Stories

Static Electricity

By Rosalia Scalia

y twin sister Raisa and I are in our childhood home. Overstuffed with clothing, furniture, drapes, toiletries and all kinds of things that our mother loves and uses daily, the room feels empty even with us in it. On each of her closet doors an elephant garland with vibrant colors, bells, and beads jingles every time Raisa opens and shuts them, the garland a remnant of Mom’s days as a hippie. I’m sitting on Mom’s bed above which hangs a giant portrait of our grandmother—Mom’s mother—painted by Mom’s ex-boyfriend Tim when Grandma was struggling with Alzheimer’s and spent most of her time in a hospital bed installed in the living room.

We’re going through Mom’s stuff deciding what to bring to the hospital, and while we both find comfort in touching her things—as if doing so would change the situation back to normal, back to the way it was just the day before or last week—it’s a colossal waste of time. We should have stayed at the hospital. Raisa believes it’d be a good idea to clean the house before Mom returns, but it’s busywork, a way to stay frenetic, which is how Raisa deals with things. The house is already tidy and clean, but Raisa likes to submerge herself in frenetic activity whereas I prefer to observe and study things before taking action.

Mom kept the masking tape labels posted all over the house from when Grandma first moved in, labels identifying what things could be found in the drawers and what things were named—useful until Grandma lost the ability to read them. In Mom’s large block letters in black marker, the labels are everywhere: “mirror,” “bathroom,” “underwear,” “linens,” “door,” “window,” “spoons,” “spices,” “pots,” and an array of other words. Raisa wants to remove them, but I veto that, reminding her that it’s not her house.

Raisa rolls her eyes. “It probably never occurred to her to take them down. She’s always so oblivious.”

“It’s her house,” I say.

“Like she’ll even notice they’re gone?” Raisa says, but leaves the labels alone.

As she packs things for the hospital, I’m jittery, wanting to return as soon as possible. Older by two minutes, Raisa always tried to boss people around. She’s already switched off Mom’s waterfall wall in the hallway, saying it makes too much noise reverberating throughout the house; unplugged the aromatherapy diffuser, saying it stinks; and stuffed her refrigerator with chicken and bacon, knowing Mom, a strict vegetarian with a “Meat is Murder” bumper sticker on her car, has avoided bringing meat in the house for ages. When I turn the water wall and the diffuser back on, Raisa shuts them off. I don’t want to fight with her.

“We should call Tim,” I say, changing the subject.

“No,” she snaps. “Her phone number hasn’t changed in the last hundred years. He’s the one who should be calling us. Or her.”

“Maybe he hasn’t seen the news…?”

“Maybe if he lives under a rock,” she says.

I text Tim anyway. Raisa leans over and pulls a small suitcase from under Mom’s bed and moves the curtain. Outside, people approach the house with arms full of flowers. Some carry teddy bears and others lighted candles, large handmade posters, and mementos of all sorts. Not wanting to see the spectacle, Raisa shuts the curtains abruptly, but I’m comforted seeing Mom’s positive impact at the school having value to others in our town.

“We should just go,” I say. “She doesn’t need anything from here.”

Raisa insists on completing the packing.

I don’t remember consciously thinking of myself as a twin, and Raisa and I never treated each other like twins, although, growing up, others often confused us. We always acted like sisters. Born three minutes earlier, but smaller, Raisa fought for her life and perhaps never graduated beyond the initial drive to survive. Raisa tosses Mom’s underwear into the suitcase. Her robe, her slippers. She tosses in perfume, cosmetics, sundries as if packing for a vacation instead of the hospital, overpacking useless items. I want to leave so I hurry her along.

Raisa points to the portrait. “Grandma at her best. Not as the demented, diapered old lady who failed to recognize any of us,” she says.

“I’ve always loved it,” I say. “And Tim, too. What a good egg.”

Raisa rolls her eyes. “Such an annoying man!”

Raisa says the same thing about my husband, Tony—that he’s an annoying man. From day one she’s disliked him and created tension between them. He prefers to avoid her when she’s in town. When we were newly engaged, she’d implied he was too lazy or dumb to go to medical school instead of becoming a physical therapist and smashed an egg on the top of his head. We were all shocked. She called it a joke and accused us of lacking a sense of humor.

“Now I know the reason you can’t keep a boyfriend and will never marry,” Tony told her while sopping the egg off his head. “It sounds like ‘rich.’”

“Something you’ll never be,” she said.

Tony stays at home with the kids, and it’s OK because she doesn’t ask about any of them. We’re thankful that our kids attend the school where I teach math in the next town over. He and I chatted before he put the kids to bed last night, ourselves numb and dazed that this happened so close. I stayed with Raisa at Mom’s house.

Neither Raisa nor I could focus on anything else and obsessively watched the news about the shooting: the timeline of events, interviews of the parents of dead or wounded children and teachers, and vigils that we skipped because we didn’t want to talk to anyone. We didn’t want to be present watching all those people who lost nothing chasing their fifteen minutes. We looked through Mom’s photo albums, laughing at all the crazy things we remembered from the photos—when Grandma danced and sang with a wooden spoon microphone; when our father, still alive, planted the gardens that continue to bloom around her house in waves of colors as the season change; when Tim and Mom painted the delicate and beautiful strands of green ivy still circling the top of each doorway; when Raisa and I were dressed in identical clothing, but in different colors, doing different things. Also in the photo album are shots of Grandma, Mom, and us in front of Capital Police Headquarters where they took Mom after she was arrested for protesting Corcoran’s cancellation of the Mapplethorpe exhibit. In the photo with us, she holds her sign “Censorship is obscene. Not Art.” Angry that politicians could cancel an art exhibit because of a bunch of unenlightened prudes, she participated in the group that projected Mapplethorpe’s work on the walls outside the museum. We were too young then to appreciate her courage. In all the photos, including the ones after she was released from police headquarters, Mom’s perpetual smile stretches across her face under her serious-looking, black-plastic framed glasses.

In the drab trauma waiting room, parents and family members of those injured in the school attack drape themselves over the chairs, pace, squeeze their hands, stare at the TV without actually watching it, or sit cross-legged on the floor. Worried, weary, clutching cell phones, water bottles, brown bags, snacks from the hospital cafeteria and vending machines—they, like Raisa and me, wait. Good news. Bad news. Any news. The principal approaches us and tells us Mom’s a hero. He says she yelled “Shooter! Shooter! Protect the students!” at the top of her lungs soon after the gunman entered the building and the havoc began.

“She ordered her aide to hide her students in the windowless room with her art supplies and to barricade the door after she left the room,” the principal said. “She grabbed a fire extinguisher and ran down the hallway toward, instead of away from, the gunman, and then aimed the fire extinguisher at the shooter and sprayed him with the foam,” he says.

The white foam caused the gunman to cough uncontrollably, disrupting his progression through the hallways for a short time, he told us.

“Without actually seeing her, the shooter turned and shot her, hitting her first in her leg, then in her gut. She sprayed him until the extinguisher was empty. Then she hit him with the cannister, and that’s when the he shot her a third time. She tried to stop him,” he says. “She succeeded for a minute.”

The principal sounds as if he’s told this story one hundred times with the same level of disbelief and shock. He takes my hand and envelops it in both of his—his eyes shiny, bloodshot above the puffiness beneath them. “I’m sorry.”

He tries to envelop Raisa’s hand but she pulls away. “How did this monster get in?” she yells, her voice shattering the uneasy silence of the waiting room. “You only said those things to avoid a lawsuit. How the fuck did you witness this interaction without helping her, and where the fuck was the security guard when Mom was confronting the gunman by herself? Alone.”

No answers. The other families shift their gazes between Raisa and the principal. They, too, want answers that aren’t forthcoming. I thank him for telling us as he backs away. He looks at Raisa with eyes as large as tangerines while Raisa says nothing, shredding the tissues in her hands.

I picture Mom’s school building, try to imagine the altercation between her and the gunman. How incongruous it must have been for her amid the brightly painted walls, the bold blues and greens, the happy yellows and cheerful reds that fostered positivity and learning. Mom’s middle school students’ colorful lanterns—fashioned from empty gallon milk jugs and LED lights—hang from the ceiling in school’s corridors like a luminous, aerial, 3-D cross-stitch. Her students’ life-sized self-portraits—their outlines traced onto paper, cut out and decorated as mini-me’s—line hallway walls leading to her classroom. Outside her classroom door tombstone etchings of the town cemetery grace the wall—a project of the older students. Her mission as an art teacher, she once said, meant helping her students see beauty in the world around them, even in the most routine things. Yellow police tape now surrounds the property as an active crime scene, and I wonder if blood spatter now mars those beautiful lanterns, self-portraits, and etchings.

A nurse in blue scrubs enters the trauma waiting room and calls our names. Raisa and I hold each other’s arms as we follow her into a trauma bay where Mom lies connected to tubes and machines. A ventilator breathes for her, and I imagine the long recovery ahead as I watch the machine inflate and deflate her chest. The nurse stares at us. I know she’s puzzled by the fat and thin versions of the same face and body type standing before her. She holds a clipboard but doesn’t speak for a long time. Usually one of us speaks first, explains that we’re identical twins, but this time neither of us does that. Mom appears small and breakable, her face pale as a waning moon, and her body surrounded by tubes and beeping machines. We fail to notice the nurse leaving.

I swallow a wail that fights to escape my throat because Mom looks so delicate, fragile, amid the tangle of corded machines. We flank each side of the bed and hold her hands. Raisa leans over and whispers into her ear. “Don’t worry, Mom, we’re here!”

“People in a coma can still hear,” she tells me in her Know-It-All voice.

When the doctor comes, she tells us that they did everything possible, that the ventilator is the only thing keeping Mom alive, that her brain has ceased to function, that she’s not going to improve. She asks about Mom’s advance directives, if she has a do-not-resuscitate directive, because if she doesn’t have one then we must decide whether it’s time to turn off the life support system. She also asks about Mom’s organ donor status. Neither Raisa nor I know these things, and it dawns on me that neither of us knows much about Mom beyond her role as our mother. We don’t know why she and Tim parted ways, why she never remarried after our father died, why she chose to teach art rather than work as a medical illustrator like our grandmother—far more lucrative than teaching. Suddenly, all that I don’t know about her feels like a gigantic hole, a chasm of loss, a treasure stolen.

“Is your mother an organ donor?” the doctor asks.

“How premature. And insensitive,” I say, my turn to be indignant and accusatory. As I watch the machine inflate and deflate my mother’s chest, my math brain concentrates on the numbers of breaths a healthy person takes for granted: sixteen breaths per minute, 960 breaths an hour, 23,040 breaths a day, 8,409,600 a year. If Mom were to live to be 80, she’d take about 672,768,000 breaths in her lifetime, and it kills me that my children are being robbed of seeing their grandmother take in and expel all those breaths. I imagine all my children’s milestones, and all their activities she’ll miss: birthdays, graduations, weddings. And mine, too.

“No response in the brain or the stem,” the doctor says in a matter-of-fact voice.

Hope clings to me like static electricity. Maybe time will restore her responses. It’s only been three days since the shooting. Miracles can happen. I believe in miracles.

I look at Raisa, her face identical to mine—but mine’s gone soft and full from pregnancy and motherhood, whereas Raisa’s remains sharp and thin. Her hair, thick chestnut sheets, falls just below her shoulders in a sexy bob, while mine, cut short, exposes my ears. We could pose for before-and-after photos for a weight loss advertisement.

“We did our best.” The doctor says the words slowly as if we are idiots who cannot comprehend.

I know they can’t turn off the ventilator until everything about organ donation and withdrawing life support is laid down, signed in triplicate, settled.

“Rumian, she wouldn’t want this,” Raisa says.

“She’s not dead yet,” I yell.

Raisa takes the clipboard from the doctor and signs away Mom’s organs as if she were signing over the title to her car. I leave the room.

A stony silence fills the car on the ride back to Mom’s house. Raisa’s driving. Wishing with every cell in my body that she was shot instead of Mom, I peer out the passenger window to avoid looking at or speaking to her. I want to put distance between us—to drive home to see my kiddos and Tony. I want to take a break from her—from this awful situation.

“She’s still on the ventilator,” Raisa says, as if that makes a ton of difference. “We have a lot to do,” she adds in that Know-It-All voice and begins ticking off a to-do list beginning with “make arrangements.”

“Shut up. Shut the fuck up,” I say, my words venom darts. “You’re going to turn her waterfall wall and diffuser back on. And you’re going to be polite to Tony and my kids when they arrive.”

Raisa stared at me with disbelief in her face.

When we turn into Mom’s driveway, a large object covered in thick brown paper tied with twine leans against the front door. Without speaking, I unlock Mom’s door, drag the package inside, cut the twine and tear off the paper. I immediately recognize Tim’s work. It’s a companion piece to Grandma’s portrait, capturing Mom in her youthful glory: Filled with energy, her eyes appear flashing behind those large black-framed glasses, her hair wild, curly, large, untamable. Love shines from her face as she smiles at us, her arm encircling Raisa and me, our young faces identical but slightly different with our heads forming the top slopes of a heart; her elbow, the point, and her forearm closes the circle.

___

Rosalia Scalia earned a master’s degree in writing from Johns Hopkins University in May 2003 and is working on her first novel, Delia’s Concerto. The first chapter was one of seven finalists in a competition held by the National League of American Pen Women and a more recent version was published as a story titled “Soul Music,” in Crack the Spine #109. Her story “Henry’s Fall” was a finalist in the Gival Press Short Story competition. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Amarillo Bay; The Baltimore Review; Blue Lake Review; Crack The Spine; Epiphany; The Furious Gazelle; Hawaii Pacific Review; The Oklahoma Review; North Atlantic Review; Notre Dame Review; Pebble Lake; Pennsylvania English; The Portland Review; Quercus Review; Ragazine; Riddle Fence; Silk Road Review; Smile, Hon, You’re in Baltimore; Talking River; South Asian Ensemble; Spout Magazine; Taproot; Valparaiso Fiction Review; Verdad; and Willow Review. The story that appears in Taproot won first prize in its annual literary fiction competition for 2007, and “Uncharted Steps” merited a 2010 Individual Artist Grant from the Maryland State Art Council. “Sister Rafaele Heals the Sick,” first published by Pebble Lake Review and nominated for a Pushcart Prize in 2005, appeared again in an anthology titled City Sages: Baltimore (CityLit Press, May 1, 2010), a collection of stories by 32 Baltimore writers, including Poe, Anne Tyler, and Alice McDermott, among others. Most recently, her story “You’ll Do Fine” was a recipient of the Willow Review Award for the Spring 2011 issue. Her short story collection, Sister Rafaele Heals the Sick & Other Stories, was shortlisted in the 2013 Santa Fe Writers Project Fiction Awards.

The Landfill

By Fred McGavran

echnology is always the answer. Hi. My name is Yardsal (“Yardy”) Haines, and that’s what I used to tell the school kids bussed out to the landfill for a day in the country. Most kids nowadays have never been to the country and thought they were going to see a cow pasture when we took them up to Lookout Point. Stretched out before them was an inland sea of plastic bags crisscrossed by bulldozers leveling out the bumps.

“Hey, Mr. Yardy!” some kid always asked. “Why’s it smell so bad? Is it the cows?”

See what I mean? Those kids couldn’t tell a cow from a bulldozer. Anyway, the question gave me a chance to talk about decay of organic matter and give them some terms to describe it besides the ones they already knew. Teachers really appreciated that.

“If it smells like shit, it probably is shit,” my friend Bill Bob Leahy, chief of security, always added.

Bill Bob is a short man with a beer belly so enormous he has to lean backwards to keep from toppling over. The kids loved him because he spoke their language. Teachers were another story.

For twenty-seven years, I’ve been chief engineer at Settlers Landfill. As a waste management professional, I don’t use terms like “dump” or “trash.” For us in the industry, waste management is a technological challenge, not a subject for sick jokes. We accepted over two million tons of household and industrial waste every year and spread it out across our six hundred acre campus to be layered with soil and blended into the environment. Thanks to reclamation science, we graded and seeded the outer edges just like strip miners grade and seed the outer edges of their pits, so passersby see only rolling green hills from the road.

Inside, however, we had to deal with mounds of plastic bags exploding and out gassing as their contents ripened in the summer sun. Over the years our sales force was so successful that corporate in Chicago projected the landfill would reach its capacity by 2020. Our neighbors wouldn’t sell us more land, and the regulators wouldn’t let us use it if they did. Strapped for space, we could not keep layering the waste with dirt to keep the flies and odor down. We had to find a high tech solution.

Although often criticized in the media, our industry is very sensitive to the needs of our neighbors. We have to be: my wife Cindy and I and Bill Bob and his wife Cheryl live in Settlers Grove, a planned community for employees just outside the landfill. So we were all relieved when corporate announced that it had developed a proprietary solvent that not only made the waste decompose in less than the half-life of a plastic bag but would also shrink the compost to less than one third its original size. We learned later that it did this by dehydrating and solidifying the waste into a hardness that could withstand a nuclear blast.

Corporate had thought of everything except the exponential increase in methane gas caused by the enhanced decomposition process. Coupled with a temperature inversion, complaints about bad odors reached a crescendo not even our PR firm and Political Action Committee could silence. School trips were cancelled; grilling out was impossible. I remember wearing an oxygen mask when I cut our grass.

Corporate found another technical solution: a gigantic plastic dome that would cover the landfill and capture the gas. Through an intricate piping system, methane would be routed to our neighbors to heat their homes. The dome was designed by the same NASA engineers who were designing domes for the first colonists on Mars. It made the landfill look like a gigantic terrarium. Offering methane gas at below market rates, we converted criticism into praise and gained many advocates. We even designed clear places in the plastic at Lookout Point so the kids could look in and watch the enhanced decomposition. It was only in the choice of a piping and concrete contractor that we went astray.

Butch Siegel is the best example I have ever seen of why accepting the lowest bid can be a mistake. As the weather changed, leaks developed around the pipes where they passed through the dome due to the different rates of expansion for plastic and metal. Neighbor complaints rebounded, reaching as high as the governor’s office, and Cindy and I had to cancel our Fourth of July barbecue. I called Siegel to my office in the concrete block administrative building that had been built when the site was used as an ammunition testing ground in the 1940s. He was as confident as ever.

“The pipes are leaking,” I said.

“No problem,” Butch reassured me.

“How’re you going to seal them?”

“Easy,” Butch said and winked, holding up a Zippo® lighter engraved “Danang 1969” and a large tube of epoxy cement

That was the last time I saw him. Bill Bob watched him climb up the dome and light the Zippo by one of the methane pipes. Leahy made it back to our administrative building just before Butch found his first leak.

To my amazement, even our closest neighbors did not hear the blast. When Bill Bob and I went out to survey the damage, the dome was intact, having deflected the blast downwards into the landfill. Only the piping was gone, landing as we learned later in backyards and Interstates as far as 20 miles away. After putting in a missing person report on Siegel, we were back in full operation within an hour.

Corporate in Chicago called to ask whether there had been any damage to the waste itself. Obviously they were thinking of restarting methane gas production as soon as possible. I hadn’t thought of that. So we let the dome cool for a day, and then Bill Bob and I clambered up with flashlights to peer through the pipe holes. It was like looking down into the earth through an upside down periscope.

Not a plastic bag remained. The waste, solidified by the solvent, had been driven deep into the earth like a gigantic bullet, leaving the appearance of a crater on the moon. Now we had space for hundreds of millions more metric tons of waste, enough to serve the prospective needs not only of the city, but also of the surrounding area for decades. We scrambled down to call Chicago.

“Watch out, Yardy!” Bill Bob cried, grabbing my arm and pulling me back just as the concrete base at my feet collapsed, leaving a gap between the dome and the crater below.

“Looks like Butch skimped on the concrete, too,” I said.

The explosion had cracked the base all around the dome. Corporate wasn’t happy, but who needed a dome now that fifty years accumulation of methane was gone? The neighbors could go back to getting their gas from the utility company like everybody else. I designed a wire fence on metal stakes to keep workers from falling in, but after a month the ground gave way beneath that, too. Sections of the fence drooped and dangled over the edge until the last stakes gave way and everything dropped into the crater. We had to stop the school tours for good.

We established a protocol that anyone approaching the edge had to wear a safety harness. Every time I got roped up to inspect the crater, I was amazed at how deep it was. Gray, cloudy, with little channels of fire swirling in its depths, it was like looking into the remains of a city hit by nuclear bombs or an opening into hell.

One afternoon the dome started to tilt to one side, like a lid too small for a pot.

“What’ll we do if it falls in?” Bill Bob wondered.

“Beats hell out of me,” I replied. “Let’s hope corporate has the answer.”

Corporate didn’t care. Aside from a photo of the tilting dome that went viral, no one else cared, either. The day the dome finally slid down into the crater, Bill Bob and I were the only ones who bothered to get roped up to see it. It was lying on the bottom at about a 30º angle, exaggerating the flames beneath it like an enormous magnifying glass.

“Is the dome flammable?” Bill Bob asked.

We soon had the answer to that.

Bill Bob and I had bought houses on the same street in the late 80s when the landfill was just getting started and worked our way up in the company together. Now that the kids were gone, he and Cheryl and Cindy and I were beginning to think about retirement communities where you did not go to sleep to the sound of garbage trucks racing in and out of the landfill, or the crackle of uncontained fires sweeping over mountains of plastic bags.

“You know, I kind of miss the sound of the plastic bags burning,” Cindy said the evening the dome fell in while we and the Leahys were grilling steaks on our backyard grill. “It kind of put me to sleep, like a fire in the fireplace on a winter evening.”

“What’s that?” Cheryl exclaimed.

A rush of wind came from the landfill, followed by the throat-closing stench of burning plastic.

“Get inside!” Bill Bob cried as I took the steaks off the grill. “The dome caught fire!”

The sky over the landfill was clotted with thick black smoke lit orange by the flames beneath.

This time corporate was ecstatic. Once the dome was burned out, we could put in even more waste without it blocking the flow like an upside down cup over a garbage disposal. Besides, the crater was getting deeper, and Settlers Landfill was about to become the largest in the country. Despite thousands of tons of dirt dumped into the crater, however, the fire burned for three weeks, causing the evacuation of everyone within our outgassing range. Every TV station in town had drones circling to get real time action shots, and we were the subject of sarcastic comments by TV talk show hosts and liberal politicians all over the country. Bill Bob and I and our wives had to move across town to an extended stay motel, cutting short the summer cookout season.

“I don’t need all this,” Bill Bob said after he had been up all night trying to move protesters out of the access road to the landfill so the trucks could get through. “I’m going to take early retirement.”

“Maybe I should, too,” I agreed. “Florida is looking better every day.”

We weren’t the only ones with ideas like that. The only problem was getting our money out of our houses. That’s when corporate announced it would buy the house at pre-explosion fair market value of any employee who agreed to stay on until retirement. As usual Chicago thought it would all blow over in a year and everyone would forget about the offer. Instead, the problem kept expanding.

The crater was getting larger. Even the waste truck drivers noticed that they didn’t have to drive as far into the site to discharge their loads. Finally figuring this could be as much a problem as an opportunity, corporate ordered me to find out why.

That’s when I met Cleves Warsaw, Ph.D. No one in City University’s engineering department knew anything about crater mechanics, so I was referred to physics. Dr. Warsaw was the nation’s leading expert on the formation and life cycle of craters. With a scraggly beard whitened by chalk dust and a squint from spending years peering through telescopes, Cleves Warsaw looked more like a janitor than a professor. Bill Bob made him show two sets of government issued identification to let him onto the landfill. Fortunately he had a current Yosemite National Park pass along with his driver’s license, or we would never have learned what was going on.

