The Last Party
by
Jack Swenson
hen they
wound their way up the hill through the pine trees and saw the house, Jack told
his wife that it reminded him of The Big Chill. The stately old house,
with porches running the entire length of both floors in front, had the look of
a southern mansion. The grounds were extensive. There was a small structure
called the tea house halfway down the hill, a small enclosure with a larger
corral for the cows, a chicken house and pen off to one side. The house itself,
though imposing at first glance, was not very large. There were only two
bedrooms.
The greeting given them by their host and hostess was warm but solemn. They
were there for a party, but it was an occasion that was bittersweet, one last
party, a fitting sendoff for their dead friend.
Mark died from a heart attack, not by his own hand. So there was not that
additional tragedy to their gathering. He died of what Hal, a doctor, referred
to as a myocardial infarction, the kind of event that is often accompanied by
the adjective "massive" when the sad news is given out. In other
words, their friend had died, and they had been invited by other friends, Bill
and Janey, to a party in Mark's honor at their retirement home on Gull Lake.
One
last party. For a man who dearly loved to party. But didn't they all?
And hadn't
they done so, year after year, until over time most of them simply ran out of
steam?
Janey ushered them into the house and into the living room. Bev and Skip were
sitting on the couch. Bev got up, wrapped her arms around Jack, and whispered in
his ear. Jack shook hands with Skip, then he introduced his wife Katie to both
of them. "Watch that guy," Jack said to Katie. "He's a child
molester." Skip grinned his most lascivious grin.
Paul was there, Shorty and Liz, too, and Alice Kirkwood who had hopped on a
plane in Boston to be there. So were the contingent of widows, Inga, Mary Lou,
and Lindy.
The wine was in the kitchen, Janey announced. The beer was in the
refrigerator, she said. Help yourself. There were soft drinks, too.
Jack got a
Coke and brought a glass of red wine back for Katie. He wandered up to Paul who
was looking out the window and grinning his crooked grin. He hadn't seen his old
roommate for forty years. "Talk to me," Paul said. They talked.
The
forty years melted away. It was as if they picked up their last conversation
where they had left it. "What are you reading these days?" Paul asked.
Since he had retired, he had become a real couch potato, he said. All he did was
sleep, eat, and read.
After dinner, Jack stood up to deliver a more-or-less impromptu eulogy.
Janey
had asked him to get the ball rolling only an hour or so earlier. They would all
chime in later with their favorite Mark stories, she said. Jack recalled the
time that he and Mark got pulled over by a cop after drinking beer for about six
hours in a bar waiting for Chet Baker to show up. The trumpeter finally made it,
drunk and stoned, and several hours late. He and Mark weren't in the best of
shape either, when they left the bar, Jack said. The cop decided that Jack was
too drunk to drive, so he told him to change places with Mark. Mark opened the
door on the passenger side and fell out onto the roadway. He picked himself up,
walked around the car, got in, and they drove away. The cop just stood there
shaking his head.
You could get away with stuff like that in the old days, Jack said.
Later they all chimed in. Someone told about the time that Mark
"stole" a car, driving off in a car identical to his, and bringing it
back the next day only to discover that his car was on the lawn in the backyard.
Inga remembered the weekend the whole gang had stayed at Lindy's parents' lake
cottage, and Bill got mad at Milt and hitch-hiked home, a journey of some
two-hundred miles, and was sitting on the front steps of their apartment when
Skip got home. Of course everybody laughed at Shorty remembering how he used to
get red-faced drunk and shout at the top of his lungs, "Let's get drunk and
BE somebody!" The stories went on and on.
By ten o'clock, however, the first defectors began to leave. Alice was
staying in the spare bedroom; the rest had rooms in local motels. Jack and Katie
were staying in Nisswa, a few miles away. The next day some more socializing was
planned and a dinner in a local restaurant for those who could stay. Jack said
they had to get back to Minneapolis early because his son and his wife and
daughter were flying in from Singapore that evening.
Bill was drunk, of course, but he was the only one. Even Alice, whom Jack
had suspected was a full-blown alcoholic, was sober. She had nursed one glass of
wine all evening.
How the mighty have fallen, thought Jack, and he and the other old codgers
got into their cars and were spirited into the night.
Katie drove back to their motel. She had fun, she said. They minded their p's
and q's picking their way back to the highway by reading Janey's directions
backward. When they were safely on their way, Katie asked Jack what Bev had
whispered in his ear when they first arrived. "Oh, she kidded me for
robbing the cradle again," he said. But that wasn't what she had actually
said. What she said was, "I'll never forget that night." Jack hadn't
forgotten it, either, but he wished he could. It was a dumb thing to do.
Even if
her husband didn't care.
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The Language
of Flowers
by Alice Folkart
was seventeen.
He was thirty, a poet who owned a very hip coffee house. He'd hired me to wait
tables, this was my second night, and now, at two a.m., after we'd locked up, he
said, "Alice, you're so tense, you've got to relax. Let me help you
baby."
He led me to the back of the coffeehouse.
After his wife had thrown him out of their house, he'd moved into the store,
curtained off a space, wedged in a narrow cot, painted the walls dark red, and
hung mirrors and set candles everywhere.
"Lie down there, Alice," he whispered conspiratorially. "You
know, to make this therapy work, you should be naked, free of fetters."
I must have shown my surprise, because he added, "This is strictly
clinical, honey. I just want to help you. Consider me as your therapist."
I'd never been to a therapist, nor to a doctor where I had to take off my
clothes, but I was afraid he'd think me bourgeois and uptight, so I pretended
nonchalance and stripped off my dress. I lay down in my bra and panties.
"Ah, Alice," he sighed. "You might as well stay dressed.
I
can't help you like that."
I shivered, and took them off too, feeling skinned. No one had seen me naked
since I was three. He smiled.
The deflowering was gentle and poetic. I felt loved. No one had ever loved
me. I wasn't alone anymore. I left at dawn deliriously happy. Vahan and me!
A
man! Who would have thought!
I stayed late the next two nights, and lay with him, imagining us married as
soon as he got his divorce, running the coffee house, he writing poetry,
becoming famous, me helping him, maybe writing too, la, la, la, la.
Saturday night, the biggest night of the week, the place was full. Tips were
generous. We were busy. Then, the twins came in, dark, willowy, self-assured,
looking like a double vision of Audrey Hepburn. I knew I was finished.
