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Prose
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The
Rabbi of Manga
Jerry R. Nedelman |
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Boas on Acid
Hal Muskat |
I Came to this Country Paul García
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The Rabbi of Manga Jerry R. Nedelman
Destiny Margaret Evans
Breakfast with Marlene Bisby Brogan
Big Head Robin SlickMan of Steel John P. Matsis
The Wooden Wonder Christina Delia
Soft Like the Moon Jessica Schneider
The Stepmother Kate Harrad
by Jerry R. Nedelman
s Saturday morning dawned, Rabbi Ira Singer of Morristown, New Jersey, dreamed a dream. It was a recurring dream, although twelve years had passed since it last provoked him. He was the guest of honor at a formal dinner. The other guests ate their food silently and stiffly and stole glances at the dais where he sat. A clock struck, signaling the time for him to speak. He stood up. And he vanished.
Rabbi Singer opened his eyes. He was frightened. I am not alone this time, he thought. I can refuse.
Leah, Rabbi Singer’s wife, still slept. According to the Talmud, a husband and wife should have marital relations twice on the Sabbath. Rabbi Singer and his wife honored the commandment. Whoever woke first on Saturday would arouse the other with caresses. This Sabbath morning, however, Rabbi Singer got out of bed and went downstairs.
When his wife found him, she looked at him with concern; he at her with uncertainty. “Leah,” he said, “I’m not well today. Please go early and ask the cantor to lead the services.”
After his wife left, Rabbi Singer showered and ate. He put on blue jeans, sneakers, and a sweatshirt. It was late spring, and the northern Jersey suburbs were still cool in the morning. He left the house and walked down Alexandria toward Sussex. He did not know where he was heading. He could cover more territory if he drove. But some Sabbath discipline still restrained him, like the sticky threads of a cocoon from which he was emerging. And just how much could he hurt Leah, who would be shocked to find the car gone? What if this was a false alarm?
At the corner of Alexandria and Sussex he paused, wondering which way to turn. Left would lead him to Patriot’s Path, a trail that cut through Morris County, connecting the historical sites associated with the Continental Army’s residence during the terrible winter of 1779. Many soldiers froze in Jockey Hollow before they could witness the transformation for which they fought. He might find inspiration there, he thought. But he turned right, towards town.
He stopped to scan the Star Ledger headlines in a yellow paper rack. Astronomers had detected an asteroid careening toward earth, but it would miss by several hundred thousand miles. Unlike the dinosaurs, we won’t be surprised by our extinction, he thought. We can predict the future. We extrapolate observation to physical law. Such is the power of mathematics, which conjures mass and gravitation into trajectory.
Ira Singer had once been a wizard of that magic. Before becoming an observant Jew and seeking the rabbinate, he had been a graduate student in mathematical physics at NYU’s Courant Institute, a rising star who published important discoveries in quantum field theory. Just as he was about to finish his dissertation, his dream visited him. He inferred from the dream that he should discard physics because it ignores the moral and spiritual dimensions of the universe. He began attending lectures at the Jewish Theological Seminary. He learned how the Talmudists mapped human behavior to the divine law of the Torah. On a weekend retreat, he met Leah. God called him from physics to the pulpit. Love brought him to the wedding canopy.
And what of love? Leah had observed what she believed to be God’s commandments all her life. Judaism, like the sun at the center of its planetary system, defined her frame of reference. As the sun captured planets into regular orbits, so had Rabbi Singer joined his bride to follow the cycles of weekly, monthly, seasonal observances. But though the sun seems fixed, it revolves around the galaxy. And the galaxies fly apart from one another. Nature has few constants: the charge of an electron; the speed of light in a vacuum; the compulsion by human beings to destroy their own happiness.
Rabbi Singer continued down Sussex. What drew him on? Where Sussex angled into Speedwell stood his synagogue. Was it still his synagogue? How could he cut himself off so abruptly? Besides Leah—whom he pictured sitting in the same pew where she always sat, on the side next to the radiator, even in spring and summer—many other congregants were friends. He owed them something. They sponsored his sabbaticals so he could study and write. He had become well known within the Conservative movement for his midrashim, fanciful stories in the rabbinic tradition, but that interpreted the Torah for modern conditions. Unlike the Orthodox fundamentalists, Conservatives accept that Judaism evolves: from sacrificial cult to prophetic monotheism, to rabbinic Judaism that saved the culture during the Diaspora, to the splintered confederation of today’s denominations. Never proselytizing, Jews have gained few adherents who were not born into the tradition. They have lost many—to the Crusades, to the pogroms, to the Holocaust.
To blonde shiksas. At least, thought Rabbi Singer, I have been faithful in that sense. I have counseled other congregants who have strayed, and lonely wives behind the closed door of my office. But I have been faithful.
