skull. It was at this point my relentless anguish ceased, for what I see in retrospect is that the physical pain I felt was made more important by my body. It was instinctual human biology trampling over whatever thoughts my mind deemed insignificant.
I am not a whole person, a whole spirit... I am a sack of cells and molecular processes. I am not a product of freedom, I echo. I am a product of nature and its random tendencies, and all I can do with that actuality is accept it. My thoughts last night have rendered frivolous for I received naught but a sickness.
After earning a degree in Advertising Journalism from the University of Missouri School of Journalism, chris Calcara created marketing campaigns for businesses and institutions. His debut LGBT/Thriller novel Squealer was published in February 2021 by the UK’s Wallace Publishing. It addresses topics of physical, mental, emotional, and sexual abuse inflicted on students by their teachers and religious authorities. It deals with the difficult subjects of homophobia, prejudice and bullying, but with wit…and suspense! Calcara’s works include short stories, memoirs, plays, novels and screenplays. He has collaborated with composers to write plays with musical scores. Joan is one such musical play that lyrically exposes the soul of Jeanne d’Arc—Joan of Arc. His short stories have been published by numerous literary journals. He has lived in the South, Southwest and Southeast, and currently writes from the Midwest. Chris Calcara’s website: http://chrisjcalcara.wixsite.com/website |
The Jewess & the Paperhanger
GREAT WAR & AFTER
Passing children in caps playing in the dart on cobble-stoned streets, Semso thought of his love of hats. At the beginning of the war, Semso and the others in his infantry wore the gray fez when outside of the barracks. In the heat of the battle in the mud and trenches, they eventually began wearing the steel helm or kaciga. By the end of his years in battle, nothing protected their heads from the smoke, the mud and the shell splinters flying down at them from the skies above. Semso chose to believe that the helmet helped, as did digging deeper trenches and obeying commands. He kept alert, as other country’s troops joined the army, especially in Slovenia as they moved north. Some in his troop learned German but Semso wasn’t interested in the non-Slav soldiers, their languages, religions or motivations. By working hard, he succeeded in keeping his mind numb. Along with several soldiers in his infantry, he passed safely through Croatia and continued along the Slovenia/Italy border. There they encountered multitudes of deaths; some soldiers were captured. Far fewer became heroes.
Semso was proud of the automaton who’d taken over his body and kept him alive. He adopted a mantra: follow commands; eat; sleep; and fight; all without thought. If there was a moment without an order, he would consider alternate ways to keep warm, especially his head, toes and fingers. He spoke so little; he could have lost his voice but for the marching chants and “Die Bosniaken kommen” sung with the troops at daybreak. By hearing his voice and the deep sounds of those around him, he could carefully follow and keep up.
Semso and his troop arrived at the Soca River between Italy and Slovenia. He heard the commander’s talk just before what became known as the eighth battle of the Isonzo Front.
“We are fighting Italy over this valuable valley, land overlooking a gulf, leading to another and another and finally onto the precious Adriatic Sea.”
Strolling along the Gulf of Trieste this evening, Semso remembered overhearing conversations about Soca valley vacation homes not far from here. In the battle, Semso had seen no beauty and couldn’t fathom luxury villas. They passed the Cicarija mountains, staying hidden, aware of the battles in surrounding mountain ridges. He was captured near the Gulf of Panzano in the middle of the night. Along with several other infantrymen, he was tied up and taken to a truck parked in a bombed-out section of a town.
Semso, relieved that he was still alive, shivered while gazing at the death surrounding them. Empty stone roads covered in loads of rubble were left. Sad-looking skinny trees, all barren, completed the devastation.
“Up ahead,” pointed one of his fellow captives, pointing to a tarp covering an area, “a market.” They stopped at the makeshift market down the road where they got out of the truck. Semso was most upset when forced at that point to give up his helmet and bayonet, two possessions which had saved him. The hat and stick were mementos of boyhood games played, a lifetime ago. The captors waited for a few days until the truck bed had filled up with a group of about twenty-five captured soldiers. They departed at sunrise and arrived at sunset at a prisoner of war camp, in Pistoia, Tuscany. The soldiers spoke of rumors they’d heard that the Isonzo battles had not been won by either side. The Italians were afraid of having any captor camps in the northeast of Italy.
“That’s why we’re stuck now in the middle of Italy, even farther from what was once our home,” his despondent comrades said.