Like many physicists, Dr. Warsaw was obsessed with data. What was the radius of the landfill when we installed the glass dome? When did we first notice the slippage? Did we measure it? Could we get access to the TV stations’ drone films? All this was necessary to determine the crater’s coefficient of expansion. Along with all this, he was the most reckless investigator I have ever known. Nearly every day we had to wire him up to inspect the crater’s edge, and nearly every day he fell in and was extracted with great difficulty, often with a winch. Did I tell you he weighed over 300 pounds?

Corporate was demanding answers, and some drivers were refusing to enter the landfill for fear their trucks would fall in. When Dr. Warsaw finally announced he had found the answer, I set up a conference call with corporate, because no one there would come near the landfill.

“You’re not going to like this,” Dr. Warsaw told me before he began.

I was just happy that Chicago had not insisted on Skyping. If they had seen Cleves Warsaw, they wouldn’t have believed anything he said. As it was, the call was delayed while he fiddled with his laptop and set up a screen to project his conclusions. Bill Bob, who was sitting in out of general interest, was getting edgy.

“Looks like he’s about to download his pornography collection,” he whispered.

And then Dr. Warsaw turned down the lights and started his presentation. Bill Bob was lost from the get go, but to me it had a certain logic, like one of those guys at the fair selling tools you could use to chop vegetables and work on your transmission all at the same time.

“So just tell us what’s going to happen,” our executive VP said over the speaker phone.

It was the first time anyone in Chicago had spoken.

“This is what’s going to happen,” Dr. Warsaw said, showing a computer projection of the crater expanding until a bulge arose in its center forming a ball so big the crater disappeared.

“I can’t see it,” the executive VP snapped. “Yardy, what the hell is going on?”

“The crater is turning the world inside out like a guy taking off a sock.”

“How much did we pay for this?”

“Dr. Warsaw, what are you telling us?” I asked.

Like so many theoreticians, he could not give a simple answer. In the late 1940s, the Soviet mathematician Dmitri Baklanov had developed a series of equations so elegant and seemingly detached from reality that no one had ever found anything in the universe that corresponded to them. Thinking Baklanov had written a mathematical parody of the Soviet Union, Stalin had him shot. Afterwards the best mathematical minds in the world had searched for some application for the Baklanov equations, much as they searched for something that would change lead into gold or proof of Fermat’s Last Theorem.

“And now I have identified the process Baklanov predicted,” Dr. Warsaw exulted. “When an explosion occurs with sufficient force directed downward at a particular place on the earth’s surface, it sets in motion a process whereby the crater expands and deepens until it exerts a sufficient attractive force on the other side of the globe, which swells downward and engulfs the original crater, causing the world to turn itself inside out.”

I have never known Chicago to be quiet for so long.

“How much time have we got?” asked the executive VP.

“Seven years, two hundred and thirty-one days, and two hours.”

“At least it’s not tonight,” somebody else in Chicago said. “I’ve got to take my kids to soccer practice.”

The rest of the call was about keeping everything under wraps so the public would not panic and house prices in the neighborhood would not fall any more than they already had. It turned out that the company was negotiating a class action settlement and had offered its employees the same deal it was offering everyone else, without having to stay on the job to get it. Dr. Warsaw assured us he would not disclose his work until it was published in the peer-reviewed journal Crater Dynamics. Fortunately, Crater Dynamics was published bi-annually, and the latest edition had just come out. The world would not know its fate for nearly another two years.

“There’s more than enough time for me to win the Nobel Prize after that,” he said happily. “The university will have to make me tenure track when I win the Nobel.”

“That’s right, Professor,” the executive VP assured him. “No need to get people all worked up about something they can’t do anything about.”

After the call was concluded, Bill Bob and I went to our offices to work on our applications for early retirement. They were granted along with the house buy out after we signed a confidentiality agreement.

Later I asked Dr. Warsaw the last place to be sucked into the earth before the world turned inside out. He said Yekaterinburg, Russia about 1,100 miles east of Moscow, where the last Czar and his family were murdered by the Bolsheviks in 1918. Cindy and I don’t think a few extra years on the edge of Siberia are worth it.

So Bill Bob and Cheryl and Cindy and I are moving to Key West after the first wave of panic selling hits, and they think they’re all going to go under tomorrow. Being inundated by a tsunami can’t be any worse than freezing in a blizzard, even if it comes a little sooner. Dr. Warsaw says we’ll have several good years in Florida. That’s more than most people get. The end of the world is only a problem if you let it get to you. Come to think of it, maybe somebody will come up with a technical solution for that, too.

 

________

Fred McGavran is a graduate of Kenyon College and Harvard Law School, and served as an officer in the US Navy in Vietnam. After retiring from law, he was ordained a deacon in the Diocese of Southern Ohio, where he serves as Assistant Chaplain with Episcopal Retirement Services. The Ohio Arts Council awarded him an Individual Achievement Award for The Reincarnation of Horlach Spenser, a story that appeared in Harvard Review. Black Lawrence Press published The Butterfly Collector, his award-winning collection of short stories, and Glass Lyre Press published Recycled Glass and Other Stories, his second collection, in April 2017. For more information and links to stories, go to www.fredmcgavran.com.

Aunt Josey’s Stuff

By John Allison

y then, at age nine, I understood. It was what she could not take that weighed heavily on her mind, more than the year before, and more then than the year before that. Now, I sometimes feel the crushing weight of them all.

That Sunday I tapped lightly on the door to her large bedroom, cracked it open, and watched. Aunt Josey, her back to me, sat on the floor wedged into the one space where she would fit. Standing, smearing her nose and then her eyes on the right sleeve of her dingy, partially buttoned chambray shirt, she surveyed the area. Barefoot, cheeks damp, shoulder-length reddish-brown hair pulled behind each ear, shirttail hanging loosely over kneeless Levis, Josey was unbothered by being squeezed among the many boxes stacked four or five high that would have caused the claustrophobic to panic for fear of no escape.

Each had two signs stuck on with tape, a master label stating either MUST TAKE or, in another section of the room, MAYBE TAKE. Illustrative of the MUST TAKE secondary labels were: MAGS/VARIETY, MAGS/NEW YORKER, MAGS/VOGUE, NEW YORK TIMES, POTTERY, ART STUFF, JEWELRY, JOURNALS/LAST5YRS, MAKEUP, CARL, MITCH, SHOES, SHOES, SHOES, SHOES, and twenty-four BOOKS. The contents of the latter, I already knew, left out few periods or places in the world’s history. And there were clothes.

Exemplifying the MAYBE TAKEs were six DOLLS, MAGS/SASSY, MAGS/YM, MAGS/COSMOGIRL, MAGS/TEEN, MAGS/TEEN PEOPLE, FIGURINES, SEA SHELLS, PENNIES, JOURNALS/OLD, ROGER, CLINT, and ten DO NOT OPENs.

There was a third tier of her things in the basement she had taken over from her father, my Granddad Paul, but this wasn’t mentioned. My grandfather had his own collections in the attic and in three metal sheds out back—tools of every kind and age, numerous old paint cans full of nuts and bolts, and what he called antiques but that Grandma Charlene called “other people’s effluvium.” My dad had been charged by both Granddad and Josey with intentional infliction of emotional distress when, a number of times over the years, he cleared the back yard and hauled off rented trucks full of their objects so that the grass and weeds could be kept in check.

Josey stood, opening a bulging container marked DOLLS. Without turning toward where I stood peeking in, she said, “Charlie, come on in, close the door. I need your help. Think you and Albert could get more boxes from Studs?” That was the liquor store a few blocks away in Hartford’s West End neighborhood where Pop and I had gotten extra boxes during the last month in anticipation of this moment.

As I was saying “Sure, I guess. I can ask,” she pulled out a thing with floppy legs and arms, sad-looking looking to me then and hideous now, one eye missing and two or three small holes in its head where some of the pretend hair braids had once been anchored. She murmured something, maybe Sally, maybe Cassie, I couldn’t be sure, and then reunited the pathetic creature with its mates. Then, emerging from wherever she had been, she turned toward me. Her lips parting slightly, their corners sneaking upward, she said, “Hi, there, big guy, what’s up?” At this, my only thoughts were of what I could do for her.

My dad strove to get her attention from one room away where he and I slept. His voice was strong and could be piercing when he was annoyed. “Josephine Wambaugh, when you going to be done packing? I’ve been ready for three hours. You’ve been getting your, cr…,” Pop catching himself before calling her many treasures crap because he knew how sensitive she could be about the subject, “your stuff together for half the day.

“We already spent most of yesterday getting ready. We’ve got to hit the road if we want to make Middlebury before dark. We’ll have to eat someplace along the way, and if you and Charlie require a few pit stops, it might take us five hours.”

A stressed “What, Albert?” made it through the wall to Pop.

“Baby sister, did you hear anything I said?”

Hearing nothing for the next minute or so, he came around to Josey’s bedroom door. “Josey, Josey, what’s the holdup?” he pleaded. I was aware that Pop knew perfectly well what was going on.

***

The day before, he and I had gone to a U-Haul outlet there in Hartford and rented a trailer for my aunt’s stuff. Pop, Josey, and I had filled the trailer with boxes, most of them too heavy for me to carry alone. I saw each one as a special thing, and proudly dragged the few I could by one end. Josey and I lugged others together, Pop naturally doing the largest share of the work. Though not tall, my dad was powerfully built and was intense when there was work to be done. Late that afternoon, trailer full, Josey appeared lost as she gazed wistfully at everything that wouldn’t fit, not even counting the stacks remaining in her room and a hallway. She looked at Pop for what seemed to be a long time.

“Okay, okay, Josey,” he sighed, and the three of us began unloading the trailer, stacking boxes and some loose things on the driveway of my grandparents’ house, where Pop and I were living, and where Josey still spent summers and school breaks.

“So, you want to swap it for a bigger one, huh?” the man rasped through cracked lips that gripped half a cigarette beneath a veined, bulbous nose, his impressive gut resting comfortably on the U-Haul counter.

As Josey shook her head in vigorous assent, Pop said, “You know, I’ll pay for a bigger one if you’ll give me half off for the day, or less than a day, I’ve had the other.”

“Bigger? How much?”

“Oh, maybe half again the first one. Got one that size?”

“Yeah, just about, maybe a little more. Just five more bucks a day.” Quickly figuring, he grunted, “Sure, man, deal.”

***

It was Sunday afternoon by the time the larger trailer was full and hooked behind the 1968 Mustang GT fastback that Pop had bought in 1972 with military savings so that he would have a “good car,” as he put it, before going back to school. I, of course, thought the Mustang, with its 302 cubic inch V8 engine, 4-barrel carburetor, four-on-the-floor stick shift, sport handling package, and still-pristine exterior was far better than anything Buck Rogers flew. Josey, though, had observed pointedly that her brother’s idea of a good car was a pure, unmitigated chick magnet, and that she, naturally, was not attracted by such gauche displays.

“But Albert, there’s more still.”

“Josey, darling, you know there are a lot more of your necessities out here and inside than we can possibly carry. I can’t get a trailer any bigger than this one. Books I understand, but all this other stuff mystifies me. We can’t take it all, for one thing. For another, what the heck you going to do with it when you get there?”

As it turned out, Josey had more than one solution to the transportation problem. First, she said, sweetly, “But Albert, I’ve been waiting tables for years. I always got great tips. From the men, you know. I’ve got savings. I saw a trailer bigger than this one. I can pay for it.”

Pop hugged her tightly and brushed a tear from her cheek, saying “Sweetheart, I don’t think my car can pull a larger trailer.” I thought it probably could, but I kept quiet, and Pop remained adamant about not risking harm to his lovely red Mustang.

From my dad’s perspective, Josey’s second solution was no more tenable than the first: renting a truck in addition to the trailer, she driving the second vehicle.

In answer to the what-to-do-with-it-when-we-get-there question, she pointed out that the previous year she had abandoned dormitory living and moved into a garage apartment adjoining an old home not far from the Middlebury campus. A middle-aged couple owned the property, the large lot having ample space for the rented storage shed Josey convinced the male half of the couple to allow her to place close to a back fence. She generally fared better with men than with women, although she could often persuade other women when an issue was important enough to her. With the men, it wasn’t all about sexual allure—although I came to understand there was plenty of that—because her suasions worked so well on Pop and Granddad and not just on guys who lusted after her.

We left the Wambaugh place after four that Sunday afternoon, Josey having finally succumbed to her brother’s entreaties, leaving behind some of the things she thought she absolutely had to have and all of the hoped-for stuff. Pop’s cause was helped by Grandma Charlene, who, as Josey had been pleading with Pop, came around a corner and said, “Josey, now just you listen, your brother will take care of everything. He’ll get you and whatever you need to school. Your dad and I can’t do it, and you know that, so just let Albert handle it like he’s done before.”

No one told Pop about the besotted but soon-to-be-forlorn young man who showed up two weeks later with Josey in a pickup truck that shortly thereafter turned around and, riding so near the pavement that its frame almost put off sparks, headed back to Vermont.

***

The trip from Hartford to Vermont was, for me, a late summer adventure in which I had played a minor role since Josey left for her first year at Middlebury College on full scholarship when I was six. Pop timed his last long leave home from Miramar, California, where he had been training Marine Corps helicopter pilots since returning to the states, so that he could take her to school that first September, and he was home for good before the autumn of her second year rolled around.

Back then I saw my dad as invincible, but he was no tough guy when it came to his little sister. When her saucer-sized green eyes misted over and the first quiet drops began to make their way from impossibly long lashes down her cheeks in diminishing rivulets, it was game-over for Pop. Despite the seven years that separated them, and the differences that marked them—he a math whiz drawn to engineering and the logic of computer code, she a rapacious reader and a writer of steadily burgeoning ability—the two of them had formed a deep bond before she was even a toddler.

It was my grandmother, along with Josey, who supplied most of the details about the family that I either couldn’t recollect or had never known. As I recall her now, from both memory and family photos, Grandma Charlene’s short, dark brown hair didn’t begin to reveal streaks of gray until she was in her sixties. Not a large woman in height or girth, her will had been forged of tungsten carbide. Pop and Josey told me of clashes between the grandparents, shouts leading to broken dishes and exhaustion but no bruises, until finally Granddad Paul just checked out, leaving all of the family decision making to his wife. Josey told me she remembered her father saying to no one in particular, “Fuck it all, it’s just not worth it.” After that, Josey said, the Wambaugh household operated more smoothly, no one apparently thinking about what emasculation may have done to Granddad, although he seemed to be at peace.

Later, though, when he developed Parkinson’s disease—he was only in his early forties—Grandma took on the job of caring for him with alacrity, lovingly holding him in her arms and singing softly to him each night until sleep plucked him from misery.

Pop said his mother “rode Josey pretty hard, like a drill sergeant,” until Josey was about fifteen when there was a showdown of some kind. Pop said, “After that, Charlie, those two women just sort of eyed each other and kept at a safe distance. On occasion there’d be another skirmish, but not like earlier, not as intense. Then they’d move to their own corners like bantam-weight boxers. Sometimes I thought they might even be rivals. Mother was still a very good-looking woman, she always was, and I wondered whether there was some sort of competition going on. Both of them, I don’t know, they were just so damned stubborn. They had these egos, these wills, whatever. Maybe your grandma saw too much of herself in Josey, I don’t know. After your grandfather got sick, though, Josey backed off. But I really hoped she’d never have a daughter.”

***

“Mama, that’s a pretty nasty job, right?” my dad had asked his mother as she was changing Josey’s diaper. Grandma told me about it when I was about eight, the age Pop had been at the time.

“Well, yes, it sure is,” she told her son, “but it’s got to be done. And there’s nobody else around to do it. Besides, I’ve done it enough that I don’t mind anymore.”

“I can do it for you sometime, Mama,” he had offered. “Just show me how.” She did, and he was good to his word.

“Charlie, Albert loved that baby so much. Before then, I couldn’t have imagined any boy his age doing a job like that. And he volunteered, if you can believe it. It was almost like she was his, I don’t know, his little doll or something. And it never stopped.”

She continued. “When Josey was about eighteen months old or so, about that, I think, Albert taught her to play football. Tackle, mind you. The ball was half as big as she was, and she’d hold that thing with both hands, hug it to her little pot belly, and run headlong down the hallway squealing until she met him coming the other way when the squeal turned to a wild banshee screech. He would pretend to tackle her, lifting her off the floor and gently planting her down on her back. Then he’d tickle her. They wouldn’t quit ‘til Albert tired out. I don’t think she ever would have. I can’t remember how long they did that, probably until she started school.

“Then, he walked her all the way to school and back every day. I went with them the first few times, until I knew they’d be okay. They held hands, she’d look up at him, just beaming. He kept that up until long after other boys his age wouldn’t have been caught dead walking with a little girl. But Albert didn’t care what anybody else thought. There was just something about those two. He did hang out with other boys, but Josey came first, and it seemed to never occur to anyone to make fun of him for having a little girl as a pal. It was just Albert and Josephine, and that’s all there was to it. Really, I never did understand it.”

When I started kindergarten at age five, Josey was seventeen. She walked me to school and back home almost every day of her senior year in high school, before she went off to college. She would talk to me. And she would listen. She spoke to me as an equal from the beginning, explaining to me how to tell whether a girl liked me, and what to do if one did. My initial disgust at hearing this later became a useful insight. She and I didn’t play football. But we danced. And danced. And danced.

She danced with me to the pounding rhythm of the Rolling Stones’ “Jumpin’ Jack Flash” and “Paint It Black” long before I began kindergarten, teaching me to sing the words as we flew around some room in the house, my feet sometimes on the floor and sometimes miles above it. I learned and loved the Beatles’ “When I’m 64” and “Twist and Shout,” to do the Watusi and the Twist. And I fell in love with Josey. Around the time I turned eight, I had secretly formed the hoped of marrying her, and when I told her she folded me into her arms, softly singing the Beach Boys’ “Wouldn’t It Be Nice” close to my ear as we moved to and fro, her intoxicating scent unadorned, my small body boneless as I burrowed in. I was probably about eleven or twelve when I figured out that I couldn’t marry Josey, my pillow case becoming wet with my sorrow for a few nights. Now, sometimes, it is her smell I first recall in the early morning before the bracing odor of strong coffee brings me back to the present.

One time, I finally worked up the nerve to ask the question that had pecked at me for the previous month like an old hen in insect-infested fescue and bluegrass. Taking a while to choke back her laughter, Josey finally said, “Oh, god, Charlie, yeah, girls get gas, too. But maybe not as much, I don’t know. And most of them work a lot harder than guys to keep it sort of, you know, sort of tucked in until they’re by themselves.” My eyes widened at this insight, surely unknown to my peers.

In truth, Josey gave me something to think about nearly every time we talked as I grew older. When I was in high school, a sophomore or junior, I think, she came out of the blue with “Charlie, life’s really not hard to figure out. Intent is part of it—your heart ought to be in the right place. But the rest of it, Charlie—it’s mostly just technique.” And, one summer Saturday while we were shopping to replace my threadbare canvas Keds and find additional essentials for Josey, both of us squirming impatiently on an up-escalator clogged with standing shoppers, Josey advised with her volume knob fruitlessly ratcheted up, “Charlie, there may be only two kinds of people—the ones who think escalators are an easier way to go up and down, and the others who think the goddamned things are a faster way.”

***

That Sunday in Pop’s Mustang, we headed north from Hartford on I-91 for Josey’s senior year at Middlebury College. Just before Springfield, Josey said, “Albert, I know staying on 91 most of the way north is a lot faster, but these freeways are just so damned dreary. Can’t we get off onto I-90 and then at Stockbridge go north on Highway 7 all the way to school? Some of that way is so much prettier, you know in the national forest. Please, Albert?”

Pop was quiet for a few moments, calculating the extra time it would take. “Josey, Charlie, if we do that it could be dark before we get to Middlebury.”

“We’ve got headlights, Pop,” I said, excited about the prospect of going through unknown territory at night. I didn’t know then that he was exaggerating a bit for effect—it was farther but not that much.

Josey giggled. Pop was silent.

“Please, Albert,” Josey importuned.

Pop sighed deeply. “Okay, okay. Premature death of an older relative, that’s what the indictment will say,” his voice softening as he looked first at Josey in the front passenger seat, and then quickly back at me where I sat behind Josey.

So we took Josey’s route and Pop and Josey began their storytelling, each sometimes having the floor alone and other times one interrupting the other by finishing a sentence or asking a question. I did my best to participate occasionally with an insert of my own, feeling like an equal in the threesome because Josey was there. I adored Pop, but he was a parent, not a mysterious, amazing, fun friend.

“Albert, Charlie. You know, there’s something I never told you about Highway 7. Actually, I never told anyone.”

“Is this something we want to hear, Josey?” I thought Pop’s question was weird. I always wanted to hear anything Aunt Josey said.

Josey was quiet for a couple of minutes that seemed like hours to a nine-year-old. Breaking her silence, finally, she began.

“My freshman year. The first weekend of spring break I stayed around school before coming home. There was this guy. I’d known him only a couple of weeks. He had these dimples on his chin, sandy blonde hair, a few freckles, really cute, you know, and he had transportation. His name was Dick. Can you believe it? Man, he definitely was one, but I hadn’t figured that out yet. You know, I was still a kid.”

Pop interrupted. “Josey, Charlie’s back there, you know. Maybe you could tell us another story.”

“Oh, Albert, Charlie’s been with me so much. You know, since the little squirt’s head popped out of his mom. There’s nothing he hasn’t heard. And he’s a mature young man.”

I beamed. And I was utterly in Josey’s thrall. She continued. “Anyway, we went to Battell Woods, near town, to find a hiking trail. I always loved to hike, you know, when I could. Took binoculars to maybe see some birds if we stayed ‘til morning. So, this guy, Dick,” she and I again stifling giggles, “he left his truck, a pickup, down at the trailhead. We went about a mile out a trail.”

“So, we thought we’d stay a few hours, and if we fell asleep just off the trail, no big deal. No camping there, officially, but we figured we wouldn’t get caught. Had sleeping bags, thermal long johns. If we didn’t sleep, we’d head back to campus after a while.” Josey paused.

“And?” Pop asked after the pause had lengthened.

“We’d hoped to find some weed, maybe a couple of joints, but we didn’t have any luck with that.”

I remember being confused by this, picturing Josey and this guy pulling weeds and him messing up a joint somewhere. We had studied the skeletal system at school and I knew about joints. His knee, maybe? I kept quiet.

“So we had beer, a lot of beer. Anyway, I had one can. Not a lot of body weight, you know, and no real food for a while, so I was a little tipsy, and just tasted a little of a second one. It was terrible, anyway, some cheap shit he’d gotten just outside town late the night before. So I stopped.”

“Glad to hear it, little sister,” Pop said.

“Anyway,” she resumed, “Dick . . .” and I started laughing again. Josey said, “Shut up back there, you little brat, so I can tell this.” I knew she didn’t mean it, the brat thing.

“Well, in the time it took me to drink one can plus a couple sips of that vile excrement, Dick chugged six.”

“What’s ex-cra, excra…what?” I interjected.

“Later, Charlie, I’ll tell you later. Let your aunt finish her story. Soon, I hope.” I saw Pop wink at Josey.

“Anyway, you little twerp…,” she said as I tried to look like Charlie Chaplin, the Little Tramp, from a movie I’d watched on TV with Josey.

Starting again, she implored, “Gentlemen, puu-lease. That’s when I knew for sure I had a real loser on my hands. He slurred his words, started acting stupid, and got feisty with me. You know, putting his hands all over me. I wasn’t ready for that, and besides, he was a lush.”

“Josey, Josey,” Pop said.

“No, it’ll be okay. Nothing happened. At least not that kind of thing. Anyway, I got really uncomfortable and shoved him away. He stumbled and fell on his ass—his butt, Charlie—then he starting cussing me. He was sitting on the ground, so I moved fast, shoved him on his back, and sat on him. Had a fist-sized piece of granite in my right hand above his head. He squirmed a lot. I asked if he’d prefer that his brains stay inside his skull, and he sort of froze.”