Rabbi Singer entered the Hispanic blocks of Sussex. A demographic transition had embedded the synagogue in a barrio. The new generation of immigrants spoke Spanish, not Yiddish. They opened storefront groceries, travel agencies that also cashed checks and did income taxes, restaurants with a few tables and names like Casa del Pollo. Many of the newcomers were day laborers, who gathered across from the train station each morning hoping an honest contractor would give them work and pay them at the end.
To avoid the synagogue, Rabbi Singer walked down Henry Street, with its run-down houses that crowded the buckling sidewalk, past the body shop whose garage windows were shattered, to the Laundromat on the corner.
As on most temperate Saturdays, young Hispanic men stood on the steps of the Laundromat chatting. Today a boombox blared trumpets and guitars, and a baritone strained to tenor as he pined for unrequited love. Or so guessed Rabbi Singer, who did not know Spanish.
But he did know music and the various ranges of the human voice. As a teenager he had discovered a talent for the piano. Awed tutors had nurtured his gift so that despite such a late start he was nonetheless accepted into Julliard. There, he earned a reputation as a promising pianist and composer. He was writing an opera. Then he was visited by his dream. He judged that a career in music required a distasteful vanity. But the mathematical principles governing harmony and thematic development in music had intrigued him. Wandering in Greenwich Village, he happened upon the Courant.
So it was for the unstable genius, Ira Singer. This time, he thought he had found equilibrium. For twelve years he had sustained a dedication to a single purpose. Couldn’t he fight the dream’s currents? Aren’t love and obligation weighty enough anchors?
Rabbi Singer shoved his hands into his pockets, hunched his shoulders, and lowered his gaze to his feet, which continued on. Perhaps a long walk, one day’s vacation in the late spring, would suffice, and then he could return. He walked north up Speedwell.
After half an hour, he found himself before the doors of Barnes and Noble on Route 10. He entered and looked around. A bookshelf of paperbacks with colorful spines attracted him. The books were manga, Japanese graphic novels. Rabbi Singer took a few whose titles and blurbs seemed particularly interesting and settled himself in one of the soft chairs scattered about the bookstore.
All day he read, returning to the bookshelf again and again. He discovered a world of flawed heroes who overcome obstacles to save the human race but are forever changed, sometimes broken, in the process. He recognized how the authors borrowed mythology from the Greeks, from the Norse, from the Gaelic. He read how the genre is becoming popular in many countries outside of Japan.
Yes, thought Rabbi Singer, Judaism is such an ingrown culture, shrinking and becoming obsolete. That is the dream’s message this time. Judaism’s important stories must be told in a new way, universally, and understood by all.
He decided that the black-and-white, stylized figures with big hair and big eyes would be easy to replicate. He had an idea: a manga story about a hero fighting the domination of his people, whose strength depends on the length of his hair …
A year later, Leah Singer was living with her sister in Manhattan. She enjoyed the Sunday Times and always turned first to the Book Review Section. That Sunday she found a story about a new phenomenon in Japan, a former rabbi from New Jersey who writes best-selling manga based on heroes from the Bible.
Return to Prose
by Margaret Evans
t was the kind of morning in Monterey, California, where the sea stretches out to meet the sky in a serene and endless grasp. Fishing boats had long since left for work and sailboats had not yet gone out to play, and the bay looked content. Its grays would soon give way to the postcard-blues of the Pacific once the sun cleared the foothill ridges to the east.
Claudio Igarreta stood on the balcony of his bedroom and faced the water, absorbing his daily dose of infinity. How many people on earth does God allow to live like this, he wondered. A cool breeze ruffled through his hair, and he pulled his silk robe tighter. Leaning his hands on the railing, he took a deep breath and closed his eyes.
He heard a soft purr behind him and was drawn toward the sound but stayed where he was, thinking about the relentless progression of time. And events. Prophecies. Into all this the innocents would fall, but he was certain they were the right innocents, and he offered a silent prayer they would be guided. For the safety of life on earth, he trusted he had done enough.
“Claudio,” she called again, more insistently.
“Yes, Lina,” he responded and this time went indoors.
Today there was no time to wait for the first sparkles of sun to dance off the ripples in the water.
He looked at her.
Carolina was one of those women who had been pretty in her youth and grown beautiful as she aged. He did not even want to think about their upcoming separation. He held her tightly.
* * *
Earlier that morning, long before any hint of a sunrise teased the horizon, Xarantu stood at the head of the enclave. His phenomenal vision was aided only by a waning half moon as he looked over the forty-five men who sat in three concentric arcs of fifteen each before him. The time had come, and, as Prince of the Maya, he was responsible for fulfilling the ancient prophecies in synchronization with the realignment of the heavens.
He was twenty-three years old and tall for a Mayan, though not for an American. His long nose and round, dark eyes dominated his proud features. He had broad shoulders and a stocky build that came not from his job as a mechanical engineer but rather from his club membership. Tonight there was no paint or feathers, just khakis and shirt like the others, and his shoulder-length dark hair was pulled back simply by a band.
When he spoke, there was silence. They listened and memorized, from a lifetime of discipline. Xarantu bade the men stand, closing his eyes and extending his arms toward them. He began to chant softly, and the men joined him.