Semso hated the drive, the waiting, the unknowing, and the boredom. Slowly he’d begun to thaw out from the cold, but that led to fidgeting, itching, and worst of all, over-thinking. The area where they were to be kept was a fortress they realized as they passed over a bridge, a moat, and entered grand arched gates. Down below they saw the barracks, the prisoner camp where they ended up living for two years. During those years, Semso realized that he would never get back to Mostar, his birthplace. That life was irrevocably over and a return was unimaginable. When they’d first arrived, they joined only a few hundred prisoners. As the months went on, the small group of men came to believe that they had been forgotten. With little to occupy their days, they became lost casualties of war.
A group of prisoner-soldiers asked the crew that served them their daily meal if they could work. The crew requested a meeting between the prisoners and those in charge. The prisoners explained that they might as well work and help out the local farmers who were short-handed due to the war. Weeks passed, and the soldiers assumed that nothing was going to happen until the growing season began. There was little to do but wait those five long months through the cold, cloudy, rainy days. Days passed when Semso didn’t see the sun and considered whether it would ever return. He’d watch and count until the clouds moved or he imagined they moved. Soldiers wrestled and some played football, but many sat around idly. Semso walked the square quad over and over, around and around. Sometimes he counted but often he’d lose track of the number and get upset with himself that he couldn’t even succeed with that simple task. He practiced the art of making peace with failure, with the idea that this would serve him well in life. He conquered hunger on the floor mat each night. He’d curl into a ball to become as small as possible, protect his unhappy barren stomach, breathe, count, and accept. Semso had forgotten, if he’d in fact ever known, certain sensations – the cadence of prayer, the fullness of warm food, bathing in clean water, touching one’s skin, or childhood laughter. His situation may have been easier than his fellow soldiers whose flavorful memories made them homesick and blue. While they talked of their families and hometowns with love, Semso listened, learned and strove to fill himself with warm sunny pictures.
After a bleak, bone-chillingly wet winter, the captured soldiers were told of a potential plan to relieve their boredom. The provincial fattorias had persisted and at last persuaded the Italian army to consider their use of the imprisoned infantry as free agricultural laborers. After a few more weeks, the rag-tag troop began to go out in truck loads to various farms. They weren’t planting, they were a clean-up crew assigned to the forests and woodland areas surrounding the fields. They had to pick up the fallen branches, fix the stones that made up a path of sorts and cut back the growth.
Semso glanced briefly down at the mess on the ground and looked up where he saw only clouds. The sun appeared and disappeared, in and out of the dense cloudy sky all day, continuing to deny him a lasting look at the sun. Nevertheless, Semso viewed the valley where he lived as a heaven with mountains surrounding them and various shades of green trees climbing up to the sky in patterns. There were brown leafy oak bushes that were everywhere with their acorns underfoot dotted with tall thin cypress that stayed green throughout the year, straightly lining up as a path along the way. The group cleaned debris so the earth could soak up the rains, and daily Semso grew stronger.
Rarely, were the prisoners asked to actually work the fields, plant, harvest, or press olives. In the fall, the farmers needed a small group of the workers from the camp to lay out the netting to collect the olives. They were then allowed to gather the olives from the nets, put them into baskets and load them onto wagons. The pickers were the ones poking the trees with their sticks and professionally shaking the olive trees. Semso was in awe of the farmers' pleasure in their labor. He was content with this farm work for the first time during those months, and almost forgot about the war or his sad childhood. He got used to the living conditions, the meager bread and broth, and remained hopeful that there would be no upheaval again. By all accounts, both sides of the war paid no notice to this small group of captured soldiers. And Semso preferred the camp routine, or any daily schedule, to the chaos of war.
At the end of the second harvest season, Semso heard the pickers shouting to the crew in Italian, German, and Slovak, “Liberazione! Befreiung! Oslobodenie!” They threw their hats to the sky. The Bosnians yelled Osloboden-je, repeating the “jey,” with great cheer. That sunlit autumn day was the armistice, the agreement that ended the Great War, November 11, 1918.
The small beleaguered troop of former soldiers remained neglected for a few months. In February, the Western Allies finally arrived at their fortress prison, a former monastery, and announced that all of the Austro-Hungarian prisoners were going to be repatriated. Every one of them had their original place of birth now in flux, neither this country nor that. Slovenia, Croatia, Bosnia, and Herzegovina were no longer part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. Each former prisoner was given some form of discharge papers. When given the choice of transports to Vienna or to Trieste, most of the Bosnian and Croats and all of the Slovenians chose Trieste. The few Poles and Romanians that were in their group, chose Vienna. Semso didn’t want to return to Bosnia, he was done with the past and feared the future of his former country. He had chosen Trieste because of the familiarity. Now, returning from work, he realized Trieste was also in flux and he may be departing again.