My eyes widened. “Did you hit him, Josey? I hope you hit him.”

“No, I wanted to, but I knew better than to kill the bastard.”

I knew Pop would later talk to me about words like bastard, about not using them myself. I’d gotten that lecture before, but I was old enough by then to not say things like that around the grandparents, the teachers, other grownups. Even Josey had given me the talk about that as she continued to enrich my vocabulary through the years. I knew they had to do that. I was already figuring out that adults had to be hypocritical with kids. It was their job.

My aunt continued. “I took the keys to the truck out of his pants pocket, grabbed my stuff and stuffed it in my backpack, and ran like hell for about ten minutes. It wasn’t all the way dark yet. Then I walked fast to where we’d parked. I jumped into his truck and took off back to Middlebury. He was too drunk to come after me.”

“Oh, god, Josey, you didn’t,” Pop said.

“I did, big brother. I’d figured out that Dick’s place in my life was like ear wax after not digging it out for a month. I was disappointed, you know. I had high hopes for the guy before that. But I left his truck, with the keys in it, where he usually parked at school. It wasn’t too far for him to walk back. Next morning, Monday, I caught a bus back to Hartford. Albert, you didn’t come back from California until later, in the summer, so I couldn’t call you for a ride.”

“I wish you’d hit him with the rock,” I piped up again. Pop sighed deeply. Josey giggled.

When they weren’t trading stories or jokes, their verbal fencing, one riposte after another, was better than baseball, and I wished we’d never make it to Middlebury. Then, more seriously, Pop brought up his having left college after two years to join the Marine Corps.

“Why’d you do that, anyway, Albert?” Josey interrupted. “Seemed kind of dumb to me.”

“You may remember, Josey, or you may not—that they did away with college deferments in sixty-eight, started a lottery. Damned if they didn’t draw number forty-three for my birthday. The local Selective Service boards in most places were drafting guys with numbers up to around 120, so I was a real gone goose.”

“But why the Marines, Albert?” Josey asked. I didn’t know anything about this, but was surprised that there was something Josey didn’t know.

After a prolonged silence, Pop said, “You know, after talking to some of the older guys I knew who had gone to ‘Nam and come back, and watching stuff over and over on the TV news, I was, well, I guess I was just desperate. I couldn’t stand to think about being a grunt going on patrols in the jungle where it just friggin’ rained all the time. Not just rain, but downpours that never seemed to stop. Feet, socks, boots, fatigues, wet for days at a time. Mildew on all the gear, the stench of rotting jungle. Feet covered with fungus. Crotch rot.”

“Then, the sun would come out and boil everything. Those guys, the ones I talked too, said they never knew when their unit would be machine-gunned in an ambush, never knew when one of them would lose a leg to a mine or some jury-rigged booby trap. Or when a guy’s spine would get sliced like a cucumber by a Viet Cong sniper.

“I figured I’d have a better chance of doing something else if I volunteered for another branch. And I wanted to fly something, planes, helicopters, something.”

“Why not the Air Force, Pop?” I wondered aloud.

“That’s a great question, Charlie. Would’ve made more sense, but I didn’t think of it. I was twenty. And I knew guys who’d been in the Marines, plus the former Army guys I knew. Didn’t know anybody in the Air Force. But I got to fly medevac helicopters, anyway, and I loved it. Took the college equivalency exam and they sent me to OCS. After I got a commission, they taught me to fly choppers.”

On that trip, I learned that there were two enlistments of three years each, three of those six years flying choppers. He completed the last two years of his second enlistment back in the states at the Marine’s 3rd Aircraft Wing Command in Miramar, California training pilots, returning home for good when he was twenty-six. He then worked for a couple of years before taking up his studies where he had left off, this time at the University of Hartford, which accepted all of his sixty semester hours credit from UConn. So, as we were carting Josey and her things back for her senior year at Middlebury, he was starting school again and was nervous about being a SOTA, a “student older than average,” as the university referred to those like Pop.

My mom, Jennifer, who stayed with me at the Wambaugh house while Pop was gone, left us both within a month after he returned. I asked Pop why she had gone.

“We got married way too young, Charlie. We were nineteen and we both changed so much during the next couple of years.” This puzzled me because nineteen seemed really old to me then, and besides, I thought Pop still looked the same as always.

When I was much older, probably about nineteen myself, Josey told me that Jennifer had starting seeing another guy after Albert had been in the service two years. Pop somehow got word of it just before his first three years were up, and both Josey and Grandma Charlene hinted strongly at this being the reason for the reenlistment that otherwise made no sense at all. During that second stint, a couple of different guys appeared on the front porch of my grandparents’ house, Grandma chasing them off with Granddad’s old pump-action twenty-gauge shotgun.  Then, Josey said, my mother started spending one or two nights a week elsewhere.

I guess I was well into my twenties when Pop told me to stop blaming my mom for her departure from our lives. “I was no angel, Charlie. You understand? When I was overseas. There were girls. You know, Charlie. I was lonely. That’s no excuse, I know. But there were girls. In Saigon, Manilla, on leave. I wasn’t a very good husband. She knew. I knew she knew. I’m sorry, Charlie. It’s sure as hell not easy to tell you this, but you have to stop putting all the blame on your mother.”

It took a while for me to process all of this, about both of my parents. I had to age more, see my own flaws more clearly, before I could fully accept both them and myself as we were. I couldn’t stay upset with Pop for very long, though—he was the one who was there for me at the critical times after he came back. Later on I reconnected with my mom, finding after a time that I really liked her, and we drew closer. Not like it might have been, but still better. Josey, of course, was always there, never too busy for me, if only on the phone.

Pop had calculated that he could handle private school costs even after quitting his full-time job doing electronics repairs for Radio Shack by living with my grandparents, using GI Bill money for tuition, and working part time in the cramped campus basement that housed the college’s gigantic, aging UNIVAC mainframe. My grandparents lived on the inadequate disability payments they got from Social Security and the trucking company where Granddad Paul had managed a dispatch center before his disease did its dirty work. Grandma took in sewing, laundry, and ironing, but things were always tight. Pop managed to help buy groceries and sometimes chip in on the electric and water bills, as did Josey on the uncommon occasions when she had any extra money.

***

On those journeys back and forth to Middlebury and later New Haven for the five years Josey worked on her PhD in history at Yale while supported by a graduate assistant’s position and some waitressing, the trailers became larger, Pop finding that the Mustang could indeed haul more weight. Then we switched to a rented truck, car in tow. Whatever we drove, I was enthralled by stories. Some were about Pop, especially his time in Vietnam, but my favorites were about Josey.

Although my aunt was usually good tempered and kind, I learned during one of these trips that she could occasionally reveal a “tiny little mean streak,” as Pop called it. That aspect of her personality seemed not to be vicious but had occasionally led her to spit out things such as “Damn that Carol Rosenblatt, the only reason she’s valedictorian is she’s so damned homely she’s never got anything to do but study.” But, Pop said, Josey got over being second in her high school graduating class and later recanted the comment about her then-eighteen-year-old academic rival, admitting that she just hated to lose and that Carol had “truly been more diligent about biology.”

Pop told me that, despite her normal industriousness, the fact of the matter was that she and biology just did not mix well. Josey then explained that she could not tolerate the dissection of worms, frogs, and grasshoppers, or the slow boiling of the same. She became ill and had to miss most of a class while on her knees, head over the toilet in the girl’s restroom when her biology teacher and several of the boys mounted the skeleton they had constructed after boiling and scraping off the carcass of the scraggly old yellow tom cat, Winston, that had patrolled the school grounds for years and finally succumbed beneath the right rear wheel of the biology teacher’s 1966 Studebaker where the ancient creature had been napping one afternoon. Mr. Werner, the teacher, was not one to let things go to waste. But seeing the glued-together skeleton being mounted like some sick version of a basketball trophy in the far corner of the lab amidst the lingering smell of boiled cat hair and entrails destroyed any motivation Josey might have had to do well in biology. She had so dreaded biology that, instead of taking it with her class as a freshman, she put it off until after chemistry and physics and it more than met her expectations of loathsomeness.

***

Not wanting to stray far from home, both Pop and Josey began careers in the Hartford area, she on the history faculty at Trinity College, he as a consultant after earning his computer science degree and then later as a web entrepreneur. After college and an MBA, my job as a financial analyst allowed me to work from my home just outside Hartford in Avon most of the time, except for long train commutes to Manhattan a couple of times each week. Pop, Josey, and I continued making time to see each other regularly in twos or threes.

Josey’s dramatic weaving of stories from twentieth-century European history for her students, along with many research papers and well-reviewed books, brought her a full professor’s position at Trinity by the time she was only in her mid-thirties. At one of our breakfasts at a place near campus, this one to celebrate a prestigious book award Josey received in her early forties, she told me, “Oh, Charlie, why did you and Albert have to be my relatives?” I kept this close to me, retrieving it for warmth when one of life’s internal cold spells struck.

Aunt Josey married twice, the first time not long after she began her teaching career, ejecting both men from her life in relatively short order. About the first one, an English professor at the university, she said, “Donald was just, you know, well, for an academic he was dumb as a bowl of chowder. I cannot fathom what I ever saw in that guy.” About the second, a stock broker named James, I learned from others that he had once hit her after they had been married a year. Josey sent him to the ER with blood flowing from his left ear after she defended herself with a twelve-hundred-page hardbound copy of London: A History. The police in the well-to-do suburb of West Hartford where Josey lived picked up James from the emergency room. After several days in jail and a fine, he left town. There had been other men, too, but none ever seemed to measure up. There had also been a couple of promising guys, Pop told me, who dropped out of contention after seeing that they played second-chair violin to Josey’s vast collections of chattels.

Like Josey, Pop and I seemed to be condemned to failed romantic relationships. I married once, to a good woman, but it didn’t stick. Pop, too, remarried but it didn’t last more than a couple of years. Later in his life, however, when he was in his mid-fifties, he fell for a smart, strong, interesting woman named Savannah and somehow managed to hang on to her. Savannah even gained Josey’s approval, which was in itself a remarkable achievement. Josey did wonder aloud, though, whether Savannah’s parents might have been geographically impaired, given that their daughter had been born and reared in Saginaw, Michigan. “But what the hell,” Josey said.

In addition to the single attempt at marriage, my other connections with women likewise lacked durability, mostly lasting no more than a year or two. Despite wondering whether there was something in the DNA of my grandparents’ descendants that mimicked the weak adhesive properties of Post-It Notes, I’ve felt good about remaining friends with all of my exes. A successful romantic denouement as Pop apparently has experienced would be nice, I think, but I no longer know whether I have it in me.

***

Well into middle age, Josey’s silhouette remained the same, she and I having spent countless hours together in the gym and on hiking trails. Small wrinkles at each eye served merely to enhance the delicate facial features and nearly translucent skin that at times seemed an optical illusion, with scant, nearly indiscernible gray filaments strewn through her lustrous auburn hair. Still stunning, she remained unchanged except to one who for most of his life had been privileged to see so deeply into her soul as to form one of the two strands in her DNA’s double helix. For her fiftieth birthday, Josey declined the offer Pop and I made to throw what we hoped would be a raucous party filled with friends and colleagues. Instead, she insisted on just dinner, an intimate gathering with new food and old stories.

That evening, what Josey had years before come to call the Daring Wambaugh Triplets sat in a corner booth in an excellent Cuban eatery. As our fried plantain chips arrived prior to the main course, I asked her how remodeling was going at the lovely old home she had bought in West Hartford fifteen years earlier, a few years after she began teaching. She was having it done one room at a time, paying a price in patience for staggered disruption rather than massive chaos.

“Oh, Charlie, some rooms, they just can’t do it  . . . ,” her voice trailing off before going silent, her eyes vacant as she went off to a place my dad and I did not know. Perhaps others would not have noticed, but in unison neither Pop nor I could exhale for two or three heartbeats as some foreign intruder occupied the small space around us. After a long minute or so, Josey came back, but her sentence remained unfinished. Josey pushed aside the appetizer and finished her margarita as she waved for the waiter to bring another. I had never seen her order more than a single drink, she often not finishing even the one.

“’Anything wrong, Josey?” Pop asked softly as he and I looked first at the other, then at Josey.

In a few moments, she said “What, Albert?” Then she returned to us as quickly as she had left. Our little party of three continued as planned, and we finished out an evening filled with warmth, pulled pork, and laughter. For a while after, I thought nothing more about Josey’s blank spell or two extra margaritas.

A few weeks later I visited her at the university. Although I had been there to see her many times before, on this occasion several months had passed since I had last stopped by. I always checked with her in advance to learn when she would be free, and I had been welcomed every time with a long hug and a cup of fresh coffee, followed by an hour or so of conversation that was, more often than not, about work—hers and mine. But this time was different. After knocking, I had to wait several minutes before she met me at her office door. Furtively, she opened it no more than was necessary for her to quickly slide out and close it behind her. I managed a curious glance inside as she emerged, seeing nothing but newsprint stacked from floor to ceiling, her lovely old oaken desk no longer visible. When I started to speak as she led me to the faculty lounge with its burnished wood and frayed faux Victorian chairs, she interrupted with “Research, Charlie. It’s research.”

Even I knew that historians did not use loose newspapers as sources. Everything old enough to matter was either digitized or on microfiche. I said nothing of it, but in the mostly pleasant two hours that followed, I mused over this Josey. While she fed my kindred but amateur fascination with history, her eyes occasionally darted about as would those of a wild thing in the forest upon hearing dry leaves beneath unknown feet. This continued, irregularly, even as she kept me on the edge of my unofficial pupil’s seat, often laughing, while she gave a blow-by-blow account of French leader Charles De Gaulle’s manipulation of President Truman in 1945 and beyond that helped lead America disastrously into southeast Asia.

After this, I did not see her again for nearly two months. I see now that she had already developed a shell of some kind, and my gut twists from doubt about whether I tried hard enough to break through. For more than twenty years, most of my visits with Josey, at least weekly and with or without Pop, had been at little haunts with coffee and eggs, or cheese and amber ale. But every month to six weeks I would call at her home, always giving the advance notice she required—nobody just dropped in on Josey if they wanted the knock answered. Whether at her place or elsewhere, I was without fail greeted with unvarnished, even gleeful affection. Nothing in my life had ever been better than seeing Josey. I tell myself now that the change, whether at a Cuban diner or at her office that last time, was subtle, and that only I, or maybe Pop, would have noticed anything at all. Still, I did not see what I should have seen.

Listless eyes greeted me at her front door as Josey, voice bereft of its former effulgence, said “Hi, uh, Charlie? Please, uh, sure? Come . . . in?” She brewed coffee by rote and we sat down.

“What is it, Josey? Have you caught a bug of some kind?” Once, when with anyone, Josey’s eyes had made the other believe he was the only person who existed. Now, her eyes were strangely unsettled, those of prey in peril or of a hummingbird unable to find nectar among honeysuckle blooms. Instead of answering, she spoke of two students in a course she taught on Europe between the world wars, how talented they were. Our conversation was that of the once keen edge of a butcher’s blade now blunted from countless bone strikes. Then there was quiet. After several minutes that seemed infinitely longer, I left, nonplussed, having no idea what to do.

Pop and I continued to phone her regularly over the following months, neither of us able to gain her consent to meet. He and I both fretted, from concern but also from missing Josey. Rapping at her door brought no response, and when I could not find her at the college, I called Dr. Chastain, Josey’s dean, from whom I learned that Josey had been asked to resign to avoid a tenure-termination proceeding. She had not met her classes the previous semester or the first few weeks of the current one, a dereliction intolerable even for one of such distinction in her field. I decided to call her one last time before summoning the police, delighted to hear that she would see me again for coffee at a hole-in-the-wall spot not far from her home.

There, it was Josey, but it was not Josey. Her hair was oily, unkempt, not cut for much too long a time, eyes even more lifeless than the last time. The voice lacked all animation and her skin’s former luminescence had drained away as though a gaping hole had opened in her spirit. I drank and ate, but she touched nothing, my questions drawing single words and vacant stares. At the end, I insisted on seeing her at her home. Over her scowl, I demanded, “I’ll be there Monday at eleven, Josey.”

The following Monday I knocked, waited, knocked again, waited some more. I rang the doorbell that she hated. When no response came, I used the key I had gotten several months before by telling her that a Trinity College faculty senate resolution required her to give me one. Josey was sitting on her parlor floor, immobilized in the only spot not piled high with the possessions that now fully possessed her. Several minutes passed before I was able to coax her up and lead her to a chair I had cleared off.

***

I bought a larger townhouse so that Josey would have two rooms, one with a nice view of parkland. She comes out occasionally just to look around, but takes most meals on a plastic tray in the sunnier of her two spaces. After I moved her in, Josey was disturbed by her surroundings until the obvious came to me. She is now mostly surrounded by stacks of old books and magazines, and even a few boxes of knick-knacks, but I gently declined to bring in the dolls.

A dear woman named Alberta with red hair, big hips, and a bigger smile comes to stay on those days when work takes me away. Josey did not like her at first, but in time Alberta won her over. Josey is calm now, maybe even happy, particularly on those irregular occasions in the evening when she launches into long, detailed discourses for a rapt audience of one on how it was utter folly for America to enter the First World War or how it waited too long to join the Second and take on Adolph Hitler.

My days are tinged with melancholy, although keeping busy helps. I am grateful that a bit of Josey remains. Not much, you see, but a little of Aunt Josey is better than all of anyone else.

 

——————–

John Allison is a long-time faculty member in the McCombs School of Business at the University of Texas at Austin. He has published widely in intellectual property law, especially empirical studies of the patent system, and argues assiduously that he is not as boring as that sounds. This is his third published short story, the previous two having appeared in Mount Hope in 2016 and The Wagon.in 2017.

Three Methods to Save Your Life, Chapter 1

By Stacia Levy

ey, Sharona.” Kevin Wasserman from hardware sales poured a cup of coffee. “Looks like another shoplifter out in jewelry.”

“Yeah?” I was standing next to him in the break room by the coffee maker, drinking my first cup of the day, which I really needed to finish before heading back to the floor. Shoplifters in this half-assed retail store in south Sacramento were pretty much an everyday event, as regular as break time—when they usually happened.

So far a predictable day. A day when I’d woken up late with some guy from my apartment building who, even then, I’d almost forgotten after drinking too much the night before. Wondering what I was going to do with the rest of my crappy life, which had already begun to spiral down into no apparent future. And I was thirty-three, a time you should be firmly on track to somewhere or other. No idea this was the day that would change that trajectory, setting me on the path to somewhere.

“Security’s not worth their bad uniforms.” Jake Anderson, from insurance sales, joined us at the coffee maker. He and Kevin were both tall, looked somewhat alike in terms of their slim body build and lean facial features, but there the resemblance ended. Jake was black and Kevin white, but more noticeably, Jake tried so hard to be the company man, in his suit and tie, that it was pathetic. Kevin didn’t even bother—in jeans, shirttail hanging out.

We stood meditating in silent agreement about worthless security. “So have they actually caught the guy—or girl—yet?” Kevin asked. Not that it mattered much. Security didn’t have the authority to do anything—except call the police, who’d just administer a strongly worded scolding.

“Yeah.” Jake shrugged. “And it’s ‘them.’ Four guys, gangbanger type. Security was talking to them in jewelry when I passed.”

I took another drink of coffee, which the guys did too. We didn’t have much else to talk about. Basically three strangers who only saw each other in the break room a couple of times a week.

Not wanting, necessarily, to go out there, back to clothing, while the thing with the shoplifters was going down, I said, “So, Kevin. Why are you here?”

“What?” He glanced at me. “Taking my break. Okay with you?”

“No, I mean working here. Not doing some real job. You know.”

“Well, don’t know if you heard, but there’s a recession going on.”

We were all thirty-something then, in 2009, the beginning of the long “economic downturn” we thought would last only a year at the most. Then we’d get on with our lives.

“How about you, Jake?”

I remember he’d opened his mouth to answer. But he never got a chance because it was then the first gunshot sounded.

We stood frozen.

I don’t know about the guys, but it was the first time I’d heard a live gunshot. It was followed by four more.

“Jesus Christ.” Kevin came to life first, grabbing my arm, pulling Jake along, to the emergency exit across the room.

Jake pushed the door. And pushed.

“What’s the matter with you?” I’d never heard Kevin, who always seemed too detached to get excited about much, raise his voice. “Open the goddamned door.” He kicked at it. It didn’t move.

“Oh, shit.” He stood still.

“What?” I was shaking. I think I’d dropped my cup. Coffee was spreading across the floor anyway.

“It’s blocked. What do you think?”

“Why’s it blocked?” Jake was still pushing at it. “A fucking emergency exit?” Never heard him swear like that before, but then you don’t talk that way when you’re around customers most of the day. On a reasonable day.

Kevin gave a brief laugh. “By some boxes, delivery of something. I remember noticing them this morning when I drove up and thinking, ‘Shit, that’s not to code.’”

We just stood there. There was noise out on the floor. A couple of screams. Running footsteps. Crying. More gunshots. They sounded closer now.

“We still need to get out.” My voice was distant in my own ears, as if I’d left my body.

The guys nodded. We’d all calmed down a little, maybe the adrenaline rush slowing, as if our bodies realized we needed to concentrate if we were going to survive. The men were probably thinking the same thing I was: the only other door to the break room was out to the hall with the restrooms one way, directly out to the floor the other. And it was probably only minutes before the gunmen made it over to the break room, the first door off the hall, and that door didn’t lock.

“Come on,” Kevin said. “We need to take our chances. Find somewhere else to hide.”

“Where the hell is that?” Jake’s voice came out higher than usual.

“The conference room.” It hit me that it was at the end of the hall and could buy us some time. There were no windows and the only door to the hall locked. As if what went on in there was national security instead of three asshole managers monkeying with the mission statement. Or playing with themselves, for all you knew. Letting the place go to hell so much that a few post-pubescent punks could take it over in three minutes.

Jake opened the door and looked out. “No one’s here. Let’s go.”

We darted into the hall.

Dylan Alvarez from sporting goods was ambling down the hall toward us from the men’s room, eyes closed in concentration, in the groove with whatever was coming from his earbuds.

“Come on, asshole.” Kevin almost ran over him, yanking him along.

“Hey.” Dylan yanked out the buds. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Trying to save your pathetic life.”

The commotion out on the floor was closer now, and individual voices stood out: the adolescent whine of one of the gunmen, another already dipping down into manhood.

“We’ve got to move.” Jake put his hand at the small of my back as we ran down the hall.

Kev got out his plastic key and hovered it over the plate next to the door. The light stayed red. No beep.

“Flip it over, man,” Jake said.

Kevin complied, trying again. No change.

I could hear my own breath catching.

“Maybe our keys don’t work on the conference room,” Dylan said. “Typical.”

“Let me try.” Jake reached for the key, but Kevin jerked his hand once more across the pad.

This time the buzz sounded, the light turned green, and Jake and Kevin yanked the door open.

The voices of the gunmen faded as they stampeded past the hall.

And then we were in the conference room. The door slammed behind us. It locked automatically, one of those safety doors that opened without a key only from the inside, when you pushed on the bar—like the exit out of the break room was supposed to.

We all let our breath out; Kevin and I sagged against the conference table.

“Anyone got a phone?” Kevin said.

“Someone must have called it in already,” I said.

“Doesn’t sound like it,” Jake said. “I didn’t hear sirens.”

“That’s because you can’t hear anything in here,” Kevin snapped. “It’s a freaking bunker. The walls are soundproof.”

Dylan had gotten out his phone and was tapping away.

“There’s a newsfeed on this,” he said. “Police are outside.”

“Well, why the hell aren’t they doing anything?”

“Because it’s a hostage situation. They’re holding about thirty people out on the floor.”

“Let’s barricade the door,” I said. “Shove the table up against it. Everyone grab an end.”

We tugged and pushed at the table and banged it against the door.