Vahan
served them, gave them free éclairs, made himself a Viennese coffee, sat down
with them. I raced from table to table, burned myself with steam from the
espresso machine, washed cups, and took orders while they sat and giggled.
The
crowd dwindled, and Vahan came over to me. "These girls need a lift home.
You close. Go on home. Don't wait for me."
I did anyway. I sat and cried on the edge of 'our' bed until four a.m.
Then,
I got the long, serrated, tomato-slicing knife from the kitchen and slit his
sheets from top to bottom. It didn't make me feel better. I walked home into the
dawn.
He must have felt guilty. Came all the way across town to my tiny apartment.
He knocked and knocked. I didn't answer. Hours later, when I opened the door, a
long-stemmed red rose fell from the doorknob.
Didn't he know that you can't give the flower back?
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Some Things
My Sister Left Behind
by Lockie Hunter
ne doll with a
painted white face and a delicate purple fan that our father brought back from
Chinatown (Exxon station bathroom, just outside of Memphis)
One yellow plaid hair ribbon with her name, Aimee, embroidered in purple
script (Samuel Jackson playground, Memphis)
Two tonsils (Doctor Simmons office, Memphis)
Three Judy Bloom books (under bunk number seven, cheerleading camp,
Nashville)
One retainer (boyfriend’s house, Memphis)
One trophy, “Best Poetry 1976: Samuel Jackson Junior High” (bedside
table, bedroom, Boston)
One 1980 Toyota Corolla, white with beige interior: totaled (Peabody Service
and Towing, Memphis)
One letter from dad encouraging her to “excel in her studies and drive
carefully dammit now that she is up there in Yankeeland” signed “I love you
so much baby” (shoebox under bed, Boston)
Twenty five assorted love letters from seven different boys dated 1982-2006
(shoebox under bed, Boston)
Five little black dresses (hanging in closet, bedroom, Boston)
Three unpaid speeding tickets (sitting on desk under three day old Starbucks
mocha latte, home office, Boston)
Two “respectable” business suits, both heather gray (hanging in closet,
bedroom, Boston)
Two unfed cats sitting on the windowsill, waiting (kitchen, Boston)
Three pairs of blue jeans: two faded Levi boot cut size 7M with butt and
knees missing, one Guess slim fit size four never worn (bureau, bedroom, Boston)
One unfinished memoir titled “My Life in Words” (C:drive, home office,
Boston)
Four pints of blood (Massachusetts Turnpike between Boston and Cambridge)
One recipe for asparagus with pecan brown butter (recipe box, kitchen,
Boston)
One 1987 VW bug, sunflower yellow with cloud white interior; totaled
(Commonwealth Service and Towing, just off the Massachusetts Turnpike between
Cambridge and Boston)
Nineteen detailed photo albums recording her unfinished life (knotty pine
bookshelf, living room, Boston)
One antique wedding gown, circa 1948, found at garage sale (HOPE chest, foot
of bed, Boston)
One sister, twenty two years old, on computer, writing, (Memphis)
One detailed “incident resulting in loss of life” form 192B filed in
triplicate (Cambridge Police station, District Six Station, Cambridge)
One mother, forty nine years old, deciding between five little black dresses
and two “respectable” suits to bring to funeral parlor (bedroom closet,
Boston)
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Days Like
This
by Eric D. Lehman
can smell the
autumn coming, I think, as I walk across campus to my morning class. The
brisk wind grants a snap to the air that wasn’t noticeable before. Every year
it seems to start earlier. I greet a student in high heels and sweatpants who
moans that she had stomach flu. “I’m going to the health center.”
I shrug,
not caring if she comes to class, but knowing I should show some concern. “Get
well soon.” I say, and creak long legs up the stairs to my
two-hundred-fiftieth class in ten years.
In the dirty classroom, complete with water stains and broken chairs, I
divide my students into groups. Only one student has done the reading and I know
I should give a quiz to fail them all, but instead tell each group to read the
story, looking for purpose and strategy. “The faster you guys do this, the
faster we get out of here,” I tell them, looking out the window at the
yellowing trees, at life moving by on the brick walkways below. But they waste
time, laughing and recounting weekend parties, arguing about sports teams, and
showing off new hairdos. I wander around the room, joking, prodding them into
action, trying to help them learn. They ignore me, sending text messages to each
other, knowing for certain that they have all the time in the world.
Maybe the stomach flu girl will die, I think cheerily, it would be the
only thing that would wake them up. Four students died in a car crash last
year and it briefly energized the campus, snapping the others into a kind of
attention that lasted a month or two. Why is death the only thing that seems to
make us care when we are young? The story is “Once More to the Lake” by
E.B.
White, about a father taking his son to a lake that his own father had
introduced him to. Throughout the story, the father identifies with his son, but
at the end realizes that he is no longer young, and will die. No one in the room
reached this conclusion, and when I tell them, they don’t seem to be fazed,
packing their bookbags and flipping on their cell phones. “Test on Wednesday!”
I call out to them, but no one turns around.
I slouch back to my office, gritting my teeth, and decide to become harder
and less tolerant, to abolish leniency, to make myself into the teacher I always
hated. I think of the vast reserves I have poured into others’ lives over the
past ten years. What was it for? For that one student that I do reach, I
usually answered, but not today. Today, I feel quite certain that autumn is
already here.
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Hard
Break
by Will
Orr-Ewing
imon enjoyed his own
company: he found it much more interesting than other people’s. He spent most
of his time either out at the cinema or in with his computer games. It wasn’t
that he was shy; he just didn’t care much for conversation. His sounded so
plodding compared with the ones he heard at the cinema. His voice was too
toneless, too English. So he spoke only when absolutely necessary.
One of his pet hates was a trip to the hairdresser, and the
chirpy interrogation he was subjected to there. He had learnt to seek out the
immigrants: the Armenians, the Turks, the Greeks. Quiet artisans, he liked to
think— professional, hard-working, and mute. But over the years even these had
become chatty or campy, asking in their broken English where he was at school or
whether he had a girlfriend.
With his adulthood came an even worse affliction: the driving
lesson. Here there were no distractions and no escape. Simon had tried three
different teachers in as many weeks, and each one had offered him a smorgasbord
of intimate revelations, crushing local history and—he was certain—unabashed
flirtation.
