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Hairnets by Pamela Boslet Buskin
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Terminus by Peter Van Oort Keers
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My Grandmother's Hands by Sheralyn
Silverstein
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Leaving Bob by Michael Fuchs
Hairnets
by Pamela Boslet Buskin
There were hairnets everywhere,
the thin, filmy kind that her mother wore to bed every night. (That
was one of the few constants in her mother's life, Sophie realized: no matter what condition her mother--or her hair--was in, she never went
to bed without her hairnet bobby pinned firmly in place.) But suddenly,
inexplicably, there were hairnets everywhere--on the tables, on the chairs,
in piles on the floor, and in the fireplace, hundreds in the fireplace. (It would have been so easy just to burn them there, but her mother insisted
on gathering them, all of them.) They were floating through the air,
stuck to the walls, hanging from the ceiling, and most upsetting of all,
drifting down onto her mother's body, on top of the net she was already
wearing on her head to protect her tangled, matted hair, fluttering onto
her bare arms and legs and onto her sometimes bewildered, sometimes frightened
face.
Her mother tried frantically,
desperately, to brush them off, but some clung so tenaciously that she
scratched her skin until it bled trying to get rid of them. She tugged
and tugged at her head and was triumphant when she pulled off her own,
real hairnet and threw it on top of the huge pile on the floor. But
as soon as she got rid of one, a dozen more would come to take its place,
they were endless, they were everywhere, the air was filled with them. Her fingers darted here and there, pointing out the awful things to Sophie,
who sadly and obediently collected them, adding them to the spreading pile.
What was especially strange
was that, except for the hairnets, her mother seemed quite coherent. And she made even this bizarre activity seem like an unpleasant but not
unreasonable event. She was puzzled by the hairnets but accepted
their presence and dealt with them in a logical manner, gathering them
(or having Sophie gather them, as she was too unsteady) and disposing of
them.
At first, Sophie tried to
calmly explain that there weren't really any hairnets, but this only upset
and frightened her mother. Then Sophie acknowledged that maybe they
were there, but she just couldn't see them. Her mother only looked
at her disdainfully. So at last Sophie conceded that yes, the room
was filled with hairnets, and agreed to help gather them.
Sophie was used to dealing
with the usual parade of creatures while her mother was in the throes of
withdrawal--mice, spiders, giant bugs--but they didn't require any active
participation on her part. This was different. The hairnets
elevated the unreality to a whole new level of surrealism. Sophie
was 14 and in many ways still a child, but she was too old for make-believe,
and she felt very strange and foolish racing around her living room pursuing
flying hairnets, scooping them up from the floor, chasing them under the
couch. But she was alone with her mother and frightened, and she
didn't know what else to do.
Her mother, usually so strong,
so solid, was frail and weak now, shivering in her nightgown on the couch.
Sophie tried not to look at her, at the bloated, weary face, the skinny,
pale arms and legs covered with scars and burns and bruises, the tangled
mass of colorless hair. Although she couldn't remember her mother
as beautiful, she'd seen pictures of her--some taken even after Sophie
was born--that showed a lovely woman in elegant clothes, with a flawless
body and a proud face with laughter and joy in her eyes.
Her mother's eyes no longer
saw merriment or joy, they saw only hairnets, thousands and thousands of
hairnets floating like abandoned spiderwebs through the living room.
Sophie dutifully, helplessly
collected them, wondering all the time, why hairnets?, why hairnets?, and
not realizing that somewhere in the depths of her mother's befuddled mind,
she was wondering the same thing.
Return to Prose
Terminus
By Peter Van Oort Keers
"The path up the hill leads to the windmill, but the effort expended
in climbing it leads nowhere." That was my aphoristic advice to Mr.
Paul Larsen when he asked my appraisal regarding the prospects of his securing
a berth as a student at the University of Chicago Law School back in the
summer of 1974.