Claudio Igarreta sat apart from them, holding a flashlight and poring over the ancient texts, belonging to the very few ones surviving from the Spanish invasion. He looked up from time to time at Xarantu and wished he could read the glyphs on the parchment in his hands. What a story they must tell! Too bad Xarantu wouldn’t share it all with him; he just smiled and told Claudio he would find out someday.
A sudden silence caught Claudio’s attention. Xarantu was concluding the meeting.
“The Fifth World is ending. It is time for the supernova of our people. Once more before the destruction of the world, we will bring back the Maya. And we will rule in the Sixth World.”
* * *
Claudio considered Xarantu’s position. He had often caught the young man in what can only be called a thoughtful haze. His imagination gave him an inkling of the burdens Xarantu must bear in the coming years. Xarantu smiled so often and mostly around his sister, Marxan. The courage of these two young people was astonishing, and what they were, by birth and destiny, about to do for the world, so incredible. He hoped Xarantu’s love for his sister wouldn’t be his downfall and prayed for the young man’s strength to do what must be done.
Claudio also thought of the future, sometimes seeming so close and yet so distant. The ancient and the new. The old ways and the new world order. He wondered how the ancient gods of Maya would behave in the Sixth World. Would they demand the same sacrifices as in the past? He looked up again at the young Maya lord and was hit with a stunning insight.
Xarantu would be weighing his losses right about now. One of them was his sister. Her role as Mother of the One Who Is Coming would also cost her her own life when her son was crowned the Lord of the Sixth World. At that point, Xarantu would hand over the scepter to his nephew and say good-bye to his sister until he, too, joined the gods.
Claudio looked again at Xarantu and saw a flicker in his eyes of the almost palpable pain the young man bore and hid most of the time. He knew Xarantu and Marxan had grown up in these hills, had laughed together and learned the culture together. Ultimately, the decision had been Marxan’s, but she was in the royal bloodline and the obvious choice. Xarantu could not stop her.
Marxan stood and sang a sweet melody, in a language from so long ago, that no one but these priests and royals knew it. And the tune was foreign, yet so poignantly familiar. She looked so young! How could she be ready for this choice?
All around the globe, lives were changing forever, gently shifting in small and subtle ways, undetected by the people. Softly and gently. Like the sweetness of the early morning air slowly bringing the day.
No one would know it was happening.
Claudio rose and returned to his home to watch the morning come over the Bay and say good-bye to Carolina.
Return to Prose
by Bisby Brogan
arlene drew a quick, sharp breath through her cigarette as she lit it, and began, “It’s infuriating…” as though she were continuing some conversation already in progress. But she’d left out the beginning; Dawson had no idea what she was talking about. He lowered the newspaper to the breakfast table, and considered Marlene’s pique with a certain practiced objectivity. She was a study in anger: seething, boiling rage. If it moved, Marlene could be mad at it.
“What are you talking about?” he asked.
“You know, the way people wait until the last minute to dig out their coupons at the grocery store.”
“Coupons?” Dawson asked.
“Remember? Yesterday? I was in line behind that biddy with five thousand coupons. People are so inconsiderate,” she snapped.
“Oh, yeah, that,” Dawson replied, then shook out his paper and turned to the sports page. Marlene stood from the table, emptied the coffee pot into her mug and sloshed some milk into it, sat down, and turned the TV on. She always kept a portable TV on the kitchen table. Problem was that on Saturday morning, there wasn’t much to watch; it was all kids’ stuff, and didn’t suit her. Nevertheless, she flipped through the channels, hunting and tsk-tsking. Dawson had no idea what she was looking for, and tried to ignore both Marlene and the television.
Marlene continued smoking, and began scrutinizing the daily crossword puzzle, resting her chin on her hand while she mulled over the clues and fiddled with the TV—she finally settled on a blah-blah infomercial for an ab machine. As she solved the clues, she filled in the answers with a ballpoint pen. She never used a dictionary, never looked at the answers, and never cheated. When she finished the crossword, she began working on the word scrambles. She was a whiz at puzzles. Dawson had no aptitude for them, and never tried.
After several more puffs on her cigarette, Marlene’s temper cooled a bit, and she pulled at the frayed ends of their conversation with: “Dawson, do you think you could…”
But then she stopped in mid-sentence, looked away, and squashed her cigarette butt into the ash tray—the one with the bubbles blown into the glass that she’d bought for herself at a flea market, (back when she went to those kinds of things).
Dawson hated the way Marlene didn’t finish her sentences. One day he looked up the word “apotheosis” in the dictionary—because he’d happened to read it in the newspaper and wasn’t sure of its meaning, and he never liked to be unsure of things—and as he slid his finger down the page, he stumbled upon the word “aposiopetic.” He was thrilled to have finally found the word for Marlene’s distinctive trait. He jotted it down on a slip of paper, and tucked it into his wallet, so he’d never lose it. He was sure that Marlene knew the word, but never asked. Dawson had grown weary of the continuous chore of prompting Marlene when she broke off in the middle of a thought. Sometimes, he’d just let her hang there, right after the ellipsis, with her brain on the edge of an idea. Today, he wasn’t in the mood to wait for her.