“That secures it pretty well,” Jake said. “Still…” He left the thought unfinished.

I was thinking, probably along with the guys, that the table and door weren’t much of a barrier against bullets blasting through.

There were boxes of files lining the room. “The boxes,” I said. They could be an additional wall between us and the gunmen.

“Always knew that paperwork must be good for something,” Kevin said.

“Let’s all take a section,” Jake said. “Pile them up on the table and against the door. Sharona, think you can do this?”

“And why the hell couldn’t I?” I worked out four times a week and took karate twice. Had nothing better to do with my time.

“No time to worry about gender stereotypes,” Kevin said. “Sharona, if you can, you can. Let’s do it.”

Damned right I could do it. I climbed up on the table. “Form an assembly line,” I said. “The three of you line up, grab the boxes, and pass them up to me. Let’s do it.”

The boxes felt like loads of bricks. Jake was stoically silent during the process, but Dylan swore in Spanish a couple of times, Kevin in what I thought was Yiddish. It would have been funny under other circumstances, if I wasn’t trying to control my shaking.

After five minutes I stopped and looked at the wall we had put up. I swiped the sweat mixed with tears on my face—I hadn’t realized I’d been crying.

“Goddammit, Sharona,” Kevin said. He was at the end of the line, closest to the table. “Take this box already.”

I grabbed it, still looking at the wall of boxes. “This is wrong.”

“What do you mean, wrong?” Dylan asked.

“The direction, the angle,” I said. “We need to turn them around, see—so they’re lengthwise. So a bullet will take longer to pass through.”

Kevin let his breath out in a snort. “Okay, let me get up there and I’ll do it.”

“I got it.” I yanked one around. “Just keep passing them up, okay, and I’ll catch up in a minute.”

In ten minutes we had that barrier up, about thirty boxes lined across and up the door.

I swiped at the sweat dripping down my neck and was hit by the rank, musky odor rising from my shirt, and didn’t care.

Dylan had gotten out his phone again.

“What’s going on?” Jake asked. “Have they killed anyone?”

“Yes. One.” Dylan scrolled down, reading the report. “And two shot.”

“What the hell do they want?” Kevin asked.

“It doesn’t—oh, wait.” Dylan squinted at the screen. “It looks like they’re demanding three million dollars and a plane to Argentina.”

We all fell silent.

“Does anyone want to call someone?” Dylan spoke. “You can use my phone.”

“No,” Jake said. “Just my ex-wife, who probably wouldn’t want to hear it.”

Kevin shook his head, leaning against the wall, arms folded.

“Sharona?”

“No, no one.” Who would I call? “Don’t you want to call your parents or something, Dylan?”

“They’ve kind of made it clear they don’t want to hear from me. Well, it looks like we got each other at least.” He laughed. “Isn’t that great? Not the way I’d ever imagined going.”

Oh, this was totally stupid. “Call 9-1-1,” I said. “Let them know we’re in here.”

“Why?” Dylan shot back. “So they can, what, notify the police, the same ones who just let a couple of people get shot? Uh, no, sorry. I think I’ll just chill right here for a while.”

After that we were all quiet.

 

Read chapter 2

Three Methods to Save Your Life, Chapter 2

By Stacia Levy

eing held hostage is, besides terrifying, mostly boring. We sat around a laptop table across the room from the door and looked at each other. I plowed through the paper that was spread across a chair and then passed it on. I stared at the clock. I looked at the guys again, then looked away. I stared at the clock some more and counted off the minutes. I held conversations with my ex and dead parents in my head. A couple of hours went by.

Dylan was up and prowling the room like a panther, mumbling to himself. Jake was monitoring the situation outside on the phone.

“Ever notice—” he began.

“Please.” Dylan slammed his fist against the wall. “Shut up.”

Jake continued as if he hadn’t been interrupted. “—how people are always telling you to ‘be aware’?”

“What?”

“Well, with gunmen, for example. Mass shootings. A reporter just said we should always be aware of our surroundings. Remember after 9/11, everyone was telling us to be aware? Do you think that was the problem? If we’d been paying more attention—?”

“Why?” Dylan asked. “So that we’re fully cognizant when they blow us away?”

This drew bitter laughter. We had all migrated to the floor at this point because the chairs were uncomfortable, our legs drawn up to our chins, in symbiotic communion.

I couldn’t stand it anymore and started talking. “You know what I’m going to do if we get out of this mess?”

“No, Sharona,” Jake said. “I don’t. What are you going to do?”

I didn’t know either—I wasn’t a particularly future-directed person—but I said, “I’m going to get a better a job. Maybe buy a house, find a boyfriend.”

“If you could do all of that,” Dylan asked, “why haven’t you already?”

“A legitimate question,” I said. “I’m kind of a screw-up.” I hated to admit it, but it was hard not to, given the current situation, and what the hell did I have to hide at this point? “I’ve messed up just about every relationship and job I’ve ever been in. But maybe things will change after this, you know?” Maybe, if I survived it. Crisis and opportunity, they say.

“What kind of job do you want?” Jake asked.

I had no idea but I said, off the top of my head, “Maybe as a paralegal. Work in a law office.”

“Sounds good,” Jake said. “Why not? I’m thinking of sending my resume out again too. How about you, Kevin?”

“Please,” he responded, not looking up. “I’m just trying to focus on surviving this.”

“And you, Dylan?” I asked. “If we get out of this, what are you going to do? Don’t you go to college or something? Maybe finish your degree, try to make up with your parents, or whatever?”

An ironic smile played around his lips. “I wish.”

“Well, why just a wish? What are you going to do?”

“Probably seek treatment.” He spoke after a minute.

“Yeah? For what? Alcohol, drugs?”

“If you really want to know, bipolar disorder. I’m not a college student, and I work here because my parents kicked me out after I busted the big-screen TV when Scott Pelley was pissing me off. Okay?”

“Wow.” That was impressive—I couldn’t top it, even with my record of drinking and promiscuity and patchy job history, all due to poor impulse control. “Guess you were off your meds?”

“Sharona, that is enough.” Kevin spoke up. “Leave him alone.”

“Well, aren’t you freaked out?” Dylan raised his head to stare at us.

Kevin gave a brief laugh and lit a cigarette. His hands were shaking so badly I was afraid he’d burn himself. “I think we’re beyond being freaked out by each other. I swear at this point you could tell me you’re Hannibal Lecter, and if we get out of this together, I’ve got your back for the rest of your life.”

“Yeah,” Jake said. “And if we don’t get out, we’ll all go down together.”

We all murmured agreement.

“Well.” I tried to make a joke. “Shall we all join hands? Sing? Say a prayer?”

“Shut up, Sharona,” Jake and Dylan said, more or less together.

After that we were silent again. Kevin, sitting next to me, seemed to be taking this harder, cracking under the stress more, than the rest of us—shaking, eyes clinched shut, pale.

“You okay?” I asked.

“Oh, I’m great.” He gave a brief laugh but didn’t open his eyes. So I shut up for a while, but then, because in general I can’t stop talking, I spoke up.

“Kevin, are you observant?”

“Observant of what?” He didn’t look up.

“Of Judaism, what do you think—an observant Jew?”

“Do I look like an observant Jew?”

“But you are Jewish, right? I’m more of a cultural Jew too.”

“Meaning what? You eat Chinese takeout, go to bar mitzvahs, avoid extreme sports?”

“All of the above. I haven’t been to services in years, though.”

“Yeah? Well, maybe this is as good a time as any to reconnect with our faith. How about you guys—Jake, Dylan? You religious?”

“Just enough to wonder which god I pissed off in that past life,” Dylan said. “How about you, Jake? What’s your Higher Power, if any? You seem an upstanding, church-going man, if you don’t mind my saying.”

“I’m not so upstanding.”

“Yeah?” Kevin snorted. “What’d you do—take someone’s pen? Stiff some rude waiter of his twenty percent?”

“No. I’ve been stealing from the company for over three years. About five thousand total.”

“That really pisses me off,” Kevin said.

“Well, you asked.”

“I mean, in three years? You couldn’t have taken more? Or lifted some of the merchandise at least?”

“What’s the situation outside?” Jake asked Dylan.

He glanced at the phone. “No change. The police have gotten a phone in there and have the bit going with the hostage negotiator, but looks like it’s pretty stalled.”

We groaned. I got up and walked around, stimulating the circulation in my lower body. No use coming out of this a double amputee from cutting off circulation.

Another hour ticked by.

I was sitting next to Kevin at this point, back at the laptop table. He’d picked up a knife from some silverware piled at the end and was taking stabs at the table with it in circles around his hand and between his splayed fingers.

“Please.” I couldn’t take it anymore and covered his hand with mine. “Stop. What are you doing—playing Russian roulette with your fingers? Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah, fine.” He put the knife down. “I told you already.”

“What’s this?” My hand was still over his, and I noticed, for the first time, the thin, silver chain on his wrist. I picked it up. He didn’t seem the kind of guy who’d be into jewelry.

“Med Alert bracelet.”

“Med Alert?” I only vaguely knew what that even was, thought it was something old people with Alzheimer’s wore. “For what?”

“Diabetes.” He spoke after a minute.

“Diabetes?” This was like the worst possible news—aside from the hostage thing, of course. Really didn’t want to hear it—it was so unfamiliar, thinking about someone else’s needs. “So the bracelet’s so medics will know what to do if you go into a coma? And you were going to tell us when?”

“When you noticed the bracelet.”

“I’m sorry. We’ve been a little distracted here—”

“Are you insulin dependent?” Jake asked. Kevin nodded. “Well, do you have it with you?”

“No. I didn’t think I’d need to carry all of it with me—”

“—to the break room.” The rest of the sentence, in basically the same form, came from all of us.

“It’s not the insulin that’s the problem now, anyway,” Kevin said. “It’s the missed food. Insulin drops your blood sugar, and then you have to balance it with food.”

“Did you just take your insulin before this whole thing went down?” Dylan asked.

“Yeah, yeah. Forget it, okay?”

Forget it? Don’t you need to eat something?”

“Why the hell do you think I was in the break room? But what’s it matter now if there’s just no food?”

“You really should have told us before,” Jake said.

“Look, I appreciate your concern—”

“I’m not all that concerned,” Dylan said. “I just don’t want your defective blood on my hands. And I was really honest with you, wasn’t I?”

“So? I told you to come out? I didn’t want to hear it.”

“There’s got to be food someplace,” I said. “I don’t think a bunch of fat managers are going to sit in here for hours without food.”

“Well, it looks like they did, didn’t they?” Dylan was pacing around again, lifting papers off the table and chairs and looking under them.

“You’re not going to find a doughnut stashed underneath yesterday’s paper,” Kevin said. “So just stop, okay?”

“It’s not just about you,” Dylan said. “Not everything is, believe it or not. I tend to get hypoglycemic myself when I don’t eat. And I get really irritable, I can tell you, when I’m hypoglycemic. And I’ve already told you the kind of things I’m capable of when I get irritated. So we’re looking for food, okay?”

“The silverware,” I said. How could we be so stupid? “If there’s silverware, it means they did eat in here, and there almost has to be food somewhere.”

“We could probably sniff it out,” Kevin said. “Like police dogs.”

“The boxes.” I suddenly knew it. “There almost has to be food, nonperishable stuff, in the boxes.”

“Okay.” Jake seemed to brace himself. “So we need to go through the boxes.”

“How are we going to do that,” Dylan said, “and keep the barricade up?”

“We’ll just have to take them down individually, go through them one by one, and then put them back up right away,” I said.

“Right.” Jake rose. “Let’s do it. Let’s each take a row.”

So we went through each box, putting it back after. We repeated this process for what seemed an hour—muscles in my back and arms screaming, sweat dripping down my neck.

At the bottom of the next-to-last box in my row, under a ream of printer paper I almost didn’t bother to lift out, I hit pay dirt. A box of granola bars. And a six-pack of plastic water bottles.

“I knew it.” Joy, redemption, swept over me. Praise God, Allah, Jesus, whoever else was up there.

“What’d you find, Sharona?” Dylan pulled himself off the floor, where he’d been sifting through a box.

“Water and breakfast bars.” I never thought I’d be so happy to see those gooey, dried-out things, cloying sweet from raspberry and other crappy filling.

“Thank God.” Jake’s thought patterns clearly had mimicked my own. He took the box from me, then started to pass it to Kevin. He then paused. “What about the expiration date?” He looked at the side of the box. A groan rose from both Dylan and me. Dylan grabbed the box from him.

“Jesus, these things could probably outlast all of us if we were stuck down here during a nuclear holocaust.” He passed the box to Kevin. “Here.”

“Thanks.” Kevin took two. “You guys take some.”

We all ate.

“I don’t know about anyone else,” Dylan broke the silence. “But I’ve got to take a piss sometime very soon.”

“Yeah, same here,” Kevin said.

“We’ll just have to go in a corner in the wastepaper basket or something,” Jake said. “Sharona, I’m sorry, you’ll excuse us.”

“It’s not like I don’t have the same problem, more or less.” What did he think? “Oh, by the way, you’ll all be careful to splash the shiny clean walls a little, won’t you?”

After we took care of our bathroom needs, we migrated back to the table.

Kev lit another cigarette.

“I get your addiction, man,” Dylan said, “but should you be doing that, with your health concerns?”

That was more than I could take. “Obviously anyone who smokes is doing it against medical advice,” I said. “Leave him alone, okay?” Like we needed to heighten the tension by picking at each other.

“We’re probably not going to live long enough to worry about secondhand smoke and lung cancer anyway,” Jake said.

“It’s not him I’m so worried about,” Dylan said. “Why does everyone think that? I just don’t want my last breaths in here filled up with smoke.”

“Happy?” Kev stubbed out the cigarette on a plastic plate. “What’s going on outside?”

Dylan looked at his phone. “Oh, shit.”

“What?”

“They’ve released a couple of the hostages.”

“What in hell’s wrong with that?” Jake said. “That’s progress.”

“Problem is—” Dylan paused and I could visualize his mental cogs turning, “—they’ve done a body count.”

“Body count?” I shivered. “How many dead now?”

“Sorry, bad choice of words. I mean a roll call, of those who made it out plus those still stuck inside.”

We all sat and let this news sink in.

“They didn’t—” I began. Oh, no, they couldn’t be that stupid.

“I’ll put it on speaker.” Dylan set the device on the table and hit the settings.

“—four of the store employees—” a reporter was saying; I recognized her voice, Katie something-or-other, they were all Katie something, “—in one of the most worrisome of developments. Dylan Alvarez, Sharona Feinstein, Jakob Anderson, and Kevin Wasserman remain unaccounted for and are assumed—”

“Assholes.” The same word burst from all of us at the same time.

So it was only a matter of time now before the hostage-takers figured out we must still be in the store somewhere and found their way over here. Which meant, optimistically speaking, we’d also get released soon. More pessimistically—or, as we pessimists prefer to say, realistically—the hostage-takers could come blasting through our jury-rigged barrier anytime.

 

Read chapter 3

Three Methods to Save Your Life, Chapter 3

By Stacia Levy

nd blast through they did.

After that whole thing of releasing our names, it wasn’t like I wasn’t totally expecting it, the conference room invasion. But captivity does something to your brain. You lose all track of time and then, with it, almost all ability to think and act rationally. I had no idea at this point how long we’d been in that room. The clock read 6:20, I remember, when I glanced at it at one point, but I had no idea if that was a.m. or p.m. or if the clock was even working. And I wasn’t motivated enough to look at Dylan’s phone to find out.

I remember later, after looking at the clock, I was standing in the middle of the room with Jake, where he was showing me pictures of his ex and babbling on about how he’d like to get back together when we got out.

I had just opened my mouth to advise him about maybe not getting his hopes up too high.

That was when the boxes against the door blew apart, papers and bits of cardboard erupting.

I just stood there—I remember thinking what a mess it was going to be to clean up.

“Get down.” Something slammed against my back.

I hit the floor. My hands and forearms came up, abdomen muscles tightening in what was now a reflexive move learned in karate, but still the wind was knocked out of me. Something warm trickled down my cheek.

And I must have passed out for a while.

Later I became aware of Jake, on top of me, moaning.

“Jake, Sharona, you guys all right?” Kev’s voice.

“Think I’ve been shot in the head.” My voice came out in a gasp. Jake was crushing me. I tried to push him off, but it was like a tree had fallen over on me—he was about as inert.

“Let’s move him off her. Dylan, let’s go.” Kev yanked at Dylan’s arm, and they crawled out from beneath the table where they’d both taken cover.

“Hey, man.” Kev knelt next to us. “Think you can roll off her?”

“I’ve been shot,” Jake said, voice twisted with pain. “In the shoulder, I think. I can’t.”

“Sharona?” Dylan dropped next to me. “You still conscious? You were shot too?”

“Maybe it’s Jake’s blood.” I touched the side of my head; my hand came away slick and red. No real pain, except my ear stinging, a loud ringing encompassing my head. “I think they maybe just shot off part of my earlobe.” Bad, but not as bad as in the head. It was going to take plastic surgery that my insurance probably would try to weasel out of paying for, the bad news for me, but Jake had taken most of the bullet for us, even worse news for him.

“You’re bleeding an awful lot, girl,” Dylan said.

“Ears bleed a lot.” A vivid memory rose of a covert and botched attempt on the part of my best friend to pierce my ears when I was twelve because my mother wouldn’t allow it, as it’s against Jewish law. It ended in a trip to the ER. “I’ll be all right.”

“Dylan, we need to get him off her.” Kev rose and moved to my and Jake’s heads. He seemed in a take-charge mood, like he knew just what to do—maybe he’d dealt with shootings before, who knew. “Jake, we’re going to try to keep you as still as possible. Grab his feet, Dylan. I’ve got him under the arms.”

They lifted and laid him out on the floor next to me. I sat up, feeling for cracked ribs.

“You still bleeding, man?” Kev knelt next to him. “We’ve got to get that stopped.”

“Here.” I pulled off my sweater. Damn, one of my favorites. “Let’s tear it in strips for bandages.” I’d save what was left to stop the blood still dripping from my ear.

It was only after we had tied the makeshift bandages on and slowed the bleeding that I thought about it.

“They stopped shooting,” I said. “Why’d they stop shooting?”

“Because they don’t really want to kill us,” Dylan said. He’d picked up his phone from the table. “Not just yet, anyway. They found us just as negotiations with the police really started to break down.”

“‘Break down’?” Jake asked. “What does that mean? Didn’t they release the others?”

“We’re their last leverage. Two of them shot through the doors, and their leader told them to stop. Why kill or release us when they can tell the police they’ve got us at gunpoint?”

“Is that what they’re saying?” Kev said. “Assholes.”

“Yeah.” I laughed. “How dare they lie on top of everything else?”

“The only good news,” Dylan said, “is they know we’re their last bargaining chip. Basically they don’t want to kill us right now.”

“Well, I don’t want to get too discouraging,” Kev said, “but we all know what they did with a couple of the first bargaining chips. And with us they may be more effective.”

None of us responded until Dylan spoke. “I just ask that they shoot me first.”

“Listen.” Jake got up, staggering a little bit, hand at his bad shoulder, but he was on his feet. He seemed energized, like he’d gotten some adrenaline rush from the whole thing. “We can’t have that attitude.”

“Oh, it’s my attitude that’s the problem?” Dylan laughed. “Oh, okay, just like not being aware enough? Well, thank God, because that’s easily fixed.”

“What I’m talking about,” Jake spoke over him, “is if we’re going to survive this, we can’t get defeatist. We have to think we can survive, be really motivated, if we’re going to push through and live. Well, what is it? Do you guys want this bad enough to do the work?”

Usually motivational speeches broke me out in hives. But this time I got his point.

“I’m in,” I said.

“Me too,” Kev said after a moment. “Dylan?”

“Oh, all right,” he said.

“Good.” Jake started to collapse in his chair again but then just leaned on the table. “So now it’s time to talk strategy. The first thing we need to decide is if we try calling 9-1-1 after all, tell them exactly where we are, and let the police save us.”

We all looked at each other.

“Practically, how are they going to do that?” I asked. “Wouldn’t they have to come blasting through the store, kill all the gunmen, before they get over here? And if they could do that, why haven’t they already? They’ll probably get killed themselves in the process.”

“We could walk out on the floor and meet them,” Jake said.

“What, are you crazy?” Kev said as howls of protest came from both Dylan and me.

“Just throwing that out,” Jake said. “Okay, we have consensus there, then. That is not an option.”

“Yeah, suicide’s out, for now, anyway,” I said. “If they aren’t talking to the police, shouldn’t we wait until they begin negotiations again? We’re okay for now. Like you said, we’re their last bargaining chip.”

“We can’t wait,” Jake said. “We are not okay. It’s a really volatile situation that could blow up at any time. And we need to get more food and water soon. Kevin and Dylan, don’t you guys need to get to your meds soon?”

“I’m good for a while,” Dylan said. “Before I start frothing at the mouth. Kevin?”

“Oh, I’m spiking sugar,” he said. “Or they could decide to start blasting through that wall again, and then it won’t matter, will it?”

“Does your phone battery still have some juice?” I asked Dylan. I was getting resigned here. The time for toughing it out was drawing to an end. “We have to consider calling 9-1-1.”

Dylan looked at it. “It’s at seventy percent. No problem making the call.” He looked at us. “Well, what is it? Do we trust the police to get over here and bail us out?”

The two other men nodded. There seemed little other option. A bad one, but maybe the only feasible one.

Dylan shrugged and put his hand to the dial screen.

Then I heard my voice, as if it was coming from outside of my body, “Wait just a second.”

He stopped and looked at me. “What?”

“Call this number.” I rattled it off.

Dylan put his hand to the keypad, as if automatically, then paused. “What’s that?”

“It’s the clothing register’s extension.”

“What the hell—” Kev said. And then, “Oh, no, Sharona. No way.”

“Well, why not?” Dylan said. “It’s an option. Then, if it fails, we call 9-1-1.”

“Dylan, Sharona is not going to negotiate with a bunch of killers,” Kev said.

“Jesus, you didn’t think I was serious, did you?”

“Yes,” Jake and Kev said together.

“Well, why couldn’t you have been serious?” I said. “Why can’t I negotiate with them?”

“Sharona, you’re just not,” Kev said. “And that’s final.”

“What are you, my big brother? What gives you the right—”

“If anyone does it—and I’m not saying at all that’s going to happen—it will be one of us.”

“‘Us’? Who’s ‘us’?”

“Dylan, Jake, or me.”

“I see. So I’m not part of ‘us.’ And just why is that, Kev?”

“Because you’re a girl, okay?” Dylan said.

“Oh, I’m a girl, am I?” That was almost funny, the visual of me as a “girl” rising—maybe stretched across my bed, talking to my boyfriend into a pink phone with one hand, twirling a piece of my hair with the other. Shit, I was never a girl. I hadn’t been serious about the whole thing before, just basically trying to get a rise out of Kev, in particular, for some reason, but now it wasn’t a joke anymore.

“I’ll tell you what,” I said. “Let’s play ‘paper, scissors, rock.’ Best of five; winner negotiates.”

“What in hell’s ‘paper, scissors, rock’?” Dylan asked.

“Come on, Dylan, really? What, did you spend your childhood under a piece of paper or rock or something? It’s that game where everyone sticks their hands in the middle of the group in the shape of a rock, paper, or scissors. Scissors cuts paper, paper covers rock, and all that?”

“Oh, yeah, that.” Dylan looked at me. “Are you serious?”

“Dead serious.” I added, “Pardon the pun.”

I could basically beat the pants off anyone at this because, for some reason, I was usually the only one in any group who realizes the likelihood of winning if you knew that players tended to rotate the three choices of paper, scissors, and rock, and then you could anticipate their moves. Maybe because the people who played “paper, scissors, rock” weren’t too bright in the first place.