He looked perplexed. "I don't understand," he responded. "My LSAT score was 710. Surely, that is enough when coupled with a GPA
of 3.8. You were willing to recommend me for admission to the Masters
Program in Sociology, but you seem to be hesitant as far as the Law School
is concerned."
I sat back and smiled at him. "Larsen," I said, "you're a curious
case. With a degree in Sociology you would have no prospects of being
hired at any place where you could do harm. As a lawyer, you would
be dangerous. Of course your scores are high enough. But you're
a borderline sociopath and under the circumstances I'm reluctant to offer
you a letter of commendation. And," I continued, "I suspect that
if you had other options you wouldn't be approaching me. I have some
leverage with the History Department and would be happy to recommend you
there for the same reasons I would be comfortable with you in Sociology. I think you're best suited for a terminal situation.
As a lawyer,
you'd wreak havoc with torts and other fabricated claims. As an academician
you'd merely never be hired anywhere."
Larsen's nostrils flared. He was, by conventional standards, not
a bad looking young man, but the eyes were a trifle dull and his years
as a mediocre high school and college football player had given him something
of a battered look. The flesh had compacted in some strange fashion
between his cheekbones and ears, giving him the look of a man still wearing
a protective helmet.
"Laura says you tried to seduce her." His line had now changed. Laura, his girlfriend, had, in fact, tried to seduce me the previous afternoon
and I now realized that Larsen's pleas for a recommendation may not have
been unrelated to this unfortunate episode.
"Laura was mistaken," I answered, and, "now I think I'm growing tired
of you." In those days, I was prepared for all types of situations
and a moment later I had reached into my drawer and pulled out a cap gun. Larsen did not seem to notice that I was threatening him with a toy.
He lunged towards my desk rather suddenly and I fired the pistol. He fainted from shock.
I phoned the campus police and he was taken
away.
A dozen years later, I read in the New York Times of his murder trial. He had returned to Iowa after having dropped out of the University during
his final semester. Drifting aimlessly from job to job over the years,
he had become embroiled in an affair with a Grain Elevator Manager's wife.
The newspaper reported that he had shot the man during the midst of the
corn harvest that year and had buried him in one of the corn fields. The body was discovered in November, after the harvest had been completed.
The burial job had been crude. Larsen pleaded innocent, but was convicted
of second degree murder in a Polk County courtroom.
He escaped from the penitentiary in 1990. I think of him now and
then, not entirely without a touch of remorse, a sense that I should have
humored him benignly some 25 years ago. On the other hand, we don't
show enough care or consideration for our gentler people and that strikes
me as being the greater shame. Still, whenever a stranger of a certain
age and general appearance approaches me out of the blue, I buy a moment's
time by saying to him, "The path up the hill leads to the windmill, but
the effort expended in climbing it leads nowhere."
But I need not do this. Larsen was recaptured in 1991 and took
his own life the next year.
August 1999
Return to Prose
My Grandmother's Hands 
by Sheralyn Silverstein
My grandmother used to tell
me that her hands were made by God. They could do anything, make
anything, and never quite looked like they belonged to her. Where
she was round and plump, her hands were narrow and small, with long, thin
fingers. When she talked, they moved like feathers in a fickle breeze,
up in a gust of lively conversation one moment, floating down softly the
next. And if you watched the things that she did with them, you could
know who she was and see the same God that she did.
She made chocolates. This was when she and my grandfather owned a candy store.
Early in
the morning, she would slide trays covered with melted chocolate up onto
a counter, then slowly glide nuts and fruits through the thick liquid,
her fingers moving and circling like ice skaters on a darkened pond. She placed the finished candies on cooling trays, arranging them in perfect
rows, pushing the strays into place with a swift poke. People who
tasted her chocolates said it was as though they came from heaven, and
she was always sure to tell them that heaven was exactly where they came
from.