So it seemed an auspicious day when Simon first met Carl.
Carl drove a mobile barbershop from town to town. Simon had entered more out of
curiosity than anything else; he remembered seeing one in an old Ealing comedy.
And Carl himself had an ‘Ealing’ air about him too. He was probably just
over sixty; his hair was an immaculate white and combed through with Brylcreem.
He had caring blue eyes that looked out from a heavily-wrinkled face.
On that first meeting Carl insisted on washing the hair
beforehand, and his big calloused hands tickled the back of Simon’s ears.
He
snipped slowly and silently. A radio tuned to Capital Gold provided the only
noise in the background. It all gave Simon that dreamy, stomachless sensation
you get driving over a bump in the road. He closed his eyes and luxuriated in
it.
On his way out, still tingling, he noticed an old
advertisement in the window. It was a hand-written note offering driving lessons
at a good price. Inquire within, it said.
“Um, excuse me Mr. Carl, do you still…” Simon inquired,
pointing to the sheet.
“Oh yes,” Carl said, “haven’t for a while mind.”
Simon booked ten lessons—one every Wednesday—and a test
at the end. Just as he had hoped, Carl brought the same mellifluous feeling to
his driving-lessons as he did to his hairdressing. They were hushed affairs,
broken with Carl’s occasional, softly-spoken instructions: “Third, if you
fancy…” Other than that, they maintained a companionable silence.
They stuck to the suburbs to begin with: quiet, residential
areas with barely a car on them. Simon found it hard to tell the neighbourhoods
apart: the odd patch of grass here or there, but mostly row after row of
identical houses.
The mobile barbershop that stood guard in front of one house
demarcated which neighbourhood was Carl’s. Carl seemed to engineer it so that
they passed through it at exactly the same time every week. His house was much
the same as every other in the neighbourhood but his garden was incomparable.
Simon took in a new bit of it each week. In the middle was a golf-green of a
lawn with grass like rich velvet. An artificial slope rose from one side of it,
up to their neighbour’s wall. A rock garden interspersed with colourful shrubs
cascaded down it. On the other side was a bed of vibrantly coloured plants:
greens, purples and yellows stayed in the mind. Flanked by the frazzled brown
soil of his neighbours, Carl’s garden looked magical—even a bit ridiculous.
Every time they passed, Simon noted a woman—often on all
fours—working in the garden. She wore flowery summer dresses that showed off
an athletic figure, and she exerted herself with wanton energy. There was
something voluptuous in the way she plunged her spade or pulled up a root.
As
they passed, Carl would look at her intently, and proudly. Sometimes she looked
up and nodded, but often they drove by unnoticed.
Simon looked forward to his lessons with increasing zeal.
That sense of peaceful security seemed somehow inaccessible without Carl, and he
felt their separation keenly during the week. So it was a great thrill to him
when, on the way home from the cinema one day, he spotted Carl’s reticent grin
and the woman from the garden on the headline of the local paper.
CHILBOLTON GARDEN SHOW
FIRST PRIZE: CARL AND MARY BARROW
He bought the paper and read it on his bed at home. The
Barrows had won two categories: a prize for the biggest aubergine, and one for
presentation. Simon wasn’t sure why but the result over-joyed him.
At his next
lesson, he cautiously asked Carl about it.
“Oh yes,” Carl said, “the wife and I love to garden.”
“And you won the garden show…” Simon’s words faltered
out.
“Well, didn’t exactly win it…only presentation for my
lot. Few problems with th’ artichokes this year. But Mrs. Barrow’s aubergine
was the biggest they ever seen almost,” he laughed. The conversation was
effortless; Simon liked his voice with Carl. But Carl’s words had made him
realise something: he had never even heard of an aubergine or an artichoke
before. The words sounded so sumptuous on Carl’s lips.
After the lesson, he sought out the local library and
borrowed a book on gardening. All that week he lay on his bed reading; it was
one of the first books he had read in years. He read meticulously—beginning
with soil type, moving on to garden layout, then seasons, then about the plants
and vegetables themselves. Aubergines were quite exotic, he read, and ideally
required a greenhouse; they could be ready in as little as three or four months.
The Jerusalem artichoke, on the other hand, planted in late spring, required
more patience; it took almost a year to flower. Typical Carl, he thought.
When he wasn’t reading, he slinked to the supermarket and
sidled along the ‘fruit and veg’ counter stealing tastes of all the new
things he’d learnt about. (He was well practiced after doing the same to the
‘pick n mix’ at the cinema.) It was an almost transcendental awakening:
that
first beetroot—its hard texture melting to soft mush in his mouth, the pop of
a blueberry as he bit into it. He often left with a rainbow of colours around
the corners of his mouth. He made a few mistakes: on one occasion early on, he
bit into an avocado with a crunch and worried that his yelp might attract the
security guard. But as he read more, and tasted more, he learnt which products—an aubergine, a parsnip—needed slipping into his pocket and cooking at home.
In his next lesson with Carl, Simon bubbled with
conversation: “When’s the right time to plant apples?” “Can you still
buy raspberries in the winter?” “Is it true that the Romans used to grow
wine in Scotland?” At the end of the lesson—just as dusk was flirting with
the remains of the day—Carl turned to Simon.
“I tell you what,” he said “would you be wanting to see
the allotment?”
“What’s that?” Simon asked.
“What’s that!” Carl chortled.
They had to cross a railway line to get to the allotments; on
the other side they spread out in a rampaging wildness. He saw a trail of smoke
rise up in the distance; tangles of vines spiralled through the air. Simon
followed Carl to his allotment and stood speechless. His was entered through a
small gate with a wooden arch crawling with roses. It had a heart etched in the
apex, through which was inscribed ‘The Barrows’, along with a picture of a
wheelbarrow. A fence ran round the outside of the allotment—marking off his
territory.
“The grass is always greener,” Carl said, with his hand
on the fence, “people always want what’s rightfully yours. They say green’s
the colour of envy, Simon. And no wonder,” he chuckled.
Carl led Simon from border to border. The allotment was
divided in two: one half for Carl, one for his wife. Carl skipped quickly over
his. It was neat and restrained—Simon could see why it had won the award for
presentation. His wife’s half was much more dramatic, flamboyant even.