Kev was the wild card in this one. Dylan didn’t know the game, and I had to think that Jake was exaggerating or lying outright about stealing from the company, swaggering for Dylan and Kev’s benefit, maybe. He just wasn’t as twisted as the rest of us. He didn’t know how to cheat.

After some more hesitation and bickering, we ended up gathering in a circle and sticking our hands in the middle, Dylan placing the coveted phone on the table.

“On the count of three,” I said.

“Wait,” Kev said. “Why are you calling it?”

“Do you want to call it?” I really didn’t want to give him this because it gave him control, but I wasn’t going to show that.

“No,” he said, as I had anticipated. “You call it.”

“Once again,” I said, with exaggerated patience. “On the count of one, two—three.”

As I knew they would, they all threw their hands out, anticipating “three” before I actually said it while I deliberately held back my hand a fraction of a second. I saw Kev’s fingers forming a V: scissors. Because rookie males generally ran to “rock,” I also threw out rock, which breaks scissors, without glancing at Dylan or Jake.

And only then saw Kev’s paper. Paper covers rock.

“To Kevin,” I said. Shit. How’d he does that? “Okay, next round.”

Kev probably wouldn’t take paper again. Jake and Dylan wouldn’t take rock again. So I’d take paper as Kevin might just take rock this time.

And he did, as Dylan did. And Jake took paper, so I was tied with Kev.

“And again,” I said.

It got tricky here. I’d go to rock as Kev just might rotate to scissors, and the other guys really wouldn’t choose rock again.

Kev did choose scissors, as did both Jake and Dylan, so I was ahead by one.

Now I’d choose paper again. Kev really wouldn’t choose scissors again. The other guys might rotate back to rock.

I threw paper.

Dylan took rock and Jake chose paper.

And Kev did take scissors again, damn him, tying us.

Now I had to really concentrate, with one more to go. I watched them carefully. It was really hard to anticipate, at this time, what they’d take.

I saw their hands coming up. I again held back, saw Jake’s hand forming into paper, couldn’t tell with Dylan’s, and Kev’s hand laid out flat.

Paper.

I threw scissors.

And only then saw Kevin’s hand in a bunched fist.

Rock. Rock breaks scissors.

Damn, damn. It was over.

“How in hell did you do that?” I said.

“Sharona, I didn’t do anything.” Kev shrugged. “It’s a game of chance.”

“It is not,” I said. “There is strategy.”

“I know that,” he said after a moment. “And I knew that you knew, so I was keeping my eye on you. Jake and Dylan I wasn’t worried about.”

“But I was keeping my eye on you.”

“It’s probably just my reflexes or eye-hand coordination are a little quicker than yours. Gave me the advantage.” He picked up the phone. “Sorry.”

He’d just out-cheated a cheater, which really wasn’t fair.

“Give me that thing.” I held out my hand. “You know I’m the only one who can successfully deal with these guys. I’m the talker and besides, the least disabled one among us.”

He shook his head, stuffing the phone in his front jeans pocket. His hands were trembling slightly and anxiety flashed through me.

“It’s going to be all right, Kev,” I whispered and put my arms around him. He had hard, lean muscles in his back, smelled of salty sweat that wasn’t at all unpleasant. I let my hands trail down his abs and then along the front of his legs. Who knew, maybe this would be the last time I’d touch a guy like this, might as well make the most of it.

“You know you’re the only person who’s ever called me that?”

“Sorry. I’ll stop.”

“I didn’t say I didn’t like it.” He leaned his face into my hair. Then he suddenly froze and pushed me away. “What in hell are you doing?”

I jumped away, turning my back, hands cupping the phone.

Shit. Great, that’s what I get for thinking with my balls.”

“Yep.”

“Sharona, that really was not fair—”

“Shhh.” I was dialing away.

It rang until the answering machine picked up. I gritted my teeth as the recorded message with store hours and sales came on.

Then a voice interrupted the monologue. A tenor—didn’t sound like a gunman’s—asked, “Who’s this?”

“Sharona Feinstein,” I said. “I’m one of your hostages. And may I ask to whom I’m speaking?”

Behind me the men broke into laughter. I shushed them again.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Oscar.”

“Do you have a last name, Oscar?”

“White.” After the smallest of pauses.

Oscar White. Sharona Smith. Sure.

“And you’re the alpha male, I take it?”

“What?”

“Are you the leader?”

“Yeah.” After another pause.

“Okay, Mr. Oscar White,” I said. “Let’s talk.”

“About what?”

Yeah, about what. What the hell do you talk to a killer and your captor about? I was totally in the dark on that one, but experience told me that just talking clouds a lot of issues rather than illuminating them, which would probably be for the best in this case. Didn’t want to know this guy’s life story. I’d just pretend I did because people always secretly believed you did anyway and wanted, more than anything, to tell it.

“So it’s been a busy day for you,” I said. “Care to tell me about it?”

“No,” he said. “I don’t have to tell you anything.”

“True enough,” I said. “You don’t. We could both just hang up right now.”

Except he wasn’t going to do that, now that he knew he had a literally captive audience.

I waited. No sound of the line going dead.

“Oscar, you still there?” I said anyway.

“Yeah.”

“Okay, good. So tell me, Oscar. What’s this all been about today?”

“What do you mean?”

What did I mean. “Well, the thing with taking hostages, killing people. I have to think it’s been about something.” No answer. “Oh, I heard you wanted money and a plane. Is that true?”

“Yeah, that’s what I said.”

Said, operative word. “But not what you really want. Like saying you want to go to Disneyland with your family or whatever, because it’s expected of you, when you’d really rather spend the vacation at home in your room, eating pizza and screwing your girlfriend while everyone else goes. Am I right?” No answer. “So what do you really want, Oscar? What’s this all been about? You didn’t take a bunch of people hostage and shoot a couple of them over a plane and some money.” People didn’t kill to go to Disneyland. They killed for much more fundamental urges.

And Oscar didn’t disappoint. “To get even,” he said.

Ah. Now we were getting somewhere. “Get even with who?”

“The manager.”

Well, I wanted to get even with some manager somewhere too. “Manager of what?”

“The store, what do you think?”

“I don’t know. Was thinking maybe the one in the sky, the Great Manager.”

This drew a startling burst of laughter from him. “You’re funny.”

“So they say.” I cleared my throat. “Well, I can totally relate, Oscar. I want to get even with them too. Both the manager and The Manager. For getting me in this whole situation, obviously. What do you want to get even with them for? What did they do to you? Fire you?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, a lot of us lose jobs, Oscar. I’ve lost more myself than I can count.” Coming to work hung over and spending time on the phone dealing with various romantic crises tended to get your employer upset with you. “What was such a big deal about losing a job here that made you want to kill?”

Oscar, Oscar. I was racking my brain trying to remember him. Who worked here who was called Oscar? It had to be an alias.

Or maybe I really just didn’t remember him. The problem was he was invisible to everyone. This was the only way he could get others to pay attention.

“Come on, Oscar,” I said. “What made you so mad?”

He didn’t respond.

“Oscar, you still there?”

“Yeah.” Barely audible.

I sighed and slid down the wall I’d been leaning against to settle on the floor, knees drawn to my chin. We were in for the long haul, it looked like.

“When you lost your job, did you lose your family too?” I prodded. “Like your wife and kids left because you couldn’t support them?”

He didn’t sound old enough to have a wife and kids.

“I don’t have a wife and kids,” he echoed my thoughts. “It’s just me.”

That made sense. Anyone with a family wouldn’t do this—they’d be too worried about what their sisters would think or whatever.

“So you feel pretty alone.” I was no stranger to that either.

“Yeah.”

“So do I sometimes. Still doesn’t explain why you did this.”

“Look, will you stop comparing yourself to me?” he burst out. “You got no idea how I feel.”

“True, no one knows how anyone else feels. So why don’t you tell me, Oscar?”

“Disrespected.” He spoke after a minute. “They were rude to me.”

And here was the heart of the matter. “Who was rude to you?”

“My co-workers. The manager.”

“So you were like bullied? How?”

“Look, I really don’t want to talk about it, okay?”

“Okay.” Too close to home, then. “So I don’t know exactly what went on then, Oscar, obviously, but what I can tell you is this. You know the saying ‘the best revenge is living well’?” I just remembered that from bumper stickers that were popular a few years back, usually on Mercedes and BMWs, like anyone needed to be reminded that their owners lived well. “Think about that. Stop worrying about these people so much and work on your own happiness.” Advice I should probably take myself.

“I don’t want to be happy,” he said. “I want to get even.”

Ah, yes. Revenge trumps everything else. Again I could totally identify. That’s what all the running from man to man and job to job, drinking too much, was about, probably—getting even with my ex for abandoning me by commission by leaving and my parents by omission, absenting themselves by dying.

So what could I do? It takes years to reach that kind of insight, and I wasn’t any kind of therapist.

This was getting weird. Or weirder. The pros really should take over.

“Oscar,” I said, “have the police negotiators been in contact recently?”

“Yeah. They want to know how you guys are doing.”

“How are you guys holding up?” I turned to face my fellow captives. Had almost forgotten about them in the conversation with Oscar.

They were all seated around the table; they shrugged in unison. Oh, fuck, fuck the macho credo. Some guys would rather crawl off and die somewhere than admit to needing help.

I turned back to the phone and had to remember to switch it to my un-messed-up ear. “Listen, Oscar, we need to get some food and water in here. Please?”

“Shit, is that what you really want from me?”

“No.” Well, what the hell did he think? I enjoyed listening to his sad story? “But it’s what we need right now. Could one of you maybe go to the food aisle and pull out some sandwiches from the refrigerator and a few water bottles? Oh, and look. Go over to the medical supply section too and get some bandages and rubbing alcohol while you’re at it.”

“What’s that for?”

“For the two of us you shot, okay? So we don’t die of tetanus.”

“Okay.” Then the line went dead for a while.

“What’s going on?” Kev asked.

“I’m on hold.” I shrugged. “Assume Oscar’s getting his posse to round up the supplies.”

“How are we going to get the stuff in here once they’ve found it?” Dylan’s voice suggested my IQ wasn’t much more than two.

Shit. I really hadn’t thought of that.

“Obviously we’re going to have to open the door for that.” Jake shook his head. “A real risk.”

I thought it over, tried to imagine opening the door to Oscar. And shuddered.

“I don’t think we can risk it,” I said. “We need to let the police take over the negotiations again.”

I put the phone back to my ear. “Oscar, are you back?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, Oscar.” I knew from my long history of manipulating people that repeating their name over and over, every sentence, had a lulling effect, got them on your side, like you had some magical power for knowing their name, when they’d given it to you themselves not ten minutes before. “What do you think about talking to the police again? They’re better at this than I am.”

“Sure they are, and that’s why I don’t want to talk to them. They’re going to get me killed. They want you guys released and me killed.”

Well, what the hell did he think I wanted? “Okay, that’s fine, Oscar,” I said. “I understand. I’ll keep talking to you. But I need you to promise me something.”

“What?”

“I’m going to open the door partway to get the food and medical supplies, and you’ve got to promise not to shoot or barge in here. Will you promise that, Oscar?”

He was silent.

“Oscar? You need to promise that, or I’m not going to open the door, and we won’t get the food and supplies, and one or more of us will probably die. And then it’s all over. Worst-case scenario. Best-case scenario, you won’t have your hostages anymore, and the police will have no incentive to not come in.”

“Okay.” Mumbled. This was clearly a man of action, not words. “I promise.”

“All right.” I breathed out. “I’m going to take down part of the barrier now and open the door.” I signaled to Dylan to get over and help me.

Heart pounding, I pushed open the door, talking all the while into the phone. “I’m opening the door now, Oscar. Please hand in the stuff…”

I caught a blurred glimpse of him as he passed through the bag of sandwiches and bandages—white shirt, long sleeve pushed back to reveal a tanned arm. Red bandana holding back tightly curled, black hair. Head lowered so I couldn’t see his face.

My heart pounded twice, hard. Then the door slammed shut.

“Here.” My limbs felt like jelly as I carried the food and bandages the couple of steps to the laptop table, where I dumped them. I sank into a free chair, breathing in and out, trying to regulate my heartbeat.

The men were already breaking into the sandwiches, passing around the water bottles.

“Sharona, take one,” Jake said.

I shook my head. I couldn’t imagine eating right now.

“She’s on such a roll,” Dylan said, “she doesn’t have time to eat.”

“I’m just not hungry, okay?” I said. “Somewhere along the way I lost my appetite.”

But he was right, I realized. Besides my stomach heaving, I was somehow cruising along on the adrenaline rush.

“What do we do now?” Dylan asked, his mouth full.

“Do?” How many choices did we have, anyway? “I think we should eat, bandage up our wounds, and then keep talking.”

I was eventually going to have to get back on the phone and try to reason with an unreasonable person, but I’d delay it as long as possible.

The phone sounded as Dylan had just finished covering my ear with a bandage. Automatically I answered the call, turning away from him as I held the phone to my other ear.

“I’m back,” Oscar said.

“Well, great.” So we were going to talk some more, it looked like.

The men were all looking at me. I shrugged and turned away again.

“So what’s up, Oscar? What are your plans now?” I had to keep him on the line, talking. Delay any more impulsive decisions on his part.

“I still want the plane and money,” he said.

“You still—” I echoed his words as my brain caught up with this. “Okay, I see. And what are you going to do with those things if you get them?”

“Start a new life in a different place.”

“Well, don’t we all want that? Maybe we have more in common than you think, Oscar.”

Sharona, Kev was mouthing at me. I shook my head.

“But let’s just hold that thought, Oscar,” I said. “What’s so bad about your life here? What do you want to change? What will get better if you go somewhere else?” I thought of something then. “You said something about respect awhile back? You aren’t respected?”

No. I mean yes, that’s what I said. No one respects me.”

“Well, why don’t they? Is it because you’re on the short side?”

“How in hell do you know that?”

“I saw you when the door was open. A little.” I sighed. Could see the headline. Short Kid With Gun Takes Hostages, Kills for Respect. What a joke and fucking stupid way to die. “You’re not going to get any taller when you go somewhere else.”

“You know what, shut up.”

“Okay, okay. Let’s talk about something else.” I drew in my breath. “So what do you do with yourself when you’re not taking people hostage, Oscar?”

What?”

“What do you like to do, Oscar? Like with your free time? Read, go to movies, play golf, what?”

“No,” he said.

“No what? You don’t like those specific things or you have no outside interests?”

“I got no fucking hobbies, okay?”

“Okay, okay.” Made total sense. Maybe crime was just a symptom of boredom. “But I don’t believe that. There must be something you like to do.”

Not necessarily. I didn’t have any particular compelling interests either, beyond living through this, of course.

And talking. I really liked the sound of my own voice.

I was steeling myself for a tongue-lashing or something worse, like Oscar losing all patience and shooting through the door again.

But then all he said was, “I like cars.”

“Cars.” I breathed out. “Great. What kind of cars?”

And I listened, but not really, as he waxed eloquent about the relative merits of Ferraris and classic Mustangs.

Then the phone beeped.

I held it away from my head, looking at it. And saw the telltale battery icon.

“Oscar, I got to power down for a couple of minutes to save the battery.” Shit, shit, shit. Why couldn’t Dylan have thought to stick the power cord down his pants when he went to the bathroom? How much trouble would that have been? “So could you just chill for a couple of minutes?”

What?”

“Just sit tight. Wait.” And we were dealing with a language barrier on top of everything else, apparently. “I’ll be right back.”

I set down the phone and then just sat, eyes closed, trying to clear my mind. Breathe. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Say the schma, a Jewish prayer that’s something like a mantra.

I then opened my eyes. “Dylan, why don’t you use the phone for a while?” The negotiations were going nowhere right now anyway, and Dylan’s tireless pacing around was really getting on my nerves.

“What?” He stopped to look at me. “You want me to talk to them now?”

“No. Call your parents.”

“What the hell? Why—?”

“Because they probably want to hear from you.”

“I’ve told you they said—”

“Never mind what they said. Families say all kinds of things to each other they don’t really mean.” He didn’t respond. “Christ, Dylan, you broke their TV, in my understanding. You didn’t kill anyone, did you?”

“No, of course not, but that still doesn’t mean they want to hear from me.”

“If you’ll excuse me, it almost certainly does. Dylan, I’ve got to think your parents listen to the news like anyone else. And this is big news locally. They’ve heard your name the media so kindly released. They know you’re in here, and they’d want to know you’re alive.” For some reason I found myself tearing up and fought to keep my voice steady. My own rhetoric got to me at times—I was that good. “Take the damn phone and call your parents. Tell them you’re all right.”

“Shit, I’m not all right. I’m probably going to die.”

“Then call them and say good-bye. If not for you, then for them. Do you really want them to live the rest of their lives without ever having made up with you?”

He took it. “Damn it. All right. I’m going to do it in semi-private, if you don’t mind.”

“Just do it.”

He strode off to a corner opposite the one we’d been using as a bathroom, the telephone booth now, apparently. I closed my eyes again, breathed deep.

Dylan came back to the group and handed the phone to me.

I took it, looking at him, not saying anything.

He shrugged. “It’s all good.”

“Well, good.” I put the phone back to my ear.

“Oscar. I’m back.” I tried to keep my voice calm, hoping there’d be some kind of synchronicity between us. “I think you know the police are not going to give you a plane to Argentina. Even if they could. But they don’t have that kind of power. You know that, Oscar.”

Just the sound of his breathing into the phone.

“And they’re not going to want to, Oscar. You know that too. And it’s only a matter of time before the cops come busting in here, whether you’ve got hostages or not. They’re not going to stand off forever, Oscar. Police have generally got real low levels for frustration tolerance. You’re going to go to jail, Oscar. Or die trying to keep out of jail.”

He made a low mutter or growl. Maybe a whimper. Hard to tell over the phone.

I thought of something then. “Let’s go back to what we were talking about earlier. You said something about wanting to start a new life somewhere else. Don’t you still want that? What kind of new life do you want?”

“I don’t know.”

He didn’t know. Probably true, at least consciously. Young adult males with criminal tendencies weren’t particularly celebrated for their impulse control and ability to plan.

“Come on, Oscar. You must have some idea of this new life, maybe where you’re respected? So how are you going to get that if you die? You want to avoid the electric chair, don’t you? Or the needle?” California had a moratorium on the death penalty, but I was betting he didn’t know that. Best to leave him on that thought. “Look, Oscar, I got to power down again. I’ll be right back.”

I closed my eyes again. More deep breathing. Said the schma again. Schma Israel, Adonai aleheinu

“Sharona.” Kev’s voice. “What’s going on? What the hell are you doing?” He must have heard me whispering. “Saying the freaking schma?”

He wasn’t an observant Jew, right. “Just thinking.”

“Just thinking? Who has time for that? Praying and thinking—give me a break. Why don’t you say something?”

“Because I got no idea of what to say now, okay? That’s why I’m thinking. So why don’t you just shut up and let me?”

“Want me to take over for a while?”

No.”

So that’s what it disintegrated into for a while, the “negotiations.” It was really hard. I had always considered myself a supreme bullshit artist who could talk her way out of just about anything—more tickets than I could count, a couple of bad grades, and once a relationship with a stalker ex-boyfriend, whom I managed to convince it would be in his own best interest to put as much space between himself and me as possible. But now I was getting the limitations of communication, how maybe we put too much faith in its power. Talk therapy never did anyone much good, from my experience, maybe made you worse. Most couples who committed to regular chats where they “talk things through” were headed for divorce within a couple of months. And they’ve been “talking” in the Mideast forever, and look where it’s gotten them.

Just saying.

“Sharona, give me that phone.” Kev’s voice.

“Christ, what is it with you and the phone? Don’t you get ‘no’ means ‘no’?” I glanced up at him—he was bugging the crap out of me.

And then I saw how much his condition had spiraled downward in the time I’d been talking to Oscar—he was white, shaking, dripping sweat, pupils dilated like coins.

“Kev.” I fought down a surge of panic. “Why don’t you just sit down and take it easy, okay?”

Take it easy? How in hell am I supposed to do that?”

“Just do it, okay?” He stood there, arms folded. “Kevin, I think you know you’re in no shape to do this. You won at ‘paper, scissors, rock,’ okay, but frankly, you look like shit. Just sit down and save whatever resources you have left.”

He sat down.

I turned and dialed the clothing section extension. The phone growled back at me. We were now down to ten percent battery. “Oscar, I’m back. So what’s the scoop?”

What?”

Jeez, just what dialect did these guys speak? “The news,” I said. “Any decisions? I’m pretty much done talking, Oscar. My battery’s going to power down permanently any minute now, and I’m running out of patience. So are the police. So what’s it going to be?”

No response but I could hear him breathing into the phone, like he had allergies and needed to breathe through his mouth.

“Look, Oscar.” I glanced back at the men, then turned back to the phone. I had been trying to modulate the fear in my voice, but maybe it was okay to let it out. Besides Kevin being on the verge of collapse, Dylan was pacing around again, climbing the walls, the anxiety levels from whatever his psych issue was probably spiraling, Jake bleeding some more. “We got two people in here with critical health conditions and one shot who all need medical attention real soon. If something bad happens to one of them, I’m thinking something worse will happen to you.” I thought of something then. “And to tell you the truth, Oscar, I’m not feeling so great myself. Besides you nearly taking off my ear, I’m still a little hung over from last night and feel like I’m about to start my period.”

Silence.

“Oscar, are you still there?” A muttered reply. “What? I don’t understand mumbling.”

“I said I’m thinking.”

“Okay, you go ahead and think all you want, but what I really need you to do now is get one of your people to go to these gentlemen’s desks and get their meds. Please. I’m begging you now. Guys, where are your meds?”

“At home,” Dylan said. “I don’t bring them to work. Worry about Kevin, why don’t you? Yeah, now I’m worried, okay? Kevin, where in hell’s your desk?”

“I don’t have a desk,” Kev said. “It’s a locker.”

Oh, great. “Well, what’s the combination?” I asked. “Where is it?”

“It’s that row of lockers in the coat room where the time clock is. Mine’s second from the right, bottom. Combination’s fifty-two to the right, sixty-four to the left, eighteen right.”

“Okay, got it.” I fed this information back to Oscar.

Something occurred to me then. “Oscar, hold on.” I turned back to Kev. “What’s it look like? The medication? Needles or what?”

“Yeah, needles, with insulin preloaded. I don’t think he’s going to overlook them. I’ve missed a couple of doses by now.”

“Okay.” I turned back to the phone. “Oscar, look for some needles. Go get them now—just bring all of them that you see, and I do mean now.” I hung up.

While I was waiting there for the medicine, I remembered something from college.

“Logos, pathos, ethos,” I said.

“What the hell are you mumbling?” Kev said. “More Hebrew?”

“I think actually it’s Greek. I learned it about a million years ago in college.” Back when I thought I might be a lawyer when I grew up, before I realized that actually took effort and persistence. “It means ‘logic, feeling, ethics.’” The three strategies to persuade someone, playing on their logic, emotions, and ethics.

“I get it,” Kev said. “We’ve already been logical and pathetic.”

“Yeah.”

“So time for ethics.” He shrugged. “Good luck with that.”

It only hit me as they passed the needles through the door a few minutes later. It was probably not going to be much longer now. The door was open and basically they could burst in any time but were choosing not to, for whatever reason. And they were doing everything I asked. Like almost no one had ever before in my life. That was intoxicating.

And then another thing hit me. Two epiphanies in the space of five minutes. So this was what it was like when you had a clear head and time to think.

This was what I wanted to be when I grew up, with the rest of my life, if anything was left of it.

I turned back to the phone.

“Oscar, I’ve gotten to know you a little in talking with you over the past few hours, and I know that even if you’ve made some really bad decisions today, you’re not a total sociopath.” Actually that was what I thought, but this was an appeal to ethics. “Those first hostages, out on the floor, those were an accident, I know, in the heat of the moment. But if one of us dies in here, it’s different. It’s cold-blooded murder, Oscar. Do you think you can live with that for whatever will remain of your life?”