“Could what?” he asked.
“Never mind…it’s not important,” she said, lighting another cigarette.
Years ago, he’d been after her to quit smoking. It’s not good for you, he’d say. They’re going to kill you. Now he wasn't so sure he wanted to say those things anymore. “Fine,” he said, returning to his newspaper.
Several minutes later, Marlene spoke up again. “It’s ridiculous...,” she snarled.
Dawson looked up from his paper.
“What? The coupon thing? Are we still on the coupon thing?” he guessed. He thought he was a good guesser. After all, he’d been guessing about Marlene for thirty-five years, longer if you counted all the time they knew each other before they married.
“No, no, not that,” she said. “It’s not about coupons. It’s ridiculous the way people use the express lane—it’s for twelve items or less—when they have thirteen or fourteen things. I hate that.”
“Oh,” Dawson grumbled.
“I have to go back to the grocery store today—we need laundry soap; I have to get your shirts done you know—and I wondered if you…” she turned up the volume on the TV, and unscrambled another word.
“If I what?” Dawson queried.
“Did you leave any gas in the car?” she asked.
“The tank’s full,” he said, scowling. Marlene didn’t catch him, though, because her eyes were riveted to the rippling man on the TV infomercial who was demonstrating the abdominal muscle trainer.
“Three easy payments of $29.95,” the salesman announced. Dawson suddenly felt as though there was an uninvited guest at their kitchen table.
“So, it’s…” she said, her eyes still on the TV.
“Full,” Dawson finished.
Dawson glanced out the open window. It was sunny and blue. Al Cavanaugh’s lawnmower buzzed in the distance, two houses away. Marlene tugged at her robe, and fussed with a loose button; she never dressed before she finished the word scramble.
Return to Prose
Big Head
by Robin Slick
emember Big Head?” Debbie asks, taking a swig of beer.
“How could I forget,” says Donna, looking at me expectantly.
I take a sip of my vodka martini, three olives, up, and sit back in my chair.
“Yeah, I remember Big Head,” I say.
Thirty two years ago, when I was eight and Debbie and Donna Dordick were nine going on ten, Donna pinned my arms behind my back while Debbie tried to stuff my mouth with rotting vegetables from Mrs. Marcus’ garbage can in the alley behind our houses.
“If you don’t swallow these you’re gonna turn into a frog when you take a bath tonight,” said Donna.
“And if you don’t turn into a frog, we’re gonna beat you up tomorrow,” said Debbie.
That evening when my mother forced me to get into the tub, I screamed in terror but after five minutes passed and nothing happened, I relaxed until I remembered they were still planning on hitting me.
“I don’t want to go out and play,” I said the following afternoon.
“Get some fresh air, Laurie,” said my mother.
“You can’t stay cooped up in the house reading. Go ride your bike in the alley.”Donna and Debbie were busy climbing Mrs. Marcus’ tree and eating its cherries.
I was the only one in the neighborhood even remotely close to their age so they had no choice but to hang out with me. Plus, I lived in an alleged cool house. My mother liked rock music and baked great cookies. Throughout my youth, I thought they came over to see her, not me. I’d lock myself in my bedroom while they were downstairs with my mom, who was by that time doing yoga and smoking pot in the living room.
Donna shouted, “Look, it’s the kid with the big head!”
I thought they were talking about me.
But coming down the alley on a twenty inch bicycle was a smallish dark haired boy around nineteen with an incredibly huge head.
We giggled and yelled “Big Head, Big Head!”
After that day, we saw him a lot. And every time he’d ride by, we’d shriek “Big Head!”
When I was twelve, the Dordick twins and I would smoke cigarettes back there and the minute we saw him approaching on his bike, we’d run away screaming. He’d somehow morphed into Big Head the sexual pervert.
I didn’t even know what a sexual pervert was.
“A sexual pervert takes out his wiener in public,” Debbie said.
“Oh, that’s gross,” I replied, taking a drag off my Marlboro with a cough. “But he doesn’t do that.”
“Yes he does,” Donna said.
“Yeah, we saw him,” added Debbie.
“Really?”
“Really,” they nodded.
I screamed the loudest the next time he pedaled by.
At sixteen, Debbie and Donna were model thin with shiny hair and they kissed boys. I had a head full of frizzy curls, a weight problem, and wanted out of the friendship. But certain childhood memories made me too scared to end it. Besides, knowing my mother, she’d let them come over anyway. She’d probably even feed them cookies.
And now years later, I wonder why I am at this restaurant sipping drinks with them. Once every decade or so they call me to get together and rehash old times. Maybe I’m still afraid to say no.