She made lace. In the
evening, after all the dishes had been washed and the letters from Greece
re-read, she would take out the wispy thread and tiny needles, crinkle
her nose to get a better look through her glasses, and, with the smell
of whatever she had fried or baked or roasted for dinner still fresh in
the air, begin the second part of her evening, the thread wrapped around
her palms, the needles balanced between her fingers click click clicking
like exotic bugs. It was only a matter of seconds before the threads
would emerge as diamonds and butterflies and snowflakes and patterns of
her own invention. As her fingers moved, she whispered to herself
in Greek, talking, thinking, talking, thinking. About her children
and grandchildren and someday great-grandchildren, about a world she had
left years ago, about everything. These products of her wishes and
memories and dreams covered everything in her house and in her children's
houses, doilies and napkins and decorations that poked out from under lamps
and sat on the tops and arms of couches. In this way, she spoke to
you, told you that she thought about you every evening when the dishes
were done and sleep was just a few hours away. And that she always
would.
She wiped away sorrow. One summer night, my brother tried to kill himself by cutting an artery
in his neck with a knife. The blood spattered everywhere, on the
kitchen sink, the hallway floor, the sheets on his bed. My mother
was working at the hospital, so my sister and I ran upstairs where my grandmother
lived and begged her to hurry downstairs. She found my brother lying
on the floor of his room, sobbing. She took a sheet from the hall
closet, ripped it into long pieces, and wrapped two or three of them tightly
around the place where he'd tried to end his life. She rubbed his
shoulder and told him in soothing tones that he'd committed a terrible
sin against himself and God, that God was crying and his tears were my
brother's blood. She told him that he would have to go to the hospital
again to get better, and that she would pray for him. He quieted
down after that, and she left him sleeping in his room to come out and
clean his blood. She asked me for a dish rag, and when I'd found
one for her I asked her if I could help.
"This is not a child's work,"
she whispered, and bending down, she wiped away the blood, her hands moving
in quick, short wipes, erasing what had happened so that when the police
came, there would be no shame for them to see and take away with them to
talk about with other people. It would remain between my brother
and God, where it belonged.
When she was finished, she
threw the rag into the garbage can and covered it tightly. "Now,"
she said, "you call the police and I will talk to them. I will tell
them everything." Later that night, they took my brother to the hospital,
still wondering why there was so little blood; the wound had been deep.
"Sometimes, we have no answers,"
my grandmother said. And when they had gone, she took my hand and
my sister's in hers, and led us upstairs to wait for my mother to come
home.
Return to Prose
Leaving
Bob
by Michael Fuchs
The thing is...the thing is...I love my wife. But who's going
to take care of me? You know I don't work. Not since I was
a security guard. They had me on the overnight shift by myself because
the other guards complained about me. I told them I had emotional
problems but it didn't help. I fell asleep in the night, so I got
fired.
No, it wasn't the medication, it wasn't. I just didn't have my
watches then. I get them all with alarms now so I can keep track
of things. Watching TV all day, waiting for my wife to come home
and make me dinner, it's hard to keep track. I set the alarms to
let me know it's time for Lucy or it's time for Dick Van Dyke, so I don't
miss them, or when I should go to the corner and buy my Lotto ticket and
my cigarettes. I was watching the Shopping Channel when my wife told
me about leaving. They had a special on a Mickey Mouse watch, they
had it marked way down, even though I already have one, but I don't wear
it, 'cause I already wear three watches, but that one I would have worn,
I think.
Yes, I told you, she said she was leaving. "Bob, I don't want
to live like this anymore," she said. Those were her exact words.
The thing is...the thing is...I was trying to listen to the exact price
of the watch. I get some money in the mail for being sick, you know.
Because I have emotional problems. It's a check from the government.
My wife works during the day and then she comes home and makes me dinner. I still love her.
We don't have sex that often anymore, but sex isn't
everything, you know. I was surprised to see her, though. She
was home very early, she's supposed to be at work then. I wasn't
even hungry yet.
"I'm moving out," my wife said. "I know you won't understand this,
but I've agonized about it for a long time. Leaving you hurts me,
I feel guilty as shit. But I can't take this anymore. I've
spoken to your mother and she's going to take you in until she figures
out what to do with you. You'll be fine, please believe me. I'm sorry, Bob.
