Laura Rhoton

Grace walks home from the pool the long way, through the snow. Tonight the children could not keep their heads up. They don’t understand, thinking like they do, how to float. They need not move.
Grace has shown them many times. She has stretched out like a flag until she’s weightless. But the children have many fears, some of the water, and some of other things, and it seems that nothing like that will ever be necessary.
This morning Grace took all the polish off her nails and threw the bottles into the trash. When Abbey asked what she was doing, Grace said she didn’t have time to paint her nails. But Grace has felt for some time that she has to get rid of the things she used to do. Her hands feel like a child’s now.
When Abbey moved into Grace’s apartment, she brought magazines. Suddenly there were pretty things all over the place. Abbey’s perfume, Abbey’s clothes, Abbey. Grace believes that Abbey is like everything she owns. Perfectly composed.
Grace needs to emulate. She is in love with Alden. Alden comes to dinner and they talk about what happens. About the day, about the past, about the future. While they eat they sit by the window and watch the wind move through the trees the contractor planted last year when the apartments were built.
Grace tells Alden she took the children to the zoo yesterday. There is more than swimming, she says. Nature, first aid, archery.
Alden asks which zoo.
“The one in the park,” she says.
“Did you show them the monkeys?” Alden asks.
“There was an armadillo in the monkey house,” Grace says. “Upside down on the cement.”
Alden shakes his head and says, “I’m going to be promoted.” He looks at Grace and smoothes his hair. “To Los Angeles,” he says.
Grace cuts the skin off her chicken one piece at a time and sets it against the rim of her plate. “Congratulations,” she says.
“It’s not till March,” he says. “March or April.”
Grace looks out the window and acts like he doesn’t owe her anything. That’s what he wants her to do, but she knows that doing what he wants won’t get her anywhere. He wants her to be irresistible.
After dinner Alden touches her cheek and fingers the moonshaped scar. Grace tells him there were seven stitches there last summer.

He counts them and says, “Your face is cold.” He tells her he doesn’t want to leave her. “You know that, don’t you?” he asks.
When he has gone Grace leans close to the mirror and stares into the scar. Lowell, Grace’s best friend, left it there last summer, the day before she moved away.
It was August, and Lowell had thrown a party. A swimming party, to which she wore
a yellow bathing suit. In the midst of the party, when Lowell drifted outside, Grace kissed Lowell’s lover. Grace was not as sorry as she knew she should be, not as sorry as she was when Lowell asked later, standing in the kitchen doorway, if Grace would help her serve the drinks.
With a goblet in her hand, Lowell laughed and pointed outside. “I’m going to miss you, Grace,” she said. “I’m going to miss you so much.”
Grace watched the guests on the patio. She felt she would suffocate standing there in Lowell’s kitchen, remembering Lowell coming home late at night. Lowell had worn a tiny gold bird around her neck, a gift for luck. “Look,” she’d said. “The wings move on hinges.”
“Promise me something,” Lowell said. “Promise me you’ll write.” She looked at Grace.
Grace nodded.
Then she stood by the window and told Lowell what happened. She told Lowell it was something she would always regret and she didn’t understand why she did it.
Lowell stood at the sink and poured lime mixer, gallons and gallons of it, down the disposal.
After the party, long after the guests had gone, Lowell and Grace got drunk. With their hair soaked in gin and water, they swam nude in the deep end. As Grace slipped from wall to wall in the dark, her face cresting like a gull, Lowell jumped from the board with a bottle in her hand. The glass broke as Grace turned her face to breathe.
Lowell clung to the side of the pool and cried. “I didn’t see you,” she said. “I didn’t see you.”
Grace watched the blood make a trail of beautiful red smoke. Not looking at Lowell, she pulled the glass from her hair and watched it sink to the bottom of the pool.
In the pictures Grace has of the party, Lowell is sitting slightly out of focus with one thin arm on Grace’s shoulder.

“We live in a floating world,” the Buddhists say.
As Grace walks the grocery aisles, she tries to remember Alden’s favorite food. There are slogans everywhere, something she is increasingly aware of. Wherever she looks there are quotes. In italics at the end of a story, on her calendar, inside cards she sends. Grace finds herself writing them down.

Grace remembers Abbey’s goldfish as she’s climbing up the stairs. She had put their bowl outside in the rain this morning to catch the clean water. But the rain had turned to snow and when Grace brings the bowl in the fish have frozen.
When Abbey gets home Grace tries to explain. “I didn’t think about the cold,” she says. “It was raining.” She looks at the snow on the balcony.
Abbey kneels by the bowl and looks at their fins hanging down like gold in the cold, clear water. “It’s all right,” she says.
For a week the weather gets progressively warmer and the sky is bright blue above the prematurely melting snow. The water, which suddenly seems to be everywhere, floods the sidewalks and makes pools on the grass. As it runs down the streets it seeps into the cracks where it will freeze until summer comes to break the asphalt apart.
To celebrate, Alden is wearing a white sweater and tennis shoes. “Isn’t it beautiful?” he says, his face in Grace’s hair.
Grace smiles. “Where?” she asks.
“The movies.”
“But that’s inside,” she says.
“We’ll go for a walk afterwards,” he says. “Don’t you love to come out of a movie when it’s bright outside?”