I take a forkful of salad and study the Dordick sisters as they eat their burgers and fries. Both are jowly, overweight, and never left the old neighborhood. Debbie is divorced and Donna single with a string of bad boyfriends. I’ve been married to the same man, a plastic surgeon, for twelve years.
I let him inject something lethal into my face every three months to stay young looking.
“How’s Alan?” Donna asks, reading my mind.
“Oh great, just great,” I reply, choking on a piece of lettuce.
“You look really hot, Laurie,” says Debbie. “Does Alan do work on you?”
“Of course not.”
They exchange glances. I want to hit them.
“So, getting back to Big Head,” Debbie says. “I wonder what ever happened to him.”
“They should have kept him in jail,” says Donna.
My stomach sinks.
“What a pervert. Thank god our mothers called the police,” she adds.
“How can you say that?” I stare at them and toss my napkin on the table.
“What do you mean?” Debbie asks.
“He didn’t do it.”
“Huh?” they say it in unison.
“You know we made that up. He got arrested because we lied.”
“Laurie, he whipped out his dick!”
“No. He didn’t..” I stand up and throw down three twenties. “Lunch is on me. I have to go.”
I grab my coat and run out the door, the poison in my head pulsing.
by John P. Matsis
ony Zale, the “Man of Steel,” was born Anthony Florian Zaleski on May 29, 1913 in Gary, Indiana. He was born almost premature, weighing barely six pounds and only nineteen inches in length. He cried loudly at birth, his arms swinging in wide arcs as if he was born to be a prizefighter. Not just any fighter, but the middleweight champion of the world.
Thirty years later, his three championship fights with Rocky Graziano would be recognized by the Boxing Federation as the fights of the decade.
On September 21, 1948 in Jersey City, before the bell that would begin round twelve rang, he pitched forward off his stool and hit the canvas; he was unable to recover from the sum of too many fists to the abdomen and chest, his legs had become tendrils of fatigued muscle. He had lost his middleweight championship to the French champion, Marcel Cerdan.
Pete’s Greek coffeehouse is just that, a place for Greeks to meet, drink thick, strong Greek coffee from delicate demitasse cups with a shot of ouzo added for extra oomph and a mouthful of koularakia for good measure. The tables are covered with neat, checkered red and white oilcloths, each with a glass ashtray that is usually overfilled with butts of Camels and Lucky Strikes. On the wall above the cash register are framed pictures of the American and Greek flags and between them, a picture of the middleweight champion of the world, the “Man of Steel,” Tony Zale.
“Yasou,” Pete Kailes with a thick Greek accent shouts from behind the counter as each customer enters—Greek immigrants, usually islanders from the Aegean Sea, from islands such as Cyprus, Rhodes, Chios, and Kos. They are stout, sturdy men with intense faces, heavy dark beards that need to be shaved twice a day, hairy chests, and muscular upper arms that are the trademark of Gary, Indiana steelworkers long before bodybuilding became fashionable.
And they shout back, “Yasou, Pete.”
The men sit in cozy groups of three or four, discussing the politics of the day. They praise Harry Truman and generals Douglas MacArthur and Dwight D. Eisenhower. They talk of family and how things are going straight to hell. And they never talk of personal things such as sex.
Caliopi Kailes wishes that she had been born a Greek princess instead of the daughter of a coffeehouse owner. No one really knows her as an independent person; she is merely Caliopi, the oldest daughter of Pete, the coffeehouse owner. She is almost blessed with classic Greek looks except for a nose that is a bit too long and lips that are a bit too thin. But her skin is olive-colored and her hair dark and full and sweeps back away from her forehead to form a bountiful bun. For a nineteen-year-old, her complexion is nearly flawless, as is her heart.
Each day from the community college she walks home the identical route—taking Jefferson Street south for three blocks, turning right at the intersection with Madison Avenue, and then skimming the outskirts of Jackson Park till she reaches a section of neat, two-story stucco houses that look nearly identical. Her mamma always has stressed—walk home from school with a girlfriend, never waver from the same route, and be especially alert for the unexpected.
But on this late afternoon she is in a hurry. The clouds sweeping in from the East are ominous, heavy and black and laden with rain. A few drops of rain falling on her new red sweater would be a disaster, she thinks to herself. She increases the length of her stride and then decides to take a shortcut through Jackson Park…alone, theoretically saving time and distance and her sweater.
Tony Zale is a creature of habit, nearly as fit as when he was middleweight champion of the world. Despite the passage of nearly fifteen years and the onset of nagging stiffness in each knee, he looks as if he is still in his prime. With only a rare exception, his daily ten-mile jog follows the same pathway…nothing unusual that might attract undo attention. He jogs from one end of Gary, Indiana, to the other, and when he passes Pete’s Greek Coffeehouse on Broadway, he knows he has reached his five-mile, halfway mark. There, he pauses briefly, jogging in place, checking his pulse. He waves at the men in the coffeehouse through the large front window and they wave back and clap, urging him on as if he is training for a comeback.