There
were fruits in hers that Simon hadn’t even read about: yellow raspberries,
apricots all furry against his cheek. He tasted a plum, and its juices oozed out
into every corner of his mouth.
“It’s amazing,” Simon said.
“Aye she is,” Carl replied, “Mrs Barrow is a wonderful
gardener.” The tour culminated with her aubergine: “She is especially
good at her aubergines.”
When the tour was over, they sat under a canopy in the
allotment.
“Um, will I get to meet Mrs. Barrow, Carl?”
“Oh, not here. No, Wednesdays she works in the garden.
She’s
up here Mondays and Thursdays.” He paused in the still, summer evening.
“Such
a loyal woman, Mrs. Barrow. Only happy when she’s with her plants.”
Simon smiled.
“But…” here Carl paused, and looked rather wistfully
into the bushes, “sometimes I think Mrs. Barrow deserves a proper garden of her
own. A big place. In the country someplace.” He shook himself from this and
together they picked some fruit for Simon to take home. Then they strolled back
to the car as night descended.
Carl was so effective a teacher that Simon couldn’t help
but improve. It was with a sinking heart that he climbed into Carl’s car for
the last lesson before his test. And Simon thought—or hoped—that he detected
a similar sadness in Carl’s voice when he greeted him:
“Let’s hope this is the last lesson eh Simon…” he
said with a weak smile.
They started to follow their well-worn route: up the duel
carriageway to start with, on into the garden centre for some parking practice,
ending—always at the same time—near Carl’s house where they fine-tuned
some manoeuvres. Except this time was different. For the first time, there was
heavy traffic on the duel carriageway—Simon sat silently drubbing his fingers
on the steering-wheel.
“How’s Mrs. Barrow?” Simon asked
“She’ll be in the garden Wednesdays. Only happy when she’s
with her plants, Mrs. Barrow,” he said. When there was no more movement from
the traffic, he added: “I expect we’ll see her in a minute or two.”
They squirmed out of the jam a little while later but as the
mobile barbershop came into view, it was obvious that no one was home. The
lights were off, the garden deserted. Carl had a bemused look on his face.
“Bit crowded around here for manoeuvres,” Carl said, “tell
you what—let’s try the garden centre again. Plenty of parking bays there.”
So they drove back to the garden centre and for the first
time Carl seemed a bit on edge. Maybe he was sad that the lessons were
ending, Simon thought.
“Third, if you fancy,” he trilled, “now forth. Forth,
Simon. Come on.”
There was barely a car at the garden centre.
“Left or right?” Simon asked.
“Tell you what,” Carl said, “I’m just going to…”
he trailed off and got out of the car. “Just practice some parallel parking in
those bays. Won’t be long...”
He moved to the entrance in a light jog but returned panting
about five minutes later. Now he started directing Simon with jerky, jolty
instructions, almost barking them.
“Left,” he said, “Good. Left again. Now right.”
Soon they were at the allotment. From the car, they had a
good view of Carl’s: but it was empty too. Again, a distant line of smoke
lifted in the distance to the sky.
Simon looked over at Carl for directions. Carl puffed out his
cheeks.
“Right,” he said, slowly, “let’s pull out here…”
He aimlessly let Simon drive back into town—back past the
garden centre, back towards his neighbourhood.
“Right, let’s do a three-point-turn in the road,” Carl
said rather lackadaisically when they were back in the suburbs. Simon started
the procedure: wheel as far as possible to the right, foot very gently off the
clutch, glide round, break, apply hand-break, wing-mirror, rear-mirror, blind
spot…and that’s when he glimpsed her. Mrs. Barrow slinked out of a
front-door, then turned to put her hand back through the crack, was pulled
inside once more—her head leaned forward into the darkness —then she was out
again, smoothing her dress down with her palms. A small ‘smart car’ was
parked outside: ‘Benjamin and Benjamin: Retail Development’, it said in
trendy multi-coloured lettering on the side. She had turned the other way from
Simon and Carl, back towards home, and strolled off purposefully with her mousy
hair bobbing as she went.
Simon completed the procedure then looked at Carl. He had his
whole body turned, looking searchingly out of the rear window. When he turned to
face the front again, he kept his face still as if any movement would be too
much. He had his lips pursed but other than that looked his usual serene self.
“Right, and pull away,” he mumbled.
They continued along the road in silence.
“Right or left?” Simon asked. There was no response.
“Right
or left?” he asked again, more pertinently. They were nearing a junction.
“Carl!”
Simon stressed, “right or left Carl?”
Carl slammed his foot on the instructor’s break and the car
bounced to a halt. They mimed each other, shunting their bodies forward then
backwards sharply into the seat. Simon panted heavily and looked at Carl.
“Left,” Carl said, “let’s go left.”
They went along in silence for awhile before Carl spoke,
softly: “I apologise for my hard breaking.” The phrase seemed odd, to both
of them. Carl repeated it, even softer, to himself, and it got caught in his
mouth: “I apologise for my hard breaking.” Then he just repeated the last
two words in a whisper. It was as if, by saying those words, the reality of the
situation was confirmed. He hadn’t known what he was feeling until then; now
his emotions were categorised. His body slumped visibly, as if something had
passed out of him.
Simon passed his test comfortably, of course. The following
Wednesday felt strange and aimless without the driving lesson. He went to the
cinema; he tried his DVD collection, but neither lifted his spirits. His hair
was still short enough from his haircut just ten weeks before but he went to
where Carl’s van had been parked—hoping for another. The lot stood empty.
Dedicated to Julia
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Homebrew
by Saro Bedian
boy in his mid
teens named John lives alone with his mother. His father is far away, has been
far away for a long time, and John does not expect to see him again. He is a
quiet boy, who has many hobbies, but often does things alone. One day, friends
from school rag on him for having a model plane collection and he shoots the
roof. Finally, storming off after yelling for five minutes, he calms down enough
to really hate them. That was exactly what they wanted. John does not know this,
though. He thinks they were just being mean and stupid, so he goes home and
decides to start a new hobby.
Coming into the house John looks at his mother sitting and reading the
classified section of the newspaper. She always does this, looking for bargains
and hoping to find a better job at the same time. She takes one look at her son
then glances back at the paper.
"Tough day at school, honey?" She remarks off-handedly.