He didn’t respond.

“Look.” Had to think of something, anything else to say. “You said you’re totally alone, Oscar? Got no one?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, I don’t believe that either. Because I would have said the same thing earlier today, but now I have three other people depending on me.” That also just hit me. I wasn’t alone anymore and probably never would be again once I walked out of here, if I walked out of here. Once people sensed you were someone they could count on, they were never going to leave you alone—which meant I’d have to stop with the self-injury shit of drinking and sleeping around. “And you have at least your buddies out there. And then, Oscar, there’s all of the people who depend on the people who depend on you. Got it? None of us is really alone. What’s going to happen to your friends if you die?”

He mumbled something that sounded a lot like “mother” and not in the curse word sense of the term.

“What?” I couldn’t quite believe it. “Shit, Oscar, did you just say you have a mother?”

“Yeah.”

“And she’s alive? Well, Christ, then you’re really not alone. Even if you did kill someone. If you’ve got a mom, you’re not alone. All mothers care.” Even my mom, a professional party girl who had never gotten over being the prom queen that she was, had cared on some level. “What’s she going to do if you die? Oscar, we’ve both got people depending on us. Please.”

“I’ll let one of you out,” he said. “You. Just you.”

I let my breath out.

“Oscar,” I said, “I respect you for this. Really.” And I meant it. “We might all just get out of here alive.”

“What?” Kev said. “What’s going on?”

“They’ll release one of us.” I put down the phone.

Jake sighed. “That means the rest of us will probably follow right after.”

“Dylan, I think you and I can wait,” I said. “It should be Jake or Kevin first.”

“No,” Kev said.

“What do you mean, no?”

“I mean who died and left you the triage unit? I can’t speak for Dylan and Jake, but I can wait.”

“I can too,” Jake said.

Dylan shrugged. “I think that means you’re going first, Sharona. Like he said. Do you think I didn’t hear him? I’m standing here right next to you and heard every freaking word.”

I let this sink in for a moment. “So you really think,” I said, “I’m supposed to go first just because I’m female, did most of the negotiations, and got shot a little?”

“Yes,” Jake and Kev said together.

“Ladies first.” Jake shrugged.

“How many times do I have to say it? I’m not a lady. I’m not a girl. I’m a grown woman who can make her own decisions.” I really was; there was no denying that little fact now. “And I’m telling you I just can’t do it. I don’t care if I’m the only female. Not when two of the guys in this room really need to get out. Remember what we decided before about gender stereotypes? We can’t do chivalry now.”

“It’s not chivalry.” Dylan spoke up, his voice dry. “It’s evolutionary, instinctive. To continue the species, you need a lot of women, just one guy. Basically, we can die.”

“Jesus Christ,” Kev said. “Will you shut the fuck up? For once?”

“For once? I haven’t talked in like hours.”

“Shut up,” Jake said. “Both of you.”

And they obeyed.

“I’m getting back on the phone,” I said. This was ridiculous. “I’ll talk him into letting one of you go first.”

“Sharona, you just can’t take that chance,” Kev said. “We can’t risk it. He might just withdraw the whole offer.”

“I’ve been negotiating with him for hours. I can get him to take this one more step.”

“No, and that’s final.”

“Your qualms about leaving us don’t even matter,” Dylan said. “Not if they’re asking for you. It isn’t even a matter of your being a woman.”

Crap. He was probably right. I put the phone back to my ear anyway, reflexively.

And got nothing. I looked at it, knowing I’d see the dark and blank screen.

“We’re powered down,” I said.

“Well, that really seals it,” Kev said. He had gotten up somehow, hanging onto the table. “Go, Sharona.”

I walked over to the door without thinking, just limbs moving automatically, and stood on the threshold. Then I turned back.

Kev had made it over to stand behind me.

“What if they’re lying?” I put my hand on his shoulder, more to steady than persuade him. “What if they just release me and not you guys?”

“If they do, they do. At least you’ll survive. I mean it, Sharona.” Kev shoved me forward. “Just go, or I swear to God I’ll kill you myself.”

“Do you really think I just put myself through hours of negotiation just to walk away from you guys?”

“Just go.” He shoved me again.

“Stop pushing.”

I stood on the threshold, biting my lip, then walked out into the hall. Was it really only a day or two ago I had breezed up and down this hall about ten times a shift on the way to the bathroom or the break room, not even noticing—it was just a hall, not some monumental and terrifying move into the unknown?

I stepped out and looked down the hall and through the store.

Oscar’s slim, short figure stood posted at the end of the hall. I didn’t see a gun anywhere, and the thought shot through my mind that he’d been unarmed this whole time. Wouldn’t that be a joke on me.

Further out through the store, not fifty feet away, in front and through the clear windows, a whole pack of police lined up, a bunch of squad cars parked behind them. It looked like it was dusk, the sun just setting.

So we’d probably been in that room about a day and a half.

One of the officers spoke through a bullhorn that blasted through the windows. “Sharona. Step forward. Now. Come out of the hall, then walk toward me.”

My vision blurred.

I swung around to the door. “I can’t. Remember? What we promised each other?”

“Oh, fuck.” Kev slammed his fist into the door. “Fuck you, Sharona. I don’t give a shit what we promised each other. Just go.”

“Not without you.” We’d all go down together.

“Sharona.” The policeman blared through the horn. “Walk toward me.”

Kev pushed again. “We’ll be all right,” he said. “You’re just the first to go.”

He was right. Probably.

I took my first step down the hall. And then another. And another, keeping my eyes on Oscar the whole time. He stared back, face impassive.

I averted my gaze. These guys were like panthers—stare at them and they sprang. And this was no time to play dare-you.

I continued walking, keeping my eyes straight ahead. Oscar’s entire posse was lined up on either side—there were probably only four of them actually, looking back, but they seemed then like an entire platoon, lining the wall to infinity. I kept going, strides toward the doors.

Oh, thanks, guys, my dear fellow captives. Thanks a lot. You did me such a big favor, forcing me to go first.

No one made a move toward me.

And then I was at the double glass doors. They were automatic, no way to engage them manually without going in and doing some major monkeying. I stepped on the mat in front.

They didn’t move.

Fuck, the gunmen had locked us in here. We were stuck. It was all a trap.

“Sharona, that’s the entrance,” the cop said into the bullhorn. He had sandy hair, freckles, piercing blue eyes he kept trained on me. “Step over to the exit.”

I moved over as I suppressed hysterical laughter. I had only come in and out through these same doors every weekday for two years now.

The doors swung open.

And then two medics were on top of me, dragging me away. One of them slung someone’s big corduroy jacket across my shoulders. It smelled of cigarette smoke.

“What’s that for?” I attempted to shrug out of it. “I’m not cold.” It was a late summer Stockton afternoon. I’ve known Israelis from the freaking desert to come here and piss and moan about the heat.

The medic, one of those big, bossy nurse types, shoved it back on. “You’re in shock.”

“I am not ‘in shock.’” What the hell was there to be shocked about after a couple of days?

“Clinical shock.” The other medic, a guy with brown hair and glasses, also made an attempt to get the coat back on. “You’re shaking.”

He was right. I was freezing, short of breath, and dizzy.

“You need to be treated for that,” the bossy nurse said. “Get in the ambulance, Sharona.”

“No.” I knew that much about the law, that I had the right to refuse treatment as long as I had all my faculties. Well, I’d probably never had all of them but still enough to make decisions for myself. “I need to make sure the others make it out all right.”

“Sharona, you can’t.” The other medic, the guy, shook his head. “Staying here won’t make an iota of difference. You need to come to the hospital for treatment. You could lose oxygen, drop your blood pressure, and suffer major organ damage.”

“Shut up.” I was a hero of sorts and in shock. I was allowed some latitude.

He shut up, shaking his head.

That made me feel bad and I relented. “I need to see for myself. I’ll go in after, I promise.”

Then I shut them out for a few minutes and focused on my breathing until the dizziness cleared.

We all stayed there in the parking lot for hours, literally, eyes trained on the doors as the guys were released, one by one. Someone gave me something to drink at one point, couldn’t say what it even was, just that it was in a paper cup. I stood there drinking it as the doors kept swinging open.

A news crew and some paparazzi, the usual vultures, had gathered, of course, filming, taking pictures, tweeting. They kept announcing names for the audience watching from here and at home on TV as the guys were released. “Kevin Wasserman—Jakob Anderson—Dylan Alvarez—”

Hysterical laughter bubbled up in me again at one point. “It’s the freaking Academy Awards,” I said.

No one laughed.

Jake and Kev were hauled over to the ambulances as soon as they got out. I wanted to go over but stayed where I was, not knowing at all how they’d feel about it. Now that it was ending, the entire episode was somehow already retreating into the past, weirdest thing, and I was a virtual stranger to them again.

Dylan and I were left in the parking lot with the medics.

“You two need to go in as well now.” The nurse, Betsy, was all brisk business again.

“I just want to go home.” I had promised to go in, but hell, like I’d never broken a promise before.

“You’re not going home,” the other medic, Thomas, said.

And Dylan said at the same time, “Really, Sharona? How are you planning to even drive? We can’t go home.”

He was right. I couldn’t go home again, at the risk of sounding cliché. I turned away from the store that the police were already storming.

And that was that. It was over.

We needed to get out of there before some ass of a reporter came over to ask us how we felt about it.

“Wait just a minute.”

“What is it now?” Dylan snapped.

“Just wait.” I turned back to the store and the police barricade and crowd milling about, eyes fixed on the store.

Oscar stood in front, flanked on either side by policemen, hands in cuffs.

I stared at him.

As if sensing my gaze, he looked up.

I glared.

He looked away.

I turned back to the others, and we walked across the parking lot toward the ambulance still waiting, the medics and Dylan flanking me. It was only a few steps, but it seemed like miles. My pace quickened as I walked, my pulse racing until I was almost running, seeming to leave the others miles behind, a few feet away in the parking lot.

This was it, the rest of my life I had been waiting for.

 

——————–

Stacia Levy lives in Sacramento, California, with her husband and daughter. She teaches writing at the college level.  Past publishing credits include short stories in The Blue Moon Review, Sambatyon, True Story, Storgy Magazine, and The Apalachee Review. Finally, she was a second-place winner in The Writer’s Digest Popular Fiction Awards of 2010.  She has completed one novel of romantic suspense, California Gothic, published under the pen name Anastasia Levine.

Deepwater

By Rachel Chalmers

Life wants to be; life doesn’t always want to be much; life from time to time goes extinct…. Life goes on.

—Bill Bryson, A Short History of Nearly Everything

 

have to write everything down while I still remember.

Dispatch called at 3 a.m. A hospital in Monterey. Insurance had sent a car.

I sat on the porch in the dark, reading the patient’s file. Erik Hagestad. A marine biologist and diver, a scientist at the research institute. He’d brushed against deepwater coral. The abrasions were severe. Antibiotic noncompliance led to sepsis. Headlights swept over me. My ride.

The driver had a serene soul. As he drove, he was thinking of his wife and daughters. Not words, just images. Very specific. The little one grinning, having lost a tooth. His wife’s hands forming masa into tortillas. It made for a peaceful drive.

In Monterey the sky was lighter. The air smelled of cypress and the sea. I tipped the driver $2,500. It was all I had on me. Nurse Devon Jagler met me in the lobby. She walked me to palliative care. A man stood outside the patient’s room. He was weeping. The nurse introduced him. Somebody Smith. Milton?

“Are you the husband?” I asked.

“No,” he said. “But he’s my best mate. My dive buddy. This was my fault.”

What was there to say? Smith’s was a blokey soul. Deep wells of love all dammed beneath the surface. “Did Mr. Hagestad have a plan?” I asked them both.

“Erik,” said Smith.

“Did Erik have a death plan on file?”

“No,” said Jagler. She had a pure professional surface and behind it, a storm of anger. “He wasn’t reconciled,” she said. “Thought he could beat it. Didn’t take his meds.”

“Do you know his wishes?” I asked Smith.

“He wanted,” said Smith, “not to die.”

We all took a breath. Then the nurse showed me into the patient’s room.

I’ve attended sixty-seven deaths. About two a month for the three years since I qualified. This was the sixty-eighth. Here’s what I’ve learned. Deaths are as different as souls. Some are diffuse. The self just fading away like fog. Some burn with futile rage. A few, very few, are like weddings. A consummation.

Hagestad’s was wrong. I took a step back.

He was there. Detached and faint, but there. But he wasn’t alone. Even that’s not unknown. Rare, but reported. Twin or even triplet souls. Like multiple births. This wasn’t that.

The others were specks. Thousands of them. Tens of thousands. I thought of bees. A swarm. If I could have smelled them, iron filings. “I need air,” I said. I left the room. I pressed my hands against the wall in the corridor. I bowed my head. I counted the beats of my heart.

Smith and Jagler watched me from the door. Eyes full of questions.

“I apologize,” I said. “Unprofessional of me.”

“Can I get you a glass of water?” asked Jagler.

“His injury,” I said. “He was diving?”

“I was with him,” said Smith. “Collecting samples.”

“You had wetsuits, gloves?” I said. “How was he hurt?”

“The neoprene tore,” said Smith. “I saw the blood in the water. His leg was laid right open.”

“This was an infection?” I asked the nurse. She hesitated.

“We thought so,” she said. “We prescribed antibiotics.”

“He wouldn’t finish the course,” said Smith.

“It breeds resistance,” said Jagler. She was very calm. She was very angry. A yin-yang soul.

“I’m not sure it did,” I said. “Or wait, maybe it did. But not in the way you mean.” They both looked at me blankly. “Listen,” I said. “Do you have an implant tech? Has anyone looked at the hardware? At his bot?”

“Amilcar’s on call,” said the nurse.

“Call now,” I said. She went. I liked her.

“I know how this sounds,” said Smith, “but is something wrong? I mean, more wrong?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe. I don’t know.”

There was a noise from the room behind him. A groan. A word? I saw Smith’s pupils dilate. Felt his adrenaline leap. He turned. I came to the door.

Hagestad’s eyes were open. “Water,” he said. Or seemed to say.

Smith scrambled to help him.

I stared at the souls. Hagestad’s own was fainter. Farther away. The others burned around his body. Bright as galaxies. Small as a pulse.

“Erik,” said Smith. “Erik.” He held the glass, helped Hagestad up. Hagestad drank greedily. The water spilled down his chin. He made no move to wipe it away.

Smith laid him down tenderly. Hagestad gazed at the ceiling, blinking. Then he turned his head to the right and looked at us. Then he turned to the left and looked out the window. His movements were jerky.

“Is this normal?” Smith asked. I didn’t know what to tell him.

Nurse Jagler came back. “The tech says he’ll be here in ten,” she said.

“He’s awake,” said Smith.

“What? No. That’s not possible,” said Jagler.

“He spoke to us. His eyes are open.”

Jagler went to the patient. She leaned over and looked him in the eye. Frowning, she shone a flashlight in each pupil. She timed his pulse. When she’d finished, she dropped his hand. It smacked onto his thigh.

She came back to where we were standing in the doorway. She did it without taking her eyes off him.

Smith asked, “Is he getting better?” His voice was raw.

“I—” said Jagler, and she stopped for a moment. “I don’t know,” she said. “I must have been mistaken.”

We kept vigil. Our backs were against the wall. Hagestad lay still. His eyes were open. There was a tap at the door. The implant tech. Amilcar Rodriguez Maldonado. He scanned Hagestad’s implant. He read the results. He frowned, restarted his reader, scanned again. He read the new results. He looked up at the three of us.

“Well, this is weird,” he said.

“He’s getting better, right?” Smith asked.

I looked at Hagestad’s soul. It was even farther away. He was not getting better. The swarm of other souls had pulled in even closer. His body was a planet with a constellation of small bright moons.

“The implant is active,” said Amilcar carefully. “The hardware. But what the bot is doing—the software—is strange.”

“Could his condition have caused it to malfunction?” I asked.

“Has he seized?” Amilcar asked. Nurse Jagler nodded. “Well, maybe,” Amilcar said. “The electrical disturbance might have shorted part of it out. But it doesn’t really look like that.”

“What does it look like?” I asked.

He made a frustrated gesture. “I don’t know how to explain it,” he said. “If this were your phone, I would say it had been owned.”

“He owns it, doesn’t he?” asked Jagler impatiently.

“Not like that,” said Amilcar. “Hacked. Subverted. That kind of owned. Like it’s been wiped and reformatted with new software for some other purpose.”

“Okay,” I said. “Could his condition have caused that?” The other three just stared at me.

“I don’t really understand what you’re asking,” said Amilcar. He wanted to help me put the pieces together. Solve the puzzle. But he couldn’t see what I saw. And I couldn’t see what he saw.

Hagestad had turned his head again. His eyes were a little more focused. He was looking directly at me. I took a step toward him. Away from Smith and Jagler. But not too close.

“Who are you?” I asked him.

He swallowed, licked his lips.

“You know who,” he said.

I love them all. You can’t ease a soul’s passing without love. I don’t mean sentimentality. I mean the hard love. The kind that measures Cheyne-Stokes respiration as it slows. That closes eyelids. That washes blood and shit off a cooling corpse. A death doula’s work is insupportable without it. And I mourn when the last vestige of that self is gone.

So I am ashamed of what I felt then. Marvel. Wonder. A curiosity that snatched and closed like a fist. The bone-deep thrill of that reply and what it meant. But also the knowledge that I was the first to identify this thing. The first to know what it was. That it had spoken to me. That history will remember me for this.

“You are the coral,” I said.

“We are,” said the souls in Hagestad’s body.

“What the fuck,” said Smith.

“Can you restore him?” I asked them.

The blue eyes went vague again. I realized that they were conferring.

“No, we can’t,” they said. “He can’t be here with us.”

“Does he have unfinished business?” I asked. That, at least, I can be proud of. Hagestad’s own soul seemed to flicker.

“Tell Milton not to blame himself. Tell him it was all worth it.”

Smith’s knees buckled. Jagler, half his mass, caught him before he collapsed.

“Let him go,” I said to the coral.

The last thread of connection to Erik Hagestad stretched to its limit and snapped.

“He’s gone,” I said.

“But he’s talking,” whispered Smith.

“It’s not him,” I said. The swarm of souls seemed to concentrate in the body. Penetrating the cooling skin. Its movements were already less jerky.

“You’re in his blood,” I said.

“Yes.”

“You hacked his implant.”

“We did.”

“What do you want?”

“More,” it said.

“Uh,” said Amilcar, “is it okay if—can I go?” His brown skin had paled and he was sweating.

“More what?” I asked.

“More.”

The body grabbed Amilcar’s hand holding the reader. It crushed hand and reader in its fist. Their mingled blood dripped on the floor. Amilcar screamed and screamed. I pushed Smith and Jagler out of the room and slammed the door behind us. The screaming trailed off.

“Run,” I said.

“Amilcar,” said Jagler.

“It’s blood-borne,” I said. “The coral…owns him. Amilcar is already dead.”

I could feel his soul being severed. Kind, inquisitive Amilcar. I held the door closed. Jagler took out a key and locked it.

It won’t hold them long. We called the police. They called the Feds. We were evacuated and placed in quarantine. I can feel Jagler and Smith nearby. Alone and afraid like me. I can feel the monsters like beehives. I was allowed paper and pencil. I have to write down everything I remember. If I get to publish this, my name will never die.

 

——————–

Rachel Chalmers is an Australian writer living in San Francisco. She studied English Literature at the University of Sydney and won the Wentworth Travelling Fellowship. She moved to Ireland to work with Peter Fallon, Brendan Kennelly, and Terence Brown. She graduated from Trinity College, Dublin with a master’s in Anglo-Irish Literature. Her work has appeared in Exposition Review, Good Works Review, Marlboro Review, New Scientist, Painted Bride Quarterly, Penmen Review, and Salon.

Diane

By Steven Masterson

t may surprise you that I didn’t know what the hell I was doing, but it didn’t surprise me. It happens all the time. Many people would say I was on a mission of folly, but I knew it was a run toward survival. Sitting alone at my kitchen table at two o’clock in the morning, pickled with booze, remorse, and self-pity, I’d quit. A drunken decision, but it was the best I could do. There was nothing more.

Heading south on I-95, with an open beer between my legs, bottle of vodka on the dash, and a half a joint in the ashtray, I was a menace to society. I was going to where I would blend right in: Washington, D.C. I’d spent the night in my head throwing away my life’s broken pieces and shedding the skin I’d been crawling in. Now I was on the move.

But I never made D.C. The draw had been my brother, not the other drunks and misfits, but the anchor was my son, Hazen, and he was in Massachusetts. Crossing the vast expanse of Rhode Island was enough to kill my dreams of maybe passing out with a Kennedy in the park or watching senators chase their hookers around the water fountains. It was just too far. A lot of the good things in life are, but the best thing in my life was my son and I wanted to keep him as close as I could. Close ended up being 120 miles. It was the best I could do.

New Haven is no Washington, D.C., but life isn’t always what you think it is, is it? I thought I’d married the perfect woman, she the perfect man. We’d spent the last year in perfect hell. It had left me sitting at my kitchen table at two o’clock in the morning drowning in self-pity.

Now it had brought me to New Haven. I didn’t know anyone here, except for a guy I had met just once. I had his address in my pocket. There wasn’t much else in there. I didn’t have any money; drunks often don’t. Just enough for beer, vodka, and the gas to D.C. In New Haven, with beer in the cooler and vodka on the dash, I had a cash surplus. Maybe tomorrow I’d eat.

But money really wasn’t an issue. I had a skill taught to me by an uncle in the family business, and got a job an hour after I got to town. I guess drunk upholsterers weren’t an oddity down here either, but unless I wanted to pass out in the park without a Kennedy, I’d need a place to stay. I had an address in my pocket.

“Washington is too far,” my friend Donna had said. I knew she was right when she said it, but I didn’t know where else to go. “Go to New Haven. Go to ernst. He’ll help you.” She said it like the Promised Land was just over the horizon.

“Who the hell is ernst?”

“You remember him. You met him at that party, out on the back porch by the keg.”

“The guy with the hair?” She gave me her “you’re an idiot” look. It was a stupid thing for me to say; my hair reached halfway down my back. “The one with the black leather jacket with the safety pins all over it, his hair all greased up and piled into that Little Richard pompadour? You mean that guy?”

“Yeah,” she said. “Stop in New Haven and check it out. It’s only two hours away. Far enough, but close enough to come back. Here’s the address.” She gave me a piece of paper and I stuffed it in my pocket, but there was no way I was going there. I had a brother in D.C. and I wanted an up-close look at those senate cloakrooms. I told her I’d think about it and hit the road.

So now I stood in front of an apartment door on Whalley Avenue in New Haven, unsure whether to knock or not. I thought about sleeping in the park alone and rapped on the door. It was opened by a woman. I liked what I saw. She stood there waiting for me to say something.

“I’m looking for ernst,” I said.

“He’s not here.”

“Do you know when he’ll be back?”

“Not really. Could be an hour, tomorrow, or a couple of days.”

“My name’s Steven. I’m a friend of his.”

“I’m Diane, one of his roommates.” I thought she gave me a strange look when she said it. But I had to go forward; the park hung on in my head.

“I was hoping I could talk to him tonight. Any idea where he could be?”

“No,” she said, again with the look. Then she said, “You can come in and wait for a while. Maybe he’ll show up.” She stepped aside and motioned me into the apartment; then she closed the door on my past.

So what had she opened it up to? My continuing education.

ernst didn’t come home that night, and I spent the night on the sofa. For the next two days, I got up in the morning, went to work, and came home to Diane. She took me out. One night it was performance art, the next an underground gallery for an exhibit of one of her friend’s work. These were not black-tie affairs. To me it seemed more like a benevolent Halloween, all goons and ghouls banned. Marilyn Monroe evening dress, red lips talking to spike-haired punk. Big beard, motorcycle jacket, and chains arm in arm with a blond flower child. A hush-puppied, elbow-patched college professor skipping through the people, waving his hands in front of his face and giggling. I’d never seen anything like it.