He passes by Jefferson Street, continuing with his jogging, shadowboxing with quick left jabs with each telephone pole met, followed by a right hand to a make-believe shadowy chin. He feet skip skillfully from side to side as he relives each round fought with Rocky Graziano on that fateful June 10th rematch when he regained his middleweight championship—a knockout in the third round-with a flurry of rights and lefts to the midsection and finally an arcing right fist to the chin. The cheers of fight fans ring in his ears as he regains the title of middleweight champion of the world.
Caliopi Kailes thrusts her chin down to her chest to protect her face from the brisk, cool wind that snaps from the northeast. She doesn’t need to look ahead; she knows the pathway through Jackson Park as if it is her customary
route. She knows the exact spot where the walkway turns rough with deep, irregular cracks that sprout weeds and where fifty-year-old Elm trees that line the walkway form a dense canopy of low lying branches. And as she walks, she can almost hear her mother’s voice cautioning her—be careful, Caliopi.Pete clears his throat as he rubs the stubble of his chin with the edge of his hand—a repetitive act when he has a deep thought that is about to surface. He glances to the rear of the coffeehouse taking in the frail figure of Father Ted, sitting alone with his black prayer rope twisted about his finger like a cloth wedding ring; a cigarette hangs from his lips ready to be lit. He is a good man, a bit moody, but a man of responsibility.
Their eyes meet. It would be the same old topic, Pete thinks. That man never gives up. He can read his lips—“I know of a deacon, a fine, handsome young man, soon to be a priest who is looking for a presbytera, a good Orthodox Greek girl to be his wife. It is a wonderful opportunity for Caliopi; she will automatically become a woman of considerable status. The engagement would last a year, giving each of them a time to adjust, to make sure.”
Tony Zale picks up the pace, his arms swing gracefully at his side, his feet dance with the skill of a Broadway hoofer as they sidestep each crack zigzagging the pavement. His mind floods with past events as he breathes in and out with short, regular bursts. If only he had taken more time in preparation in defense of his championship following his final bout with Rocky Graziano, the championship match with the Frenchman, Marcel
Cerdan, could have ended differently. Instead he would have retired as champion of the world instead of an ex-champion. His body shakes as the memory of that defeat clings to him like a second skin.He is a tall, lean figure that even under the best of circumstances raises considerable suspicion—with a hungry look, penetrating, dark eyes, facial features that are enough to make a woman glance away, to make a girl quicken her gait and increase the distance that separates them. He leans against the trunk of the tree, blending into its bark. His breathing is as shallow as a predator in waiting.
As Caliopi Kailes glances about, she regrets her decision to take a shorter, but more dangerous route. She knows better but there are times when good judgment succumbs to carelessness. Shadows jump at her as she walks beneath the canopy of Elm trees. Leaves shaking in the breeze sound like whispering elves up to no good.
The tall, lean figure separates itself from the tree bark, standing no further than ten feet away; a glowering lust paints his expression. His legs are set apart, bent slightly at the knees as if ready to pounce. There is a knife in his hand and fullness in his crotch.
Her scream stops at the tip of her tongue, unable to escape the tightness of her lips. Her legs become heavy; fear has totally overcome her.
He is upon her, twisting her arm behind her, placing a hand over her mouth, pressing against her.
As fate has it, a finger separates from the web of his hand. She bites down hard till bone is met. The thug vainly tries to hold back the scream of pain and the vile words that inevitably would follow.
From the distance, Tony Zale hears sounds that disturb him. As a prizefighter he is accustomed to the roar of the crowd, both cheers and jeers. The imprint of “kill the bum, sock it to him Zale” that occur during each match is as predictable as the sweat that glazes his eyes. But even during the heat of battle, he can pick out a singular voice, concentrate on it and fix it in his mind. The ability to do so is both a gift and a curse and most of the time he isn’t sure which.
He quickens his step, increasing the length of his stride. There is new life in his legs as adrenalin surges; he has his second wind. His arms are in cadence with each step, his body in perfect harmony with each muscle. He sways his hips from side to side as if sidestepping an opponent’s left jabs.
His eyes sweep the landscape—ahead, a shadow leans against the wind. It doesn’t make sense—against the wind. He runs faster, bending at the waist, thrusting out left and right combinations as misty shadows are crossed. Then he sees what he has to see—a woman in distress, a thug lunging at her, his hands tearing at her clothing.
The anguished, high-pitched voice of Caliopi Kailes cuts through the cool wind, sharp and clear as if it were the sound of a bell ringing from ringside. Above her, the canopy of tree branches groan as the wind gusts angrily, swirling, tugging at each leaf to let go, to release the captured voice within, “let the championship fight begin.” It is during that instant, amongst the shadows of the setting sun and the gust of restless wind, that Tony Zale’s spirit is transported back to his championship fight with Marcel Cerdan; his mind and body are no longer in Gary, Indiana—instead they are in the boxing ring—and it is a Saturday night, September 21, 1948, Jersey City, New Jersey.