John just glowers at her for a second, opens his mouth as if to say
something, then goes to the fridge and stands with the door open, shaking.
His
eyes are looking for something that he can't see, he can't have, because his
mother does not allow it in the house. He waits to gain his composure and slowly
closes the door. Now his face is set, and turning around, he sees his mother
peering at him again over the newspaper.
"Everything ok, dear?" She asks.
"Yeah," he responds with a set jaw. "I'm going to my room for
awhile."
John's mother, Jane, takes a look into her son's eyes and feels a little
shiver go up her spine. But seeing him standing there she doesn't think anything
is wrong, so she turns back to her paper.
"Make sure to wash up for dinner."
He goes by her without a word and heads straight to his target.
The Dell Dimension 360 is waiting for him with the screen on, the wireless
keyboard out on his favorite placemat, saying, "Push my buttons,
c'mon."
So he sits and gets down to business.
Time goes by and dad is still far away.
After 20 minutes, John has got all the information he needs and he starts
working right away. Two one-gallon jugs, 10 pounds of sugar, half a cup of
yeast, some flavoring, and a large metal container is set up in his closet
within minutes. As he starts measuring out everything he needs, he thinks dark
thoughts about the people who laughed at his model airplane hobby and imagines
their faces when he shows them his new interest.
"I'm going to laugh so hard when Bobby staggers down the street and
falls on his face," he thinks with unholy glee. "I bet I could make
Lisa do anything I wanted to with this stuff," and other thoughts like
these cross his mind as he finishes mixing everything.
As John wipes his hands and looks at his work with satisfaction he can hear
his mother calling him from downstairs.
"Dinner time!" She yells up, and he rushes to the bathroom to wash
up.
"Coming!" he calls back, then hurriedly washes the stuff off his
hands and goes downstairs.
They sit down and have a nice, quiet dinner.
One week goes by.
John comes home again from school, very tired out but emotionally ok. His
mom, as usual, is reading the classifieds in the paper. His dad is, of course,
far away. However, today is going to be an interesting day for John.
He's been
waiting for this day for a long time, it feels like, and now his anticipation is
at its peak. He walks over to his mother and gives her a kiss on the cheek.
"Hey mom, how was your day?" he asks with unusual cheer. She gives
him a funny look, squints, then says slowly, "It was ok, honey. You look
happy," She says this almost as a question. He smiles and pulls out a test
from his backpack. There's a big A+ on the front. He beams at her as she
examines it.
"See mom, I told you I was on top of that history homework," he
says cheerily, feeling like his teeth are growing sharp points. Jane examines
the paper her head, smiles, and says, "I knew you could do it." There
is a moment where everything stops and seems like it might never change, then
his mother turns back to her paper and says, "Dinner will be ready at five.
Make sure you wash up."
John is still smiling, but only up to his nose.
"Alright," he says, and heads up to his room.
Finally alone in his room, he looks around to make sure everything is still
where it was the night before. Seeing that all his equipment is right where he
left it, John opens a jug, brings it up to eye level, and examines the contents.
There appears to be a floating, satiny material in the liquid. He is transfixed
by its movement for a moment, then he puts the jug down and thinks.
He thinks long and hard about his friends, and about how he overreacts to
others feelings.
He thinks about how he just wants to be alone with someone who comforts him,
and makes him feel alright.
He thinks that to do what he was originally planning would be crazy.
He decides to keep his secret to himself.
Opening up a drawer in his desk, John finds a pen and a notepad. He writes
something down, and carefully tucks the paper into his pocket. Running
downstairs, he glances at his mother, who is immersed in her own form of
self-comforting, and thinks a guilty little thought. If dad was here this would
never happen. Steeling himself against such thinking, he grabs a glass from the
shelf in the kitchen and runs back upstairs.
Filling it up with the substance in the jugs, he thinks about his life.
How
he ended up here, doing what he was doing, and how his parents used to fight
until his father went far away. How he is getting to the age where he has to go
away himself. He thinks of these things as he slowly fills the glass to the
brim, then walks downstairs with it.
Sitting across from his mother, who doesn't say a word, he sips on his drink
until it's finished. He then returns to his room, and proceeds to empty the jug
into his gullet.
Needless to say, John gets hammered and falls asleep.
He has found a new hobby, and one that his friends will never make fun of him
for.
He always does this alone, and never tells anyone.
He does not want to threaten the peace of mind he reaches.
He makes a fresh batch every week, and every week drinks the first cup in
front of his mom.
One day, many moons later, John comes home like he always does. His mother
glances up at him, and notices for what seems like the umpteenth time that her
son isn't looking too good. He's been gaining weight and he has heavy bags under
his eyes. She looks back at her paper, not wanting to disturb her own little
piece of heaven, but cannot help but eye him as he walks past her. He doesn't
even talk to me anymore she thinks, but soon her eye is caught on a job
offering and she loses her train of thought.
John walks to his room, opens a fresh jug, and pours a fresh glass. He goes
downstairs, sits in front of his oblivious mother, and begins drinking. This
time, however, he does not finish the glass before falling over and vomiting on
himself. John's legs shake out from his body and he vomits again. As his mother
gets up and screams, his left arm goes up in the air, twitching and holding onto
a piece of paper. She screams again, and seeing the writing on the paper,
instinctively grabs for it. It says in large letters. ALCOHOL POISONING.
CALL
911. LOVE JOHN.
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Hitching
to London
by
Steve Wheeler
was leaving Matala
with Anne and Thomas, the dedicated communist German from Ulm, who owned the
French Peugot which elevated and lowered its suspension at the flick of a
switch. He and I had argued about communism and democracy for a week every night
in the taverna. My strongest argument, the one which he couldn’t answer, was
to ask him where all the communist travelers were? Why was he the only one from
a communist country who was free to travel where he liked, do what he wanted?
Thomas’ idealism was admirable. We agreed, at least, that the rich,
communist or capitalist, were still screwing the poor. He owned a car and
offered me a free ride to Iraklion when he learned I was leaving.
Anne was leaving Greece, too. She was from England, I was heading for London.
She had seen me around Matala, decided to accompany me.
I collected the drachma which were saved for me by my boss, Costa, the young,
local godfather in Matala. He gave me an allowance each week, kept back a
portion of my pay. I worked on various construction jobs he had, was hardened,
tanned and strong when he paid me off.