I didn’t really understand the art and it didn’t matter. I had never seen such a diverse collection of people. I lived in a small conservative town where high school football was king, and the police chief walked on water. Women were good girls or sluts, and men were greasers or jocks. Longhaired hippies and braless chicks upset the balance, but those were your choices. You had to belong. These people didn’t seem to care and I liked that feeling. And I really liked Diane. Except for those two looks in the hallway a couple of days ago, I hadn’t detected anything else false, at least on her part. She seemed to be the person I saw. She’d introduce me with “This is my friend Steven from Massachusetts,” and it felt warm and gracious and caring. I was her friend. We talked a lot, she drank, and I drank a lot. ernst hadn’t come home yet, and I still hadn’t told Diane the details of my friendship with her roommate. I’d told her everything else.

On Saturday, Diane told me she was a lesbian. “Get outta here,” I said.

“Steven, I’m serious.”

“Get outta here.”

She smiled at me.

I’d heard all the jokes and the rumors and innuendo floating around my hometown but had never given it much thought. I do that a lot. But I had never met a lesbian before, at least not knowingly. I thought about it now. My entire experience with a sexual orientation different than mine flashed before my eyes. Well, it didn’t have to flash, did it? She was sitting right there. It didn’t take much thinking; Diane had already shown me who she was.

She reached out and put her hand on my forearm. “Steven,” she said. “I’m a lesbian.” This time she had a little more steel in her eyes.

“So what?” I asked.

“Good,” she answered.

“I knew it anyway.”

“You did? How?”

“Because I…”

“No wait, let me guess,” she said. “Because otherwise you’d be sleeping in my bed.”

“That’s right,” I said.

“Well, I do like you a lot,” she teased, making me like her even more.

We’d been sitting at the kitchen table, me with a Bloody Mary and Diane with straight V8, when this whole lesbian thing started, and now that it was over, we were still sitting there. Nothing had changed.

“My girlfriend Jill is coming over around eleven,” Diane said. “We’re headed downtown to hang some posters, and there’s an exhibit over at Southern that Jill wants to see. Are you coming with us?”

“Is it all right if I hang around here?”

“Sure it is. But if I leave you here, you’ll be too drunk to take us dancing tonight. And we are going dancing, aren’t we? You promised.”

“Dancing?”

“That’s right. I’ve told Jill all about you and she still wants to meet you, and you’re going to like her. Come on, we’ll have a good time.”

“Are you sure? I don’t want to be in the way.”

“You won’t and besides…”

“Besides what?” I asked.

“Besides, then you can drive instead of us having to take the bus.” She smiled at me.

I smiled back. Then spent the rest of the day and most of the night being both wheelman and third wheel for two beautiful women. I hung posters on telephone poles for some gay/lesbian alliance. We visited painters and photographers, silk screeners and poets, all in different spaces in some artist co-op. People talking about things other than football or a job or each other, and me having a hard time keeping up. I was trying to absorb as much as I could. Diane and Jill were my guides, telling me what I needed to understand, and why they liked certain things and not others. They often didn’t agree. They’d shrug their shoulders and move on, leaving me to decide on my own and for my own reasons. Sometimes Diane and Jill were both wrong. We went to Southern for the exhibit there and then for pizza and beer, my treat. The whole day had been theirs.

“Do you think he can dance?” Diane asked Jill, motioning toward me with her head.

“I don’t know,” said Jill. “He looks kind of awkward just walking around.”

“Well, he can watch us,” said Diane.

“You’ll like that, won’t you Steven?” Jill winked.

I’d danced once before. Like a long-legged penguin, I’d stiff-jointed through the obligatory dances at my wedding. I didn’t step on my mother-in-law’s gown, but I had no desire to ever dance again. But Diane said I promised to take them dancing, not a promise I remembered, but it could be in the bottom of a bottle somewhere. And despite her wink, Jill was right. I wouldn’t mind watching.

“I’ll need to sober up a little first,” I said, handing Diane the pint of vodka from my back pocket. “I’ll stick to beer.”

“Good idea,” said Jill.

Back at the apartment, the girls said they were going to take a nap and went off to the bedroom. I didn’t believe them for a minute, but a nap sounded good. I lay down on the sofa. ernst still hadn’t come home.

I woke up to the pipes banging as the shower shut off. I went into the kitchen for a beer and caught Diane and Jill coming out of the bath, all warm and cuddly, wrapped in towels. “Did I miss anything?” I asked.

“Wise guy,” said Diane.

Jill just blushed.

“Why don’t you take a shower,” said Diane. “And we’ll be ready when you get out.” I didn’t believe that for a minute either. I’d been married. I figured I had at least an hour, so I shaved and everything. I even put on a clean blue T-shirt with a pocket on the chest.

The girls came out of the bedroom with little over theirs. Dresses like silk stretched so tight goose bumps weren’t hidden, slit to the top of the thigh and garters holding up their stockings, hair and makeup like Betty Boop or 1920s flappers. I thought of Van Morrison singing about girls dressing up for each other. I knew they weren’t dressing up for me.

“I see you changed your shirt,” said Diane.

They took me to a dance club. I may have been the only straight guy there. My dates weren’t underdressed. I felt kind of like a kid in a candy store, but it was all eye candy, and I couldn’t touch. I didn’t mind watching, but the girls wouldn’t let me be. I’d always been able to resist one woman pulling me by the arm toward a dance floor, but one on each arm was just too much. I gave in. Arms flailing about, jumping, twisting, and shaking my butt, I began to relax. I’d gone back to vodka, which didn’t hurt. Diane and Jill introduced me as “our friend Steven from Massachusetts.” That wasn’t a small detail to me. With all the drinking and jiggling and touching and laughing, it was a great night. I never even thought about D.C. I was having more fun than a congressman in an opium den.

In the morning, having no idea how I got there, I woke up on the sofa. Hushed voices from the kitchen rolled me over onto my back. I reached for my glasses and putting them on I punished myself to my feet. There’s a harsh reality to these mornings, these blackout mornings. Not knowing what you did or didn’t do while deadheaded is paranoia at its best. Stupid or stupendous, callous or caring, it’s you. You own it, and you don’t remember, but this morning I’d find out pretty quick. Witnesses were in the kitchen. The girls smiled and said good morning as I passed by to the bathroom. I was okay. They were talking to me.

“Did you have a good time last night?” Diane asked as I sat down with them.

“Yeah,” I said, reaching for the sugar.

“What was the name of that dance you were showing us?” asked Jill.

I gave her my best blank stare.

“The Watergate I think you called it,” Diane told me.

“I don’t think it’s going to catch on,” said Jill.

They’d gotten some pastries from the place on the corner and we sat drinking coffee and talking. They made fun of my dancing and I told them the things I’d liked at the artist co-op. It was almost an hour before I cracked open my first beer, and an hour later Jill got up to leave. Diane and I walked her to the door and Jill gave me a hug. “See you soon,” she said. I left the two of them saying good-bye and went back to the kitchen. The truth is, I felt good for the first time in over a year.

Diane came back, poured herself another cup of coffee, and sat back down at the table with me. “Diane,” I said. “I really like Jill. I’m happy for you.”

“Thank you. She likes you too. Even after spending time with you and even after seeing you dance.”

It hadn’t taken long, just a few days, and we were comfortable together. We left the table, moved to the living room, and spent a nice quiet Sunday afternoon. I sat on the sofa reading a Rolling Stone; Diane sat across from me sewing. She wasn’t domesticated. I don’t mean she was wild, although she was, but she wasn’t “housewife” sewing. Diane was making lilies, two inches big, black satin shell curved around a pink satin center, with small silver, blue, and red hearts hung on fine threads to make the stamen. Hand-sewn and beautiful, they were even a bit erotic. I still have mine today; I wear it on my suit jacket lapel to weddings.

ernst came home. No pompadour, his hair hung down below his shoulders, safety pins on torn jeans instead of the pin-laden leather jacket, and wearing an Oasis d’Neon T-shirt. He walked across the room and said, “Hi, Diane” and “Hey, man” to me, and continued to the bathroom.

“He doesn’t know who you are,” Diane said to me.

“I…I…”

She laughed at me. “I knew it,” she said. “You said you were a friend of his, but then you thought I’d know where he was and when he’d be back. You don’t know him.”

I thought about the looks she had given me in the hallway. “Why’d you let me in?” I asked.

“I knew you needed me to.”

There was nothing much I could say to that.

ernst came back in and sat on the sofa with me. “I’m ernst,” he said.

“I’m Steven, from Massachusetts.” He gave me his best blank stare. Face reddening, I squirmed in my seat. Across the room Diane was smiling. “We met at a party six or seven months ago. Out on the back porch, by the keg? I was with Rick and Donna?”

“Oh yeah,” he said. “I think I remember. What’s up?”

I told him my story. How I’d had to get out of town and ended up here. That I needed a place to stay until I could find my own.

“He’s been here four or five days,” said Diane. And then, “I think he should stay.”

“Okay,” said ernst. And that was that.

I stayed on that sofa for a month, maybe six weeks, and then in New Haven for about a year. A year I’ve never closed the door on. But the time came to go back to Massachusetts. Hazen was there, and that was just the way it was.

Heading north on I-95 with a beer between my legs and half a joint in the ashtray, I left New Haven. But I didn’t stay away, and I was always welcome to that sofa. A couple of years later Whalley Avenue broke up, the roommates went their separate ways. My trips became less frequent.

I lost touch with Diane. That’s my fault, and it’s one of my life’s regrets. But it’s partly because of her that I’m a happy man today. Physical attraction got me involved with women, but after meeting Diane I needed much more. I looked for women with her fearlessness, independence, compassion, sense of humor, and yes, even a good dose of wildness.

I was lucky. I found Sheila.

And because of Diane, I’ve never turned anyone in trouble away from my door. But it’s never been a drunken stranger knocking, not even a Kennedy.

 

——————–

Steven Masterson is a storyteller and humorist who lives in southeastern Massachusetts with his wife and business partner, Sheila. Steven is an upholsterer, Sheila a decorator. Steven worked toward a liberal arts degree at Roger Williams College and is a card carrying member of the Woodstock generation. He’s no spring chicken.

Second Death

By William McGrath

t had been a good day for Tommy O’Brien and his mom, Joanie. The pair spent a good part of the day walking in the nearby Knickerbocker Lake State Park. Ever since Tommy was a little boy, the park had been part of his life. He held fond memories of long days hiking and swimming with his parents and sister, Maggie, in the park. Like Tommy, his mother, Joanie, enjoyed nature, and she was a big proponent of going to the park. Tommy inherited his mother’s love of nature, and he studied about Knickerbocker Park and learned that the grounds of the park had been mostly left in their “natural” state. Not everything was natural, as two public pools, two golf courses, and a big picnic area had been added to make sure that people who did not care about rock formations from the last Ice Age had something to do when they entered the park.

Tommy and Joanie had been hiking along the park’s trails for a good part of thirty-five years. Tommy enjoyed hiking more than fishing, and he was particularly happy when they reached a mountain peak and looked down upon the mighty Hudson River. Joanie never rushed him when they hit a point of natural beauty, mainly because she, too, possessed a quiet appreciation of the great outdoors—an appreciation that called for silence when reaching the peak of a mountain or the edge of the majestic Hudson River. Joanie’s love of nature complemented her spirituality, and often she would go alone to the park to sit and watch the ducks as they rested in the open water of the icy lake.

Unfortunately, the amount of time that the pair spent in the park had declined precipitously in the last three years. Their reduced visits coincided with the descent of the black cloud of Alzheimer’s upon Joanie. As the disease progressed, Tommy considered walks in the park too risky. Joanie was unpredictable now, and he feared having an incident, especially if that incident was going to occur in the deep woods. Besides, a mile walk on flat ground now passed as a good day of exercise for Joanie, and the park’s shortest trail was two miles long and traversed up and down a series of hills.

It was late April and the temperature had climbed to the mid-sixties. The sun was shining and Joanie was having a good day, which meant she was walking without a limp, and she was responding when Tommy asked her to do something. Tommy looked outside and thought of the park. He still had his reservations, but he decided to push on anyway. It was the kind of day where it felt great to be outside enjoying the weather, especially if you were enjoying that weather in a park coming into spring.

Tommy and Joanie ended up staying in the park much longer than Tommy had envisioned. The beautiful weather made their stay enjoyable, and the park was still empty, as the peak summer season was still months away. There was not a cloud in the sky and the day stayed warm, but it was never hot. Their walk along the shortest trail took about two times longer than the same walk made just five years before, but Tommy did not mind. The days were getting longer, and mother and son really had nowhere to be on this day. It was after 4 p.m., which was five hours after they entered, when the pair got into their car and went home.

Once they were home, Tommy made his way to the porch, where he sat sipping a cold pint of Budweiser, letting the good feelings of the day rush over him like a warm shower. Joanie sat directly across from him on the porch in her favorite chair. As Tommy stared at his mom, he realized that she had been sitting in the chair for over five minutes. It was welcomed relief for Tommy, because Joanie rarely sat for five minutes anymore but instead shuffled endlessly. When she shuffled, Tommy would have to follow her to make sure she did not fall. She often fell because she had difficulty seeing a set of stairs or a curb that was in her path. Today, Joanie sat with her cup of Lipton tea in her Thermos cup. Tommy didn’t even worry about Joanie spilling. It was late in the day, so if she spilled, he would just take her inside and clean her up. He watched as his mom raised and lowered the tea. There were no spills today, just the slurping sound of a satisfied tea drinker. Soon Joanie’s cup was empty.

Tommy enjoyed the rest of his beer. He was thinking about getting another but then looked at his watch. It was 5:30 p.m. He decided to just sit and admire the day. He needed to start dinner, but there was no rush. Tommy had purchased two fresh slabs of striped bass at the local market. He was not a huge fan of striped bass, but he knew that it was his mom’s favorite. Tommy remembered when Joanie used to scour the local markets to find the freshest fish at the cheapest price. Tommy, too, had checked a few places when buying tonight’s meal, but he had not been as diligent as Joanie. It was spring and the striped bass were plentiful. Tommy bought some really fresh fillets from the market just down the hill. He also picked up asparagus and red potatoes to round out the dinner.

Tommy entered the kitchen and started to prepare dinner. He blackened the fish and roasted the asparagus with garlic and rosemary. Tommy was not a big fan of fish, but he was proud of himself for making such a wonderful dish. He placed the plates on the placemats on the kitchen table and placed a towel over each plate to keep things warm. He next took Joanie to the bathroom.

Tommy started the routine that the pair had crafted over the last few months. Tommy’s job was to undo Joanie’s garments down to her undergarments, after which Joanie would do the rest. Tommy fully expected to find out that Joanie had wet herself, but was pleasantly surprised when he learned that she had not. Tommy waited patiently to help his mom clean herself. It was a new thing for Tommy to clean Joanie. He had been squeamish about the arrangement at first, but as the disease continued to bankrupt Joanie’s mind, he realized he had to help her.

Today continued to be different. When the pair entered the bathroom, Joanie signaled for Tommy to wait outside. Tommy did not know what to do. He did not want to insult Joanie, but he was unsure if she could do everything herself. He decided to wait before barging in on his mom. He waited and waited and then after a few minutes, he heard the toilet paper roll rotating and then a flush. He waited for another minute and then the door flew open and Joanie stood there. She still wore the blank stare of Alzheimer’s, but there was a sense of something which Tommy could not put his finger on. Tommy inspected Joanie and did not see any stains. It was then that he realized she had gone to the bathroom by herself without suffering an accident. He led her back to the table and sat her down to eat.

Tommy and Joanie feasted on the spoils of the Hudson Valley bounty. The striped bass was very fresh and tasted delightful in the light oil and seasoning. But as good as the fish tasted, the potatoes stole the show. The tenderness of the potatoes soaked in butter and salt was irresistible. Joy entered Tommy’s heart when he realized that Joanie had eaten her whole meal. Her appetite had faded as she slowed under the heavy yoke of the disease, but not tonight. Her fish, her potatoes, and even her asparagus were gone when Tommy cleared the plates. There were some potatoes left in the pot, and Tommy considered giving more to Joanie. He decided not to, only because he had something else for her. He placed the leftovers in a bowl and wrapped them with plastic before placing them in the refrigerator.

Tommy grabbed two bowls from the kitchen cabinets and scooped out two big scoops of vanilla ice cream into each bowl. He returned to the table and gave Joanie a bowl with a spoon. Tommy let his bowl sit so that the ice cream could melt a little. While he was waiting for his to melt, he went over to help Joanie with hers. Much to his surprise, Joanie grabbed the spoon out of his hand and began to eat the dessert by herself. He watched to make sure that she did not eat too much too fast. He knew that Joanie was prone to giving herself ice cream headaches. Joanie paced quickly through the ice cream, but not quickly enough to cause problems. Satisfied that Joanie was all right, Tommy returned to his bowl and made quick work of his dessert.

With dessert completed, Tommy cleaned the bowls in the sink and then placed them into the dishwasher. He led Joanie to the front sitting room, which had a great view of the yard. Tommy opened the windows to let some air into the room. It was a clear, crisp night. It was the kind of night that cooled quickly, unlike the summer nights that took their time producing comfortable temperatures. Tommy decided that he, too, would sit with his mom in the front room and watch TV. The Mets were on tonight. They had been doing well, and Tommy was hopeful that it would be a good year.

The TV did not turn on immediately, and Tommy began to troubleshoot the problem in his mind. He recalled that his dad had issues with the sitting room TV. He remembered a loose connection to the cable plate on the wall as the cause. He looked behind the TV and found a gaggle of wires. He could not see very well and decided that he needed a flashlight to continue. He checked on Joanie, who continued to sit in her chair while she looked out the window. Tommy, content that Joanie was fine, began his search for a flashlight.

Tommy remembered that his mom kept the flashlights in a hallway closet close to the kitchen. He went to the closet and began looking for one. The closet was cluttered, and as he looked, he also organized some of the clutter. He found a flashlight in the back of the closet.

Tommy came back downstairs and carried the flashlight to the front sitting room. He popped on the flashlight and inspected the wires. One wire was disconnected from the cable outlet. Tommy popped the wire back in and tried the TV again. The picture filled the screen and Gary Cohen’s voice became the sound. The Mets had just made out, and next inning the heart of the order was coming up. There was just enough time to get Joanie ready for bed before the Mets would bat again. Tommy was sure the combination of exercise and fresh air would bring sleep quickly to Joanie.

Tommy rose from his chair and walked toward his mom. As he walked, Tommy noticed that she was smiling again. It made him so happy to see her smile. Her smile had always been a beacon of hope for him, and it lit up his life. He decided to just let her be. He could not remember Joanie being so happy in some time. Tommy grew emotional thinking how miserable his mother’s life had become while under the spell of Alzheimer’s. He missed her smile; he missed her laugh.

Tommy grabbed another pint of Budweiser. He sat back down in the chair opposite of Joanie and began to watch the game. The Mets were playing the Marlins. It was a pitching duel. Dillon Gee was pitching for the Mets, and Javier Vázquez was pitching for the Marlins. Tommy watched as both pitchers mowed down their opposition. After three innings of scoreless ball, Tommy had finished his second Budweiser. He decided it was as good a time as any to use the bathroom. He looked over at his mom to see if she needed anything and suddenly realized that she had fallen asleep. He debated letting her just sit there asleep, but decided it would not be a smart thing to do. She had settled awkwardly in the chair, and he knew that she would have a stiff neck in the morning if he let her stay in that position.

His mom had become a light sleeper lately, but it took a good shake from Tommy to wake her. He led her back into her room, where he helped her get into her nightgown. He next led her into the bathroom, and this time Joanie let Tommy help her go to the bathroom. She also allowed him to brush her teeth. Tommy next led Joanie to the bed and tucked her in and kissed her lightly on her forehead. He whispered, “Good night, Mom,” in her ear. And then another odd thing happened. Joanie whispered, “Good night, Tommy.” It had been weeks since she had spoken so fluently, but Tommy was happy that she had just said good night. He looked at his mom, hoping that she would talk some more. He really missed her. But she had already fallen asleep.

He was about to lock her door as he left the room but stopped. He knew that for safety, it was better to lock Joanie’s door because of the night walking, but he decided to try with the door unlocked tonight.

Tommy proceeded back to the kitchen, where he grabbed another beer from the refrigerator before returning to the front room. He sat down in his chair and resumed enjoying the baseball and cool air of the late spring day. The Mets had scored one run on a pair of doubles, and were leading the game one to nothing. That was the last thing Tommy remembered about the game.

Tommy awoke to the sound of some movie blasting on the TV. He quickly went over and turned it off. He next noticed that it was so late that it was now early. A dim ray of light was visible in the east. The robins were singing, welcoming the new day. Tommy had a connection to robins. Even while he was in prison, he remembered their songs penetrating the barred windows to welcome spring. He sat for a second, relaxing to the melody of their perfect song.

Tommy guessed by the emergence of light it was around 5:45 a.m. He walked into the kitchen on his way to check on his mother. He looked at the clock on the microwave and smirked when he saw the time was 5:50. Not a bad guess, he thought. Tommy next visited the bathroom before walking down the hall to check on his mom.

He remembered that he had left the door unlocked, and he suddenly became frightened. What if Mom had wandered? He had been out cold, and he was sure he would have missed her. The only thing that reassured him was that the door to his mother’s room looked undisturbed. He knew if Joanie passed through the door, it would be wildly ajar because Joanie rarely closed a door behind her. He turned the knob on the door and went inside.

His mom was in bed under the covers. He went over to kiss her on the forehead. As he placed his lips on her forehead, he noticed that she was cold. It was not very cold in the room and so he lifted her blanket to feel down around her hip. When he placed his hand down around her hip, he realized that Joanie was stiff. He backed away from his mom for a moment and looked at her. The dawn outside grew in intensity, and as it did the light trickled into Joanie’s room. In the light, Tommy saw that she was still smiling, and if he did not know she had passed, he would have sworn she looked as comfortable as he had seen her in months.

He grabbed her hand and squeezed, only able to say, “I love you, Mom, I always will.” Then while holding her hand, he recited an Our Father and a Hail Mary. He next pulled up a chair that sat at the foot of her bed and just sat staring at his mother. Tommy could still see Joanie’s bold, beautiful face through the veil of age. He remembered Joanie’s positive personality. She had been his strength for so many years. He thanked God for making her his mother. He was always proud of her because she stood up for what she believed in, and she always thought independently, never feeling compelled to follow the crowd. But most of all, Tommy remembered how much Joanie loved her family. She had proven her love again and again by going the extra mile for everyone.

Tommy suddenly felt a swirl of emotions. He never realized how sad he would be when this day came. People had warned him that losing Joanie would be hard, even if he thought that she had died already under the weight of Alzheimer’s. He did not believe people when they told him this, until today. He was so sad that he was nearly paralyzed.

At the same time, Tommy felt relief and joy. All the indignities his mom had suffered at the hands of the horrible Alzheimer’s had ended. Her second death had come in a peaceful, dignified way. She was Joanie again, not Joanie with Alzheimer’s.

Tommy remained seated at the foot of Joanie’s bed for a half hour before rising from his chair. He went to the kitchen and made coffee. He poured himself a steaming mug and left it black. He went to the front porch to enjoy the sunrise. A scout crow cawed in the distance as the sun shone down on the budding trees. The crow made Tommy think about his mom and how she believed that crows were guides sent to take us to the next world. He placed his mug down on the porch and listened to the crow, all the time wondering if the spirit of his father or his aunt was contained in the bird.

Tommy next made a mental list of the people he needed to call. He would first call his sister and then the undertaker before calling neighbors and friends. He wanted to make sure to get it right because it was Mom. As he reviewed the list, he realized it had grown shorter. There were fewer relatives alive, and several friends had passed as well.