Leaving created more problems like when he’d left the army. A Hungarian officer who’d examined Semso’s papers, had asked for his family's nev, last name. Semso had responded,
“I’m ben Koren, son of Koren.” The man wrote Benkoren, stared at him and sternly stated, “As a Hebrew, you will be better off in Trieste than in Vienna. They can sort out your surname.”
Leaving Pistoia, at the end of the war, Semso’s truck was composed of twenty Bosnians: fourteen Muslims; five Orthodox Serbs; and Semso, who was called Hebrejska, Israelca, or Jevrejin. Travel was an entire day’s journey from the tree-lined countryside to Bologna where a few groups of people were lined up, the markets were empty, and soldiers lined the road. After the city, the view became less rich, with less forests and fewer small villages dotting the roads. They arrived at dusk in Trieste, and the city seemed hollow and dark under the cliffs. The driver told them,
“The post-war plan is for Trieste to become part of Italy. There are masses coming into the city now from the battlefields and camps. But everything could be worse.”
From the truck, he viewed city streets full of armed and uniformed soldiers, as in Bologna, although Semso wasn’t certain which armed forces were keeping the area in control. The Serb Red Cross had set up cots not far from the market square for all the arrivals in transit and distributed clothes, towels and a blanket. The towels were soft and luxurious, the blankets almost sufficient enough for the cool night, and the clothes were crisp, black, white and clean. They slept well in the tents.
Semso had walked towards the ports and arsenals along the Adriatic Sea on that first day in the city recovering from war. The central market was lively, next to Miramare Castle, Park and the train station. He returned to the tent, not wanting to get lost, and eager to be fed and checked in one by one for their distributions. The staff of the Red Cross sent the Moslems to the Caserma Grande, the Jew to the new Israelite Temple, and the Serbian Orthodox to the Saint Spyridon Church.
Aware of his black thick eyebrows, his mustache, and his dark eyes, Semso hesitantly entered the temple. He was thankful for his clean clothes but noticed that the men inside were better dressed businessmen. A middle-aged man approached, shook Semso’s hand and welcomed him. He explained that he was a merchant helping the Jewish community adjust after the war. He surprised Semso by asking what side he’d fought on. Noticing Semso’s open mouth, he expounded.
“There were some Trieste citizens who escaped into Italy and fought on the Italian side. They didn’t want to be recruited by the Austrians. Now the war is over, all of us Italians, Austrians, Slovenians, are struggling to make ends meet. We help each other.”
Semso responded that as a prisoner in Italy for two years, he was used to Italian government control and accepted their authority.
The man, assuming that Semso was looking for work and lodging, told him,
“Please, return here to the temple for Sabbath, we welcome you. Now you must go to the office of the Jewish Agency. You walk, ten-minutes from here.”
Semso nodded, saying “Si, grazie,” and managed a smile, pleased that there was a promise of some structure to his days.
He waited at the agency with several others for the rest of the day. By evening he was finally interviewed. They set him up with a job in a warehouse owned by a Jewish man. His new life began the very next day. Semso went to work at the warehouse, located at the very end of the city’s ports, past the gas works factory. The work was exhausting and not as enjoyable as his “prisoner” work in the forests. He preferred the work in the fields, but began to appreciate the water of the port side. When the bustle of the trade, and the warehouse scene became stressful Semso would miss the countryside.
He found energy to go to the temple nearly every week and became accustomed to the community. Despite the war, Semso saw that the Jewish community was wealthier, more urban and Western than his Southern Europe country and family. Semso chose to ignore the subtle bias towards him and to learn their Triestino dialect, a hodgepodge of Slovene and Serbo-Croatian. Years had passed since he’d actually understood every word in a conversation. This became an accepted part of his identity, a hard worker who knew no other way His co-workers spoke about the economy and what a mess they were in. Many had been against the war, and now with the recession, they were fighting for stronger unions, better hours and better wages. Semso, still the obedient worker, sensed the unrest around him and understood. He hoped that there would not be an explosion.
Content for months, Semso pushed down the depression, discrimination, and desolation that crept up on him unexpectedly. The palpable fear surrounding him helped bury his sadness. Trieste people on the street, at work, and in the rooming house spoke among themselves. “What will happen next?” “We are certain to be under the fascist leadership of Italy.” “We must leave.” Semso, alone, was devoid of fear.
Out of nowhere, he had received a strange offer to start anew and he trusted that he could accept.
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ABE MARGEL
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