He held back a bit for himself, just to make sure everyone knew who was the
boss. If he hadn’t saved some of my pay for me, we both knew I would have
blown it all.
The ferry from Iraklion to Piraeus was boring and uneventful. Just as well.
After living for six months in Matala, on the southern coast of Crete, never
leaving, it was a slow emergence into the outside world.
One of the most embarrassing occasions in my life occurred just then. I had
the crabs. I got them in Matala and was at the stage of exterminating them which
required sexual abstinence. There was to be no carnal contact, not even
snuggling, in case of infection of another and a rebirth of the cursed bugs.
But
I was ashamed. I was too embarrassed to tell Anne.
God knows what she thought.
Anne had lived in Matala long enough to know that I wasn’t gay. She was
attractive enough, the ex-girlfriend of a guy who was the grandson of Robert
Graves, the poet.
But I passed up perfect opportunities and situations which thrust us
together. You don’t get much closer together than when you hitchhike together.
I had recently been through hell, living in my makeshift tent in the campground,
scratching at myself. I wouldn’t have wished it on anyone. But I couldn’t
bring myself to tell her.
It was bad enough telling Costas and the boys in Matala. They all took a step
away from me.
Costas wrinkled his nose when he asked why I didn’t tell him sooner. Later,
he admitted that when he got them, he separated himself from his family home and
friends until he got rid of them.
After a few smog filled days in Athens during which we were treated as fair
game, ripped off everywhere we turned, we concluded that the air fare to Britain
was too costly. There was an election on in Greece, something catastrophic was
happening in Northern Europe, living in Athens, even on our skimpy budget, was
too expensive. Reaching London could be done, cheaper, by hitching most of the
way.
Anne was fighting with her parents, proving her independence. She could
easily get the required air fare home but refused to make the call, thereby signaling
to her family that she was dependent upon them.
I thought she was crazy.
A guy seemed to meet us in Brindisi, when we landed in Italy. He appeared,
smiling like a long lost brother, gave us pizza and a room for the night,
ostensibly, for free. He finally demanded payment in sexual favours, from Anne,
but too late. By the time he sneaked away from his wife, it was morning and we
fled.
On the motorway, heading north, it was easy to see why veteran travelers
advised always to hitch with a woman in Europe. Even eighteen wheelers with full
loads stopped for women.
The first big rig which came by, skidded to a fishtailing halt, up the
highway. The driver didn’t care about the truck, the load or the other high
speed traffic.
We had traveled most of the day when he caught me dozing, told me to climb
into the bed behind us. Everything looked fine. I gratefully passed out in the
bunk after Anne and I oohed and ahhed over the pictures of the driver’s
family.
I wasn’t expecting to be awoken by Anne’s kicks as she scrunched herself
up against the passenger door and yelled at the driver. We were shocked that the
friendly family man was so intent on groping Anne that he nearly ran the big
Volvo off the road.
We got him to pull over and let us out.
The next driver who picked us up in a big rig on the freeway which runs up
the spine of Italy, showed us his automatic revolver which he pulled from under
his seat.
We were thinking furiously, Anne prodding me in the side, our eyes glued to
the weapon as he casually handled the pistol while driving. He explained, near
the turnoff to Milan, that every truck driver who stopped in Milan carried a
weapon to defend against hijackers.
He smiled, checked out Anne’s body openly, when he let us off at a truck
stop. We clambered down from the cab, grateful for the lift, glad to be getting
away from his aura of danger.
Anne and I finally separated in a train station in Switzerland. By this time
we were barely speaking. I was irritated at her stubbornness. She was frustrated
at our slow progress.
I didn’t have anything to prove to anyone so she seemed, to me, to be
involved in a frivolous game. I had given up hope that she’d call home for
money enough for two flights back to England. The Greek bread had hardened in
our packs. We could barely afford coffee and chocolate bars.
The tension between us grew every hour.
We stopped, at night, in the little station where we got some sleep on
benches, warm and dry. When we awoke, we were greeted by backpackers with
English accents who got along famously with Anne and onto whom she latched.
She
went their way and I went mine. We were glad to part.
I headed for Shaffhausen, on the German border. In Matala, some of the German
visitors had given me addresses and phone numbers for places to stay and jobs.
If I could get into Germany, it seemed worth checking out. My resolve to reach
London didn’t waver, but I took a detour. It seemed logical that I should see
a little of Germany while I was so close. Some of the jobs were even on Canadian
bases.
The Alps were truly breathtaking. Some of the rides were with young, Swiss
natives who pointed out that many of the idyllic scenes in the postcard
mountains contained, in reality, many poor people struggling to get by. The
underside of Switzerland was obvious to them, never explained to the tourists.
When I arrived, I called the number I had in Shaffhausen, knocked on the door
of the address I was given, but there was no response. I stayed around for two
more days but never found anyone.
I couldn’t find a youth hostel in Shaffhausen and I couldn’t afford a
room so I used the only shelter I could find, a public toilet, in a park. The
place was clean. If I laid in a certain position I could manage a few hours of
sleep in the glare of the all night lights.
I waited, for two days and nights, walking around, looking at windows full of
displays of Swiss chocolate for the tourists, living in the public restroom,
eating my loaf of bread with the last of the jam I had carried from Greece.
Finally, I couldn’t wait any longer. I approached the border crossing
between Switzerland and Germany. The early morning traffic was traveling slowly,
I got a lift with a young businessman who lived in Shaffhausen, crossed the
border, every day, for work, in Germany.
The German border guards ordered me out of the car, searched my pack, studied
my passport, ordered me to take off my cowboy boots. They studiously examined
the Greek sand which fell out, presumably for drugs, counted my little wad of
American bills, rejected me.
I had to shoulder my pack and walk back across the border beside the line of
cars going to Germany. The Swiss guards shrugged and laughed when they saw.
"Germans" they said with a gesture that was meant to explain that
they were as baffled as I.
I consulted a map, took the rest of the day to hitch to Basel.
On the side of the highway, at an intersection, I talked to a hippie looking
couple who were hitching in another direction. They said they had slept in a
park last night, had awoken to find food and coffee in the grass, beside their
sleeping bags.
Through Basel I would get to France, then England. If I had stuck to my
original plan, with good luck, I’d probably be there by now.