Sufficiently satisfied that he had the complete list, Tommy dropped his guard and let the bow wave of grief pour over him. As it did, he sobbed. He had always known that the second death was coming. The one person in this world who had loved him unconditionally was now gone. He could not think of another person who had done so much for him. He suddenly felt frightened that he was all alone in the world. But before he could spiral down out of control, he grabbed hold of himself and quietly reassured himself that he would hold it together and make sure that he did things right for his mom.

Tommy took some consolation, but was still very sad. It was approaching 7 a.m. It was 4 a.m. on the West Coast. He knew he had to call his sister first. He just was not ready to face things yet, so he sat peacefully thinking of his mom and her wonderful life.

After a time, Tommy rose from the deck and began the process of notifying friends and family. He called his sister Maggie first. The pair shared a good cry, and Maggie let Tommy know that she would be home tonight. Tommy next called the undertaker. The undertaker told him that he would get dressed and be over shortly. He also told Tommy to call the police and explain to them that his mom had passed in her sleep. The undertaker told Tommy that the police would send a car around to the house. The undertaker needed the police there so they could release Joanie’s body to him.

The two calls were exhausting and afterward Tommy returned to Joanie’s room, where his mom lay smiling. He imagined that she would be smiling forever now, and that made him really happy. But what made Tommy the happiest was that Mom had died in her own bed, under her own covers. Her second death had come with dignity.

 

——————–

William McGrath has spent the last thirty-five years working in Corporate America. Mr. McGrath has always had a desire to write and now that youngest of his four children is heading to college, he and his wife of 32 years, Liz McGrath, have jointly agreed that there is no time like the present to start writing. Mr. McGrath has written three novels and several short stories. Second Death is his first published piece and is an excerpt from his novel “Snapped”. The story is dedicated to his mom who suffers from Alzheimer’s.

Who Was Gregorio Cortez

By Dee Redfearn

hree weeks after the Fourth of July, the people of Realitos settled into their customary niches, all except for Chu Cho Gonzalez Cortez. He stood on the curb, watching a cobalt-blue wagon lolling toward Main and First. The wagon had seen better days. Frayed gold tassels fringed each corner. The yellowed cover advertised a sideshow, stenciled in bold red print: Tea remedies, readings by Tillie, a Gypsy dancer, and more. Although unable to upstage the flatbed that followed, the and more boggled Chu Cho’s mind, a mind much in need of sobriety.

Moby, the Fish was scrawled on corrugated cardboard in red letters and attached to an enormous crate. The truck traveled slowly; its motor hummed with the weight it hauled and drew a crowd. A tarp, not quite large enough to cover the sides, cloaked the tank that held—what? Two men stepped up to help with the unveiling, then backed off with what they saw.

This was the first time Chu Cho, or anyone else in Realitos, had seen a whale. A 1,200-pound, 11-foot calf whale stared at him through the glass. Not quite believing the stare was meant for him, Chu Cho looked over his shoulder. Suddenly he took center stage. It felt like one of those rare moments when man, drunk or sober, ready or not, comes face-to-face with his fate. Sensing that half the town stood gawking, Chu Cho turned.

“What…?” he said.

What a magnificent creature of silver-gray fish skin and a ribbed belly of perfect symmetry. The eye darted this way and that before their gazes locked.

“Que loco,” Chu Cho said and backed away.

Barabbas, the name tattooed on the truck driver’s arm, cleared his throat. Cartons of shrimp and squid, packed in dry ice, lay near his feet. He said the boxes had been shipped from Port Isabelle, where the whale had been transported from Baja, then lifted by helicopter onto the truck. Somehow the calf had gotten separated from its mother. A pod like hers (according to marine science calculations) was due to cross the Gulf of Mexico at the end of this week. Barabbas had inherited the job from his cousin, a marine biologist, who had arranged Moby’s release near Corpus Christi Bay. Everyone watched while he explained his mission and set up an elaborate contraption plugged into a generator that kept water circulating at a certain temperature. For a creature so enormous, so full of life, the whale looked listless, floating in the tank of murky seawater.

“Did he say they had to get her there in time to meet up with her kind?” someone nudged Chu Cho and asked. He shrugged.

“How can that happen? Someone’s really got to know what they’re doing. And be lucky.”

The man on his left moved in for a closer look.

*   *   *

“That’s it, folks. Take a good look. Harmless, you ask?” Smoke streamed from Barabbas’s lips as he spoke. He flexed his muscle to expand the tattoo on his bicep. “Now don’t let that high-pitched tone scare you. She’s just singing a fish song, of love maybe, yearning to get back to the deep blue. Maybe she just needs company.” He took off his cap, whose band read, “Save the Whales.” He held it to his heart before passing it around.

“Ladies and gents, you obviously know how much shrimp cost.” He eyed the crowd. “Or maybe you don’t. In either case, reach down into your hearts and help Moby out here.”

To view a whale was a first, let alone pass the hat to save one, unless this cause was for Barabbas to jangle a bit of change in his pocket; some had seen his kind before. No le hace. It didn’t matter; he might be sincere. Some reached into their pockets; some shook their heads before walking away. The clinking of quarters and pennies blended with the clanks and clunks of Chu Cho’s rake and hoe that he tossed in the trunk of his car. He was late for work, but he turned back to have another look and to toss in a quarter.

“Hey, you.”

Chu Cho pointed to himself.

Barabbas nodded. “Don’t forget the show. Eight o’clock tonight. Be there.”

*   *   *

The and more had lingered. Not knowing if it was Moby or the Gypsy woman that lured, he found himself in front of the cobalt-blue wagon at eight sharp. Whatever the reason, the Gypsy woman did not disappoint. Her plump stature was as unfit for the small stage attached to the wagon in back of the truck. People gathered around her wagon to watch.

She wore a black satin skirt, a jute blouse secured at the waist with a purple sash, and gold earrings. Gypsy’s face was staged to attract: cheeks powdered, hair hennaed, nails painted. She fingered cymbals that blinged with each bang of her hips and inspired applause and intermittent whistles. After the crowd thinned, several passed by the tank, eyes cast down, as if viewing a casket. They plunked pennies, quarters, whatever change they had into Barabbas’s hat.

Chu Cho took a swig. He looked at the crowd before turning his attention toward the tank. He blinked his eyes; Moby appeared blurred. He staggered in the direction of a light that caught his eye, and somehow he ended up in Gypsy’s tent. He was there out of curiosity, out of a need for company, or just out of not wanting to face another immense night alone. He’d never had a reading and couldn’t imagine that a reading could last the night. But it did. He remembered vaguely the word “adventure” whispered, and the queen of hearts turning up repeatedly, and so it went. Embarrassingly so.

*   *   *

Going about minding his own business, the garbage man saw, or thought he saw, Chu Cho leave Gypsy’s tent at five in the morning. And more, he saw Chu Cho kiss the tank; that’s right, kiss. The morning sun would stoke embers of speculation that made ears blush: Some would say Chu Cho was in love. But who with? Gypsy woman? A fish? Rumors started at dawn. Things that happened in and around the cobalt-blue wagon created a spark in the otherwise dull town of Realitos.

What had really happened that night? Had Chu Cho spent the night in her bed? Had he really kissed a fish? When all was said and done, the state of affairs sounded unbelievable, even unnatural. When someone flat asked him, “Que pasó, Chu Cho?” he couldn’t, or wouldn’t, remember.

*   *   *

That night, the click of a lamp was the last thing Chu Cho heard.

“Where the hell am I?” Chu Cho opened one eye and then the other to find his head nestled in a cushy set of pink teats. “Oh, my God.” He eased himself away from the heat of Tillie’s body and drew the cover to his chin. “Is it night?”

“No. It’s 4 a.m.”

“What happened?”

Hand to mouth, Tillie yawned. “Relax.”

How? he thought but didn’t say. Here he lay in a tent beside a woman he hardly knew. She could well be a thief or worse. His mother had warned him of Gypsies when he was a boy. They steal children, she had used to say, and have their way with them. And here he was in bed with Tillie, a Gypsy. Good God. He must have been desperate. Chu Cho, who never wore a watch, checked the wrist. “Where does the time go?” He reached for excuses. “Aha, poor Lucy. I’ve gotta run.”

“Lucy who?” Tillie’s brow knitted into a worried look.

“Lucinda, my goat. If I don’t milk her, well,” he gestured, “it’s horrible.”

Tillie sighed, a deep, rather pitiful sigh, and upon release allowed her coverlet to slip from one shoulder.

Chu Cho shut his eyes. Upon slowly opening them, two exposed mounds of pink flesh presented themselves, with attentive nipples. Chu Cho stared hard at the freckle on Tillie’s shoulder.

“My love,” Tillie began, “ju are wonderful, and funny.”

“I’m funny?” he asked, making the effort to keep eyes-front. Really?

“You sing, you dance.” She continued, “Oh, yes. You’re a hopeless romantic, Chu Cho. Last night, you professed love.”

“Professed? Did I say profess?”

“Not exactly.” She tilted her chin in his direction.

“No, no way am I funny. Funny’s not me.”

“Well, I think you are my copita de miel. In a very charming way.”

“No, no, no. I’m not charming. I’m, I’m”—he scratched the back of his head—“I’m a drunk. Ask anybody. I drink. A lot. And look.” He reached for his threadbare khaki pants, wadded and tossed on the nightstand. “What sort would wear pants like these?”

“Ju,” she smiled.

He reached for the first thing he could find to cover up—a crocheted tablecloth.

She gave his shoulders a gentle push. “Ju, stay right where you are. I will brew you a cup of mint tea.” (The thought of mint tea sounded nauseating.) “No sugar, of course,” she added. “Ju are sweet enough.” Wrapped in her coverlet, sarong-style, her enormous hips rhythmically bounced from side to side. Her legs, a pair of oversize ninepins, couldn’t possibly find balance on such tiny feet in black slippers, but somehow she managed.

“Oh, God,” he said and laid his head in the palms of his hands to ease the throbbing. Last night when she danced in her purple sash, with her earrings dangling and finger cymbals jangling, she had looked pretty good, but in the cold light of day…

“Listen, Gypsy, the first thing you need to know is that in Realitos there’s nothing to do but talk, talk, talk. Better to pretend nothing happened. Deny, deny, deny—what happened to happen didn’t happen. You know? People talk in small towns.”

“But why?”

Chu Cho drew a blank. “Because,” he began, “…because there is reputation to consider. I’m not thinking about myself, but you’re a woman, a single woman.”

“Chu Cho, who cares what people think?” she said.

*   *   *

In a way, she was right. Of course, his mother would have cared, were she alive. But she wasn’t, and who was he kidding? He had no friends. Most of his buddies were dead and gone in the war. The fact that he came back from Nam was not a pleasant thought. So at night he drank. He hated doing things he regretted later, but here he was. He couldn’t even remember if he’d reduced himself to a brute, forcing himself upon this poor woman.

“That’s it. No more. No more booze.”

“Chu Cho, you’re so hard on yourself. You’re not at fault. Practicality is. I have but one bed; the reading took longer than expected. It was late, and you were drunk as a skunk.”

“Drunk?” Chu Cho sat straight up. “How drunk?”

“Plenty drunk.”

Maybe he was too hard on himself. Maybe being drunk wasn’t so bad. His mother would have disagreed. She had expected more from him. He’d played the cards he was dealt. Things hadn’t worked out for him, that’s all. It does for some, and for others, well, others stay in Realitos, Texas, and never know the difference.

“Chu Cho, I have something to tell you. You are a perfect gentleman. For forty years I’ve been saving myself for someone like ju.”

“Someone like me?” The compliment was nice, but the source—well, face it, had the evening called for gentlemanlike behavior? Had he given her the wrong impression? Possible. But what could he say not to lead her on and, at the same time, to get himself out of this mess? He had to think, think, think. He grabbed his pants off the side table. How could he speak harsh words in a gentle manner? This woman was, after all, nice in spite of herself.

“Maybe,” he began, measuring his words, “we should cool it. Take our time. What rises fast, falls quickly. In thinking about myself, I, too, have been saving myself.”

“Oh, Chu Cho, that’s a sign.”

“A sign?” The only sign he could think of was the one attached to the cobalt-blue wagon that he remembered to read: and more. “Maybe, just maybe, it’s a sign not to start something we can’t finish.”

“No. No, no. Quite the contrary. Maybe, just maybe, it’s time to take a chance.” She pulled a silk, fuchsia scarf out of nowhere and ran it across his face. It smelled of lavender and felt smooth, like a healing balm.

“Oh my God, Lucy, and my work. I can hear the grass growing.” He checked his wrist. “Ha, I’m late.” He stood to maneuver into one pant leg, then the other.

“But the tea.”

“You drink it.” He buttoned the first and last button of his shirt, threw open the flap of her tent to check that the coast was clear.

He looked from side to side to make sure the lot was empty.

He passed near the tank. Moby’s listless stare drew him to her. “It looks like you’ve had better days. Yeah, me too. I had no business staying the night, I drank too much, and I don’t feel like going to work.” He felt sorry for this beautiful creature and felt something more he couldn’t put into words. “Look at me.” Moby’s eye met Chu Cho’s; he pressed his forehead against the plate glass. “Look at you, a big fish in a little pond like Realitos. That’s something.” Pressing his head against the tank, he felt the coolness, and against his cheek, the smoothness, and closer still, his lips felt the cold and smooth glass tank.

What the hell was he doing? A 36-year-old man kissing a fish. “Loco. Plain loco.”

*   *   *

Chu Cho eased himself into his chair, which featured a well-defined imprint of his rear in the center of the cushion. The furniture stood exactly where his mother had left it. Even the dust hadn’t stirred, with the exception of an occasional paw print left by Princess, his cat, who strolled at will, her powder-pink nose turned up and lower lip turned down as if something smelled bad. He sat where he always sat to stare and think. He would sleep it off and work later. He clicked his TV on and got up to adjust the rabbit ears. He would show up to work around three. He didn’t want to be too late, like he always was, or not show. Frau Beiterman had been kind to him to hire him as her yardman. She’d hired him in spite of his long hair, which she disapproved of, and his hip-slung britches, which she thought disheveled. But when she checked his driver’s license, she saw his photos. A man who carries a picture of his mother in his wallet and one of the Virgin of Guadalupe couldn’t be bad, she said and hired him on the spot. It was too early to go to work and too late to sleep. But sleep overtook Chu Cho, and he pulled a no-show.

*   *   *

His mother, God rest her soul, had always wanted him to be responsible and to marry well. Who you marry is important in life, she had said. Chu Cho was glad he’d never had to face that decision. He hadn’t particularly wanted to follow in his father’s footsteps. Poor bastard, always hoping for some opportunity to help him get off the treadmill of life in Realitos, always in hopes someone or something would come along to set him free. Chu Cho remembered hot summer nights when family and neighbors gathered like chicks at his father’s feet, listening to him strum “The Ballad of Gregorio Cortez” on his guitar. Whoever the hell that Cortez was—a cousin, his father had said. Who knew? Everyone in Realitos claimed any relation that had achieved success or notoriety. Gregorio was known for shooting a sheriff. Hero? Bandito? That depends on who was telling the story.

Chu Cho’s days were passable. It was night that gave him the willies. This night was no exception. He had slept straight through work, and he roamed the streets of Realitos wearing a crumpled felt hat and threadbare khakis wrinkled like an accordion. Chu Cho passed the San Jose Church, crossed himself, pressed his cheek to a nearby lamppost, and hummed “The Ballad of Gregorio Cortez.”

“Who the hell was Gregorio, anyway?” Chu Cho hiccuped and smiled, pleased to hear his own foul words. “Quien erda, a quién chingo? O lo chingaron?” Humming, he tried to remember the words: “Then said Gregorio Cortez, with his pistol in his hand, ‘Ah, so many Rangers, just to take one Mexican.’”

*   *   *

Bits and pieces of corridos and stories, that’s all that was left. Nothing remained of his family but cairns over hard dirt. Gregorio had been remembered (by at least one man, Chu Cho’s father) as someone worth remembering. What was there left to remember about anyone in the Cortez family, whether named Gregorio or not? Nothing, man, the answer was nothing. Like his war buddies, scattered piece by piece God knows where. And for what? For what? He took a swig and, trying to hum the tune, unzipped his fly, saluting the daisies while he attended to his civic duties. “Chingos,” he said, watering the daises and half-forgetting that he stood in front of the church.

High-pitched sounds pierced the night, like a blues trumpet. It was Moby. Chu Cho leaned his head back, took another swig, and returned Moby’s yelp, with a grito straight from the heart. He’d miss Moby; miss the excitement of something new happening in Realitos. He’d miss having anything happen in Realitos. Which made him think of Gypsy. What had happened between them, anyway? There was a soft light in her little tent. Even if nothing had happened, something could have. He’d met an okay Gypsy woman, who wasn’t all that attractive, but she wasn’t a thief either, and she didn’t steal children. Nearing the tank, Chu Cho answered whale clacks by clicking his own lips. Air spewed from the top wire that protected the tank, and Moby barked a few trumpetlike yelps. The spray cooled his face. He could smell the brine of the ocean, an ocean he hadn’t seen in years. The Gulf wasn’t far, fifty or seventy-five miles. But for some reason he, like everyone else in Realitos, never strayed from home.

Moby’s fish song was as lonely as the ocean, with its unimaginable depths and its shimmering surface lights reflecting phosphorescent life below. Beneath that darkness, always the abyss, the unfathomable. He leaned his head against the glass tank and thought of the dark abyss. Moby didn’t move; her eyes were, in fact, half shut. “You don’t look so good. Where the hell is Barabbas?”

“Barabbas! Barabbas! Donde estás, cabron?

“What is going on?” Gypsy stuck her head out the flap of her tent. “Chu Cho, what are you doing? It’s late.”

“Look here. This big fish don’t look so good. Why?”

“He’s been on one of his binges.” She pointed under the truck. “And it could go on for days.”

“Days? Moby doesn’t have days.”

“It’s worse than that. Moby doesn’t have food.”

“What?”

Gypsy pointed. Barabbas was sprawl-eagle under the truck, empty boxes of shrimp strewn hither and yon.

“Where’s Moby’s food?”

“He sold it.”

“Sold it? What for?”

“For fifty dollars, I think.”

“Pendejo.”

“Worse. He didn’t give me my share.”

“Oh no, Gypsy. You’re not in on this scheme, are you?”

“Maybe it’s not such a good idea, this caravan ride I’ve been on where he gets all the money; I get all the problems. But it’s business. I have a horse to feed. And no money to even buy the old mare a decent headpiece plume.” She pulled the fuchsia scarf from her bosom and dabbed her eyes.

“Don’t.” Chu Cho put his arm around her shoulder. “You don’t have to be with his kind.”

“What’s left for people like me?”

“Anything is better than this, Gypsy. Never forget that.” Chu Cho looked at Barabbas snoring his foul-breathed snores. “Come on, Gypsy. Help me out here.” Chu Cho grabbed the inebriated body by one boot and Gypsy by the other, and together they dragged Barabbas out from under the truck. Chu Cho felt fire in the pit of his gut, out of control, burning. He grabbed Barabbas by the collar.

Bastardo, have you no sense of responsibility? Have you no soul?” Chu Cho shook him till he let out a moan.

“Forget it. He’s out for days.”

“Moby doesn’t have days.” Chu Cho felt his jaws tighten and his fists clinch. “You self-centered, sanctimonious son of a bitche.” He shook him harder. “Who do you think you are, strutting into town like you own the place? Like you own Moby. No one owns anyone. Not that way.” He dropped Barabbas, who lay unfazed with a smile on his lips.

Chu Cho stuck one hand in his hip pocket and brought the other to his head. “Think, man. Think.” He leaned against the glass; Moby’s eyes were closed. “Hey, in there.” He tapped the glass tank. “Do you hear me?” His bottle of whisky lay on the ground. He looked at Moby, then back to Gypsy. Oh, great; a loser, a slacker, and a near-dead fish. Who was the least desirable was up for grabs. He picked up his half-empty bottle and tossed it. The bottle shattered. He leaned his head against the tank. “Oh, man. Oh, man, Moby. You know what? Life is a bag of shit. And try to get rid of a bag of shit. You know what you’re left with?”

“Chu Cho, you’re so hard on yourself.”

“Shut up, Gypsy. Let me think.” Through the glass tank, he heard the slightest bleep, like a submerged submarine, or like a heart monitor before flatlining. Maybe there was time. Maybe there was a way out. Gypsy spoke up.

“You could drive Moby to the Gulf.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“You’re crazy. I can’t drive that big truck.”

“You know how to drive a truck.”

“I drive a pickup. A ’52 Chevy pickup.”

“It’s practically the same.”

Chu Cho hopped onto the fender and peered in the truck’s front window. A mass of gearshifts sprouted from the center console like a crop of goldenrods. He jumped down.

“It’s not the same.”

“Well, what’s so hard? There’s got to be a first, second, and third gear somewhere. Chu Cho, try.”

“I guess I could.”

“Yes, yes.” Gypsy rose on the toes of her ballet slippers as if she might twirl; she clapped her hands instead.

“Could I? Could I possibly move this chingos of a flatbed to the Gulf, crack open the crate, and let the force of the water plunge Moby into the Gulf of Mexico? Hey, Moby, you could be a wetback.” He grinned. “Yeah.” He walked toward the truck. “Wait a minute. Wait one minute.” He stopped. “Let’s be practical. So, I give it a go. So I get the damn truck on the highway. One wrong move, and the police stop me. Red lights blinking, sirens blare, y toda la cosa. One look at me, you know what they’ll say. Marijuano! Smuggler. Where, pinche cops? The whale’s belly? they’ll say. Crazy. This plan is crazy, Gypsy. It will never work.”

“What if it does?”

“What if it doesn’t?” Chu Cho scratched the back of his head. “What can be more crazy than the truth? ‘I’m doing the right thing here, Officer. I’m transporting a whale. Yes, in the back of my truck. Some shithead brought it to Realitos en route to the Gulf to meet up with a marine biologist, but he stopped. He stopped to make a buck. Now the whale needs to go home. So let me do what I have to do, Officer.’ What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing, Chu Cho. That sounds wonderful. Maybe you’ll get a medal. Maybe you’ll get a police escort.”

“Maybe. Now where the hell are the keys?” Gypsy shrugged. “Oh, great.” Together they scavenged through the driver’s pockets and cargo bags. Nada. They combed the ground near the empty boxes of shrimp. Nada. Chu Cho hopped on the fender and looked into the window on the driver’s side. Moonlight struck the dashboard, and Chu Cho reached in and flicked the key ring full of dangling keys. No excuses now. He jumped into the front seat.

“Chu Cho, wait.” Gypsy hoisted herself on the fender and pursed her lips. Chu Cho, eyes rolled upward, leaned closer to her. “I wanted to say…” She hesitated. “Something happened,” she said and pulled him closer still. She kissed him hard on the lips.

He smiled, hit the ignition, and listened to the engine rev up while he adjusted the side-view mirror and his felt hat. Through the mirror, he could see Gypsy waving her fuchsia scarf, looking a bit forlorn. What did she expect? He was a man with a mission.

“Hang in there, big guy. Don’t give up,” he shouted.

Hearing the slosh of water and a few weak whale yelps, Chu Cho tapped on the rear window. “What do you say, Moby? Let’s go for it.”

___

Dee Redfearn is an honors graduate of the Johns Hopkins Advanced Academic Program in fiction writing, where she was nominated for Best New Voices in 2003 and 2004. Her work has appeared in several literary journals, including Willow Review and North Dakota Quarterly. She was also published in Vol. XXIII of Green Hills Literary Lantern and more recently in Under the Sun where her essay “The Camino” was nominated for Best American Essays. Dee is a finalist for the New Letter’s Fiction Award.