This time as Caliopi Kailes watches, Tony Zale successfully defends his title; he pummels the thug-opponent with barrages of lefts and rights to the abdomen, chest, and face. He inflicts angry cuts above his eyes, he deforms his nose to one side and the thug’s lips swell and bloom reddish-purple, ready to spurt blood with the next punch.
In the coffeehouse, Pete rinses the water glasses in lukewarm water, then stacks them neatly upon the Formica counter and looks about. That sudden heavy feeling in his chest that came without warning has subsided, replaced by a feeling he can’t quite understand. Somehow he has a feeling that everything is now all right. He looks up at the pictures of the American and Greek flags above the cash register, focusing on the picture of Tony Zale, “The Man of Steel,” placed between them and smiles.
by Christina Delia
I am dating an Indian-American ventriloquist. His day job involves computer programming, or as he likes to call it, "apply technology, don't rinse, repeat". On the weekends he performs his act at select children's birthday parties, "Introducing Ravi P. Shah and his friend Seth O'Grady, The Wooden Wonder!"
My parents haven't said too much about Ravi, although they were shocked to find out that he is allergic to curry. "How can this be?" my mother wondered, somewhat perturbed.
"I know, right?" Ravi shrugged. To compensate, he decided that Seth O'Grady is allergic to matzoh ball soup and corned beef and cabbage, but mostly to termites.
We eat peanut butter sandwiches in the car, which leaves us no choice but to become beachcombers. We step out of the "wow-mobile" (as Ravi calls it), and into sun, sand, and wind. Had I known it was going to be this windy, I would have worn that terrible sweatshirt Ravi bought me. The one with the wide, white letters on the back of it that says, "I'M BACK! IT'S SO NICE TO BE BACK!" He laughed at it for five straight minutes when he gave it to me, and then when I put it on, he laughed some more.
Seth O'Grady wears a one-piece 1930s style bathing suit and sits on my lap while Ravi splashes in the surf. I huddle close to Seth O'Grady, for dummy warmth, I suppose. Briefly, I fantasize about using his "tuckus" for kindling. I instantly feel guilty. Seth O'Grady has become a part of my life. Seth O'Grady is...like a son to me. For one moment, I feel like the maternal member of a modern-American family. It scares the summer fun out of me.
"Amanda, you wanna walk the boardwalk?" Ravi is calling to me, as he clowns around in the sand with some strange kids and their dad. He is all over the place, and always talking to all. Sometimes people are surprised that he speaks English. What surprises me is that they actually tell him this. He brushes it off. Like sand, I suppose. Ravi likes people a great deal more than I do.
The boardwalk is uneven and full of strollers. Next time we'll bring a carriage for Seth O'Grady. We'll wheel him around and rub blue cotton candy into his grinning face. I think that Ravi might be the real thing, but it isn't lost on me that the things he really loves; namely the boardwalk and Seth O'Grady, are entirely wooden.
Return to Prose
Soft Like the Moon
by Jessica Schneider
But I can still recall my first sight of her in her all white suit, and in getting out of the car, with her white skirt and white high heels soaking into our topsoil, so that when she finally stood on firm ground, you could see just where the farm had left its mark on her shoes. Just who did she think she was? She looked ridiculous, walking on our farm, dressed in an all white suit. My mom used to wear jeans and sweatshirts, and that fit. But Connie… she didn’t fit.
She extended her hand to me, and I shook it, but did not accept it. Her handshake was too gentle, and her fingers felt thin.
“Your father has told me so much about you, Loren,” she said to me.
“Phil. We call him Phil,” my dad corrected. I was not about to let her call me by my first name because my mom was the only one allowed to do that. And she really was the only one, so much that my dad stopped calling me Loren and began calling me Phil after she died, just as all my friends always had in school.
“Oh, I’m sorry. Phil,” she said.
“Hi. Nice to meet you,” I lied. I was eyeing her up and down, and not in a good way. I felt like she was some intruder. What right did she have to be here after such a short time? The body takes five years to fully recover all its lost cells. Six months was not enough time.
“This really is a lovely home you have here. You must have loved growing up here and having all these fields to play in,” she said. I just agreed. I looked back down at her shoes, and could see a defined dirt ring around her white heels. Was she trying to mock me? Showing up in all white as if to imply she’s an angel from God sent here to help my dad and me get over my mom? Well fuck you God, if that was your intention. If you ask me, I say it’s a bad idea. The dirt on her heels was very noticeable, and where she walked on the dirt, one could see defined holes from where her high heels had pressed themselves in. The dirt was like my mom’s memory, now getting pressed in and poked with holes by this stranger, and she would only ruin it. What God, are you trying to imply? That we dirtied her? That we’re the ones who are lost and we need her to guide us? Well, forget it.
The dirt on our farm was soft—like the moon. You could pick it up and rub it through your fingers, and the dirt would stick. In a silly way, I felt close to the dirt, because more times than one my mom had told my brother and me to get up out of it and come in for dinner.