The day was ending, darkness approaching, the sky spit rain. I stood on the
side of the freeway outside of Basel, watched the lights of the comfortable
houses, wondered how many cities I’d stood outside of, how many hours I’d
spent waiting for lifts on freeways..
Then Bernt stopped.
At first, I thought he was gay, picking up a hitchhiker in the dark. But his
simple reason for helping me out was that once, on a motorcycle trip around
Germany, someone had helped him out. He asked only that I do the same for some
other stranger when the opportunity presented itself.
Bernt took me home to his comfortable, modern apartment, let me use his
shower and phone. I called Canada to borrow a little money. It was sent by
American Express. It meant nothing in Canada, the world to me.
Bernt and a friend wined and dined me. We ate and drank in the tavern which
Hermann Hesse frequented while he wrote Steppenwolf. We ate Swiss rosti, drank
wine, tried to remember which parts of the tavern Hesse described in his book.
Perhaps from outside the window.
They took off for a weekend, left me with the house after Bernt showed me his
copious wine cellar.
I used the Basel trams to get my money from the American express office, left
Bernt a thank you note, hitched to France.
From Basel I was lucky to get a lift all the way to Strasbourg where I stood
on the freeway with my thumb out until a funky looking, old, walk-in van pulled
over and picked me up.
The driver was French, returning from Poland where he worked with Solidarity
to press for democracy. The paintings and slogans which decorated the van were
encouragement to Solidarity and its cause. He had installed a finely tuned,
powerful engine in the old van. He laughed at the system the Poles were
overthrowing as we sped toward Paris.
When he let me off at the suburban metro station, I consulted my address
book, called Frank.
He had given me his number when he visited Matala, insisted that I call him
if I ever got to Paris.
I spent the next few days in Frank’s family’s expensive apartment.
Frank, a handsome blond Frenchman, was an expert in judo. He had trained for
most of his life, had awards, could truthfully say that it saved him once when
he was attacked by a gang in a metro station. He was about to join the French
army. Frank had lots of girlfriends.
We sped around Paris in someone’s car, visited expensive restaurants and
cafes. Of course, I started out nearly broke and that finished it. I thanked
Frank and hitched to Calais.
One way of avoiding the fare from Calais to Dover and London was to get a
lift with a trucker. I canvassed the truckers I saw waiting for the ferry.
There
were dozens of big rigs heading to London. Most of the drivers wouldn’t risk
picking up a hitchhiker because of the traveling insurance inspectors. I was
looking as desperate as I felt.
Finally, a driver with an English accent told me to wait by the dock, then to
get into his truck, quick, while he was loading. That way, he passed the custom
inspections before picking me up.
Once we rolled onto the motorway, he checked the mirrors, installed me in the
cab so that I couldn’t be seen from outside. He told me of his life driving
regularly all over Europe. He worked shifts which allowed him some time with his
young family in the north of England. He let me off with a cheery "Good
luck" at the southernmost tube station in London.
By the time I reached Rob’s co-op flat in Finsbury Park, I was exhausted. I
had been thoroughly shaken out of the dream I had lived beneath the Matala moon.
We sat around his kitchen, drinking tea, reading newspapers, one drizzly
morning. That was when I found the article on the shortage of rig workers in
Scotland.
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The Fall of a
Hunter
by Dipita Kwa
wo more hawks joined the four already hovering over the heavy cloud of smoke
rising high from the forest on fire. Every now and then, one hawk would slant
and cock its head to examine the burning surface for any signs of roasted snails
or millipedes.
Suddenly, with a swift swooping movement, one of them headed down, straight
for what appeared to be a lizard fighting desperately with death. But before the
hawk could reach its target, a crooked stone went racing towards it. The bird
hastily dropped its hunt and flew off for its life, sounding a warning shrill to
its friends.
Jembe cursed, banged a fist of disappointment against his thigh as he watched
all the birds soar to safety.
“Thank your old mother for this lucky day!” he hissed and turned his
attention to the fire that was voraciously devouring the dense greenery of
climbers and shrubs and trees.
Sweat streamed from his face and ran down his naked back and arms. His palms
were very wet. He had to keep wiping them on his khaki trousers in order to
maintain a steady grip on his spear and machete while waiting for any animal
hiding in the bush, towards which the fire was ravenously approaching, to rush
out.
When hunting was poor, Jembe became furious. His bushy eyebrows twitched as
he glared around him, searching for an object on which to vent his anger. During
such moments, his dog Kuli kept his distance and remained as quiet as he could.
Now, with only one mole in his hunting thong, it was clear that they had to
wait until nightfall.
“Ah, Sango Jembe the great hunter!”
Jembe looked up. His face was criss-crossed like a buttered clay pot, with
distinct lines of rage when he saw who it was. Tanga was carrying a large bundle
of firewood over which was strapped a bunch of plantains and a bundle of
huckleberry. He was bent double under the weight of the load. Yet he managed to
put on a glowing smile—a smile Jembe hated with his soul; it was the
unmistakable plea for a squirrel’s leg with which to accompany the plantains
he always carried home to his wife and children.
“So how is work, neighbour?” Tanga asked, eying Jembe’s hunting thong
that was hanging on a tree branch.
“Carry your ill luck away from here, idiot!” Jembe barked, snatching his
bag and flinging the stripe over his neck so that the bag rested safely on his
side.
“Ah, ah, Sango Jembe! I was only greeting. Is it a crime to inquire how
hunting is faring?”
“I’m warning you for the last time to mind your business. Take your
concern away from here before I lose my temper,” Jembe roared, dangerously
waving his broad crocodile machete.
“Now what have I done wrong? Jembe, tell me. One greets you and only
receives the sting of the wasp. Why?”
“Don’t you know why?” Jembe growled.
“Yes, I don’t know. Tell me. Whenever I come close to you like a
neighbour you behave as though I am a rotten thing.”
“Yes, you are a rotten piece of meat. Now leave! I have had enough of your
ill-luck and endless begging. Today you are begging for a piece of meat,
tomorrow you want salt, the next day you want fire….when will you ever grow to
be a real man?”
“I am not ashamed to beg. It is better to beg than to steal. I hope you
kill enough animals to feed your poor dog and to compensate for people’s crops
your fire is now eating up” Tanga snapped and started away.