I have to preserve my own sanity."
That's what she said. Those were her exact words. I wrote
them down afterwards so I wouldn't get them mixed up. She said she
was guilty as shit. The thing is...the thing is...I'm alone all day
and I get scared sometimes. Because, you know, I don't live in a
good neighborhood. We don't have too many things to rob, but there
are a lot of junkies out there who are really crazy. My wife takes
me to the shrink for my medication, so I don't have to worry about taking
the subway by myself. It's a good medication. I used to worry
that my wife was going to poison me, but I don't have those thoughts anymore.
I go to the shrink once a month. He just talks to me for a few minutes,
he doesn't really give me any therapy. My wife belongs to an HMO,
you know what that is, and that's all they pay for.
Am I scared now? Sure, my apartment's in a bad neighborhood. That's why I bought the gun.
For protection during the day. You buy them in the street. The thing is...the thing is...my wife
doesn't have time to clean or vacuum. We live pretty messy. I don't cook or clean.
I make my own coffee, but that's it. I told my wife, what's the problem, I pitch in, I make my own coffee.
She went nuts and started crying. I think she's got emotional problems,
too, I swear. But I need someone to take care of me. My mother
can't do it, she's too old, and she's always apologizing. I explained
that to my wife. But she wouldn't change her mind.
"I'm going to pack now, Bob," she said. "I'm leaving just about
everything. Your mother can help you sort through what you want to
keep before you vacate the apartment." That's what she said. I remember the exact words.
"Don't worry, hon," she said. "You keep looking at the TV, it'll
be all right." She was crying, but she was packing, too. I
have an excellent memory. She was crying because she was guilty as
shit.
It's funny, my watches usually don't agree. Sometimes the gold
one on my right arm is fast, and sometimes the black one on my left arm
is slow. The Swiss Army on my left wrist is always right. It
has to be, it's an army watch, you know. But they were close together
that time, I was surprised. I thought I better not make too much
noise with the gun. I don't cook, but I know where everything is
in the apartment. The potatoes are in a big sack in one of the closets,
the one with the unpainted door. It wasn't easy shoving the gun barrel
into the potato. I saw a TV show where they used a potato as a silencer
for a gun. I ruined two potatoes before I figured out how to do it,
but my wife was packing her things. You have to turn the gun a little
when you push it into the potato.
The thing is...the thing is...Mr. Wortman told the judge, and the jury,
too, that I have emotional problems. He gave a long speech that took
two hours and forty-three minutes. I only wore the Swiss Army watch
in court and it doesn't have a second hand, so I just know the minutes. If I had ever won the Lotto, I would be a free man, I think.
Rich
people don't go to jail. Famous people do sometimes, though. I was famous for a while.
My scrapbook has all the newspaper stories. But I wish they used my name in the headlines.
See? They never
call me Bob. They always say, "The Potato Killer." There are
videos, too. Sixty Minutes and the 6 o'clock news and lots of others.
But I don't watch that much TV anymore.
Why? I live in a messy apartment. We don't clean or vacuum,
because my wife works and she comes home so tired. The TV is in the
living room and I sit in my lounger and watch. When the gun was ready,
I called my wife to come to the living room. She saw the ruined potatoes
on the floor right away. My wife was standing right in front of the
TV. I couldn't see what was on because she was in the way. When you aim a gun with a potato on the barrel, the potato seems very big,
did you know that? The thing is...the thing is...the TV became very
messy. Very messy.
Also, my eyes aren't that good anymore. They let me have glasses
a few years ago, but the prescription isn't right, not now. I told
George--he takes care of me here, most days--and he said he'd see what
he could do. But the doctor didn't help me.
"What do you need to see so precisely, Bob?" the doctor said. "All you do is watch reruns of the same shows over and over on the television.
You don't need expensive eyewear at taxpayer cost for that!"