“So I hear you are going to school in the south part of the state? Do you like it there?” Connie asked. I told her the name of the school with little enthusiasm. Our conversations were stale, for there was not much to talk about. Connie was a hairdresser, and had worked as one for twenty-five years, or so she told me. Really, I was not interested.
“Your hair looks like its getting long. Do you get it cut regularly when you’re at school?” she asked.
“Uh, oh. You know, every now and again,” I responded. The truth was that I hadn’t noticed because I had been all too depressed this past semester.
“What are you planning on majoring in?” she asked. And I told her that I was leaning towards science, but was still unsure.
“Science? Wow. You must be very intelligent,” she said. I just nodded because how was I supposed to let myself disagree with that, even if I didn’t really believe I was all that smart at the moment.
Connie was leaning against the railing of our front porch. My dad had brought her a drink, and she was sipping it slowly. I looked at the drink and wanted to gulp it down in one shot. Alcohol had become my remedy this semester. I liked it because when it entered my body it made me into someone else. Suddenly I became this confident, well-liked, out going, intelligent and well-spoken individual, while the shameful, self-pitying, self-doubting, shyness of my introverted self went away. And I felt smarter too.
“You just have to strive to survive,” she said aloud, out of nowhere. I was baffled by this—I did not take advice from strangers.
“Huh?” I asked.
“Oh, nothing. It’s just something I heard on the radio. Sounds nice, doesn’t it?” she asked. I just shrugged. I looked down at her shoes and noticed that her three inched heels were gray from our dirt. She would have to take a rag to them if she ever wanted them to get clean again. I didn’t think the dirt would just go away.
“Oh, just look at my shoes from walking in all that dirt. Your father told me about your farm, but I didn’t know it would be quite like this,” she announced while taking off one of the shoes and trying to rub the dirt with a napkin.
“You can’t wear white shoes in the dirt,” I said.
“Yes, but this dirt is so soft. It’s much softer than I’m used to,” she said.
“That’s because my dad just set it down last week and it hasn’t had time to settle in yet,” I said.
“Well, aren’t you the little farmer,” she said. I don’t think she meant to be intentionally condescending.
“My mom showed me how,” I enforced. “Soft dirt is the best for planting. When it gets hard then it becomes too difficult to plant, and life doesn’t want to grow there,” I added.
“Really? What makes the dirt get hard?”
“Uh, well, my dad would be the person to ask those kind of technical questions to, but all I know is that if it sits there a while, or for too long even, it gets too settled, so it makes it more difficult to plant anything, and nothing really will want to grow there. I mean, It’s like the dirt gets a mind of its own and just gets too stubborn I guess,” I said.
“Maybe it’s from all the rain,” she suggested. “We’ve gotten a lot this year,” she added.
“Maybe,” I replied. She didn’t know the first thing about farming, and I was not about to tell her. Leave that for my dad. He was the one who had to marry her.
“Every living thing needs a fresh start,” she said in a chipper tone while sipping her drink.
“Yeah, but only when it’s good and ready,” I said.
“What do you mean by that?” she asked, tilting her head, as if to imply that I was really that stupid and I didn’t get what she was getting at.
“I mean, if you try to plant anything too early in the year, then it won’t make any difference because nothing can grow unless the conditions are just right. I mean, you can’t just plant any old time you feel like it, you have to wait till its time and the conditions are right,” I said.
“And how do you know when they’re right?”
“You just do, after a while. I mean, my dad put down all that dirt because he thought it was a good time to plant. Personally, I would have waited a few more weeks for it to warm up a bit more. You know, ‘cause climate and things like that go into it, but really there’s no written rules. It all depends,” I said.
Just then my dad came out onto the porch and asked what we were talking about and if we were getting to know each other.
“Phil here sure knows a lot about farming,” she said while grinning up at him. He smiled back. And then they did something I never saw my parents do. They kissed each other on the lips. I had known that my parents didn’t have the greatest marriage, but now I was being shown it.
“He must have learned from the best,” she added. I couldn’t understand how my dad could want to marry a woman so unlike my mom. It just made no sense. But when I finally asked him what he saw in her, all he said in minimal words was how she was ‘a good woman.’ And I thought ‘so what?’ there are lots of supposed ‘good women’ but you don’t go marrying every one of them.
“Oh Phil, I should show you my rabbit farm. You’d love it. I breed rabbits you know. You like rabbits?” she asked.
“Uh, they’re okay I guess.”
“Then it’s settled. I’ll have to bring you home for you to see the rabbits. Won’t that be great hon?” she asked my dad. Hon. The both of them grinned, and I grinned too, and doing it was like a homework assignment or chore, rather than it being something I really wanted to do. I had grown used to faking most things.
And out there, the three of us stood for a while, with the two of them chatting and me wishing I could go repair just where Connie had stepped, heels on soft dirt, my mom’s face there, three inches thick and soft like the moon.
&