Jembe searched around him for a weapon, and ended up with a burning twig which he
hurled at the escaping man. But the projectile soon lost its energy and fell
short on its way.
“Pay for your mother’s crops! Foolish sheep who eats grass like Ngomba’s
goat. Look at your neck like that of a dead tortoise,” he shouted.
Tanga silently hastened away, took a bend on his left and was soon out of
sight, covered by tall trees and elephant grass that flanked the path on either
side.
On turning around Jembe, not watching, stepped on the stub of Kuli’s tail;
Jembe had cut off a portion of the dog’s tail alleging that Kuli could only
hunt effectively, and saved from the hands of a chimpanzee, if he had a short
tail. Kuli whined in pain, struggling to free his tail from under Jembe’s
rough, tough foot.
Jembe dug a kick on the dog’s ribs.
“It’s because of your ill luck that the animals have all disappeared.
You
and that scallywag, Tanga, have infested this place with misfortune,” he said
seriously.
He presently brought out the mole from his bag. Holding the carcass by the
tail and waving it about like a useless piece of cloth, he bemoaned:
“Only one mole! What will I do with it? Not even big enough for a mouthful.”
Still holding the dead mole by the tail, he examined it hungrily, licked his
lips as he imagined how the animal would taste after a careful, ceremonious
cooking. He would put no garlic. Just plenty of pepper, curry powder, onion and
little water; this would ensure that the meat absorbed the ingredients deeply to
the bones. Oh, how he would crush the skull and hipbones!
Jembe could no longer wait to start realizing this wonderful art—cooking a
lone mole after a hard day’s work with hunger.
“Let’s go home,” he said to his dog, replacing the mole in his bag.
It was already getting dark. The partridges’ songs could be heard from
across the swamps long after hawks had retired to their nests on the top of tall
baobab trees.
* * *
Being a gifted hunter and a good cook, Jembe always made a critical choice of
the best parts of meat for his pot. This Sunday morning he realized that the
mole he had cooked the day before was now extraordinarily appetizing.
He was just from relieving himself in the low bush behind his house. He
always did this to bolster his appetite and to create space before a heavy meal.
Now he was whistling as he removed his singlet and hung it on the rail that ran
above the hearth over which he smoked his meat. He cooked, dined, and slept in
this tiny square room having a half-drum for a chair and an old bamboo bed.
He flexed his arms and legs and frighteningly became conscious that something
was wrong. The upturned wooden bowl on the floor jolted him. No, this could not
be his bowl of food! His heart beat fast as he kicked it over.
“I will kill this dog today,” he cried, feeling a sudden burst of
bitterness, and grabbed a whip stuck between the rotten planks and hurried
outside.
Kuli was coiled beside the house, licking his mouth. Before the dog could
move, three gapping lines stood on his back where the quick strokes had fallen.
Kuli whined and ran away to Tanga’s compound.
“I will kill you before I can rest in this house.” Jembe was panting as
he gave chase.
Tanga’s, wife, Ndome, was from fetching water.
“What has Kuli done again?” she cried as the dog ran past her.
Jembe stopped and regarded Ndome with a scornful look on his face.
“Parrot, can you shut up your mouth and take your concern to your house?”
“My concern is here and now, Mr. Jembe, to see that an animal is properly
treated. I don’t like the way you treat Kuli.”
“You must not like the way I manage my house,” Jembe snapped.
“Your house!” Ndome sneered, supporting her bucket of water with one hand
while the other hand rested on her waist. “That tattered thing you inherited
from your father who inherited from his father is what you call a house? You
have no wife, no children, yet even this poor dog left behind by your father,
you keep beating as though he was a church drum.”
Jembe’s mouth was now greased with sputum. He was trembling with fury.
No
woman dared talked to him like this.
“You sharp-mouthed parrot!” he roared, pushing her away. Ndome toppled
over and the bucket missed her leg by an inch.
“It is only God who will repay you,” she stammered, sobbing. “You are
above Mukunda but God will take care of your wickedness. You will regret all
these one day—even on your dying bed.”
“Are you the one to kill me?” Jembe asked, pointing a thick finger at
her. “A useless dog eats my food and when I want to punish the thing, you come
along opening your dirty mouth to oppose.”
Ndome’s son who had been watching from the spaces between the hedges that
separated the two compounds said, “Mami, Kuli did not eat anything. It is Pa
Ngomba’s goat. This is it right here.”
Jembe immediately turned his attention to the boy.
“What did you say? That Ngomba’s goat ate my food?”
But the boy had withdrawn home.
“God will repay you,” Ndome said, picked up her empty bucket and headed
to her house with water dripping from her wrapper.
Jembe too turned around and went back to his house.
“Lucky enough that I hid the pot in the barn otherwise that wizard’s goat
would have made me go hungry today. And that useless dog couldn’t chase the
goat away—even bite its leg off.” He climbed on the bed and brought down the
hidden pot of the remaining food.
A juicy leg of the mole was now in his mouth as he pulled the rusty,
half-drum and tossed it at the back of the door in a position that assured him
that no one passing outside saw him while he saw everyone passing. He nestled
the black pot of food on his thighs.
Kuli sat patiently, waiting. His eyes followed Jembe’s hand from the pot to
his mouth and back to the pot.
Jembe spared no bone because he had a long-established and mastered way of
crushing them. After completely crushing the last bone, he licked all the
fingers of his right hand, drank a big calabash of water, belched loudly, and
wiped his hands on his hair.
Looking now at the rotten planks covered with cobweb and up at the roof
smeared with soot from his fire place, Jembe settled backward in his seat,
leisurely threw his head sideways, leaned his broad back against the wall, and
smiled.
(to be concluded)
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|
Sleep Tight |
|
Carolyn Schlam |
|
The Stargazer |
|
Carolyn Schlam |
|
Woman in a Box |
|
Carolyn Schlam |
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|
Hidden Value |
|
Amy Chace and Paul
Benincasa |
|
Carla the Seer |
|
Amy Chace and Paul
Benincasa |
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|
A Lost King |
|
Jeremiah Stansbury |
|
Life on Earth
|
Jeremiah Stansbury
|
|
The Jazz Solo
|
Jeremiah Stansbury
|
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|
Phonographt |
|
Michael Szewczyk |
|
Bloody Nose |
|
Michael Szewczyk |
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