That's what he said. Those were the exact words. My wife
always makes sure I have good medical care. Even though she belonged
to an HMO, you know what that is. She packed her things, but she
didn't finish. My mother tried to convince the doctor, but she's
old, very old now. She died a few years ago. So did Mr. Wortman.
I think he was a good lawyer. I have good luck with professional
people. Mr. Wortman was against the death penalty for everyone, not
just me. Did you see this headline? It says "Potato = Premeditation."
The New York Post is famous for headlines. My headline won a journalism
prize, I forget the name.
The thing is...the thing is...I need someone to take care of me. I can't work.
I'm not self-supporting. But it's a comfortable
life. George takes care of me, and so does his partner, Louis. Sometimes one and sometimes the other, because they have families at home
which they have to spend time with. George tells me about his children.
Both of them were married, and then they were divorced. That's because
the children have jobs, so they can be divorced.
Also, George is worried about my weight. He's afraid of how heavy
I'll be if he has to drag me. Sometimes people have to be dragged
to the chamber. I just don't know how long it will take. They
won't let me wear a watch, not a single one. I used to be able to
hold my breath for a whole three minutes. True! I'm not bragging!
But George says it doesn't make any sense to hold your breath. I
agree. I don't see the point, if I can't measure how long.
Well, yes, of course I like holding my breath. Before the car
accident, back when I didn't have emotional problems, I met my wife. We used to work in an office.
We went snorkeling. You hold
your breath when you go down into the water. I was very good at it. My wife and I like to kiss for a long time, like teenagers who can't do
anything else, except that we can do anything we want. We don't have
sex that often anymore, but sex isn't everything, you know. Holding
your breath is very important when you kiss, especially if you have a stuffy
nose. I remember, after a while my wife started to smell pretty bad.
The potato pieces were all over the floor and the walls and they started
to smell bad, too. I don't take out the garbage in our building,
I don't really know where it goes. It's a dangerous neighborhood,
and most of the time I lived there I didn't have a gun, so my wife takes
out the garbage. She works hard, so the apartment is pretty messy. I tried to clean up a little afterwards.
My wife's clothes were in
the suitcase, and I tried to mop blood up with her clothing, but I don't
have much practice.
Oh, I was asleep when they arrested me. Isn't that funny? When I woke up I didn't remember what happened.
Two policemen broke
the door down and wrestled with me. I wasn't so heavy but I was strong
because I was younger than I am now.
"Holy shit!" one of them said. That's exactly what he said. I remember because that was the other smell coming from my wife.
The thing is...the thing is...she was dead. And dead people make
a mess in their underwear. Did you know that? She was guilty
as shit. She told me.
I've been eating and going to the bathroom all day! They give
you a special meal, you get to pick it. My mother's best dish is
baked ziti. After the car accident, before I had emotional problems,
when they had to operate on my skull, my mother would sneak some baked
ziti to the hospital. She bribed a nurse to heat it up in the microwave.
They have a microwave in the nurses lounge, I think. I have emotional
problems, though. They started after the accident, because the operation
was very difficult. Very difficult. But the food here is pretty
good. I had baked ziti, which was excellent, and steak, as a special
treat. They didn't let me have beer or wine, since I take my medication
and I might act funny later in front of everyone watching. There
won't be any children, though. Children aren't allowed. My
wife and I decided not to have them. It's not a good neighborhood
to raise kids in.
No, it's not hard to pass the time. My hearing is pretty good. I still listen to music a lot.
I know all the Beatle songs, in order,
off every album. "Michelle, ma belle, those are words that go together
well...." That's my wife's name, Michelle. She helps me pass the
time, because I love my wife. And my wife loves me. She takes
care of me. If she didn't love me, she would have left. She
was packing her things, but she didn't finish. Sometimes life is
messy. But you can't just sit and watch TV all day. Sex isn't
everything, you know. Baked ziti is excellent.
The thing is...the thing is...you have to know what time it is, to keep
track, to know when it's time. Just look at your watch. You
have to take action. That's what I think.
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