Grace wears his sunglasses on the way to the theatre. The sky and the cars and the signs blaze red, blue, and orange. The grass is surprisingly green.
The theatre is empty except for a man, who sits four rows ahead of them with a baby on his shoulder. From time to time he cranes his head to make sure she is still asleep. The baby, her face a perfect moon, makes a tiny smile.
The sun remains, hard and sharply cold, still shining the day Grace explains that she is leaving. She tells Alden and he nods, his thoughts on L.A. There really isn’t anything to say, so they leave it at that. But all the way home, walking from curb to curb, Grace thinks that there must have been something more.
She and Abbey go for a long ride the day after. They’ve talked about everything and Grace has explained it as best she can, but she leaves things out. Abbey nods sympathetically. In a small town by the lake, they buy milkshakes for the ride back.



Where Things Were Quiet

Laura Hamblin

Scott had intended to blow his head off, but he didn’t aim the gun properly, so instead he blew off his face. Before the gun fired he thought he didn’t want to live. But after the thing had happened, he knew that what he wanted most was simply to die.
It was her job to keep Scott alive.
When she came onto the afternoon shift, Scott was restrained because after surgery, while he was still in the recovery room, he tried to pull the airways out, and he had been combative whenever he roused from the anesthesia. The nurse going off shift told her that even though this was Scott’s fourth reconstructive surgery, she had better brace herself. But she didn’t want to see Scott; she was afraid that she might gasp or jump.


In nursing school, during her last semester, she found that she did not want to be a nurse. In the middle of her clinical rotation at the children’s hospital, she cared for Melinda, an infant who had been beaten by her father and had received severe head injuries. Melinda’s brain was edematous from the internal damage, so they drilled burr holes to relieve the pressure—but the brain was so swollen that it began to ooze through the burr holes, and in the end, they removed the entire side of the skull. Melinda’s head was twice the size of a normal baby’s, with the lining of the brain lying next to the sterile dressing, visibly pulsating. At first the little thing looked so strange that it was difficult for her to realize that it was actually human.
The otherwise healthy baby was left blind, paralyzed, and mentally retarded. All Melinda would ever know of life would be what she felt and heard. But what could she really know from that? She would never have any language to give her world meaning. And Melinda would never be able to reach for anything to touch. She would always depend on someone else to come to her.
Once she brought Melinda a stuffed rabbit with a music box inside of it. She thought the baby might gain some comfort from the soft fur and the tiny ring of the bells. But after two days, an X-ray technician accidentally dropped it. After that she went to the children’s hospital on the weekends, when there were no school requirements, to hold Melinda and rock her. She didn’t know what else could be done except to hold her, and rock her, back and forth.
That semester she realized that she did not want to be a nurse. She hated everything about nursing. She hated doctors. She hated sick people. She hated needles and tubes. She hated emesis and feces. She hated infections. She hated the smell of alcohol. And she hated wearing white.
It all came to her at two o’clock one morning, when the sky was flat and colorless. She turned toward Joe and tried to tell him that she wasn’t meant to do this, not any of it. It was a mistake, the whole thing was a mistake. Joe moaned softly and rolled out of her light embrace. And in the morning when she asked him what he thought she should do, he couldn’t believe she was considering quitting when she was so close to being finished—they could really use the money. So she finished the program and went to work. It was true, they needed the money.


Joe played jazz drums. He lived for music. In the beginning it was Joe’s music that attracted her. Through his music he seemed to perceive and feel things that she had never realized existed. She wanted him to have feelings for her because she wanted to be a part of what he felt. Wherever Joe was, everything seemed animated and breathing. Before Joe, she always seemed to be standing in the shadows, where things were quiet. But when she was with him, there was always plenty of sound. He had a way with people; everyone liked Joe. There was always laughter, and music, and action where Joe was. At first it made her feel recklessly free, as if the thing she had been were suddenly absolved. And when Joe was in the limelight some of the illumination seemed to reflect onto her. People were always happy to have Joe around, and because she was with him, she thought that they were happy to have her around.
For a while it seemed to work. She had a regular job, so there was reliable money coming in to pay the bills. And Joe had his music. He seemed satisfied, if not happy, and she felt that in supporting him she was somehow responsible for an artist who would soon be known.
But what at first she took for something carefree in Joe, she began to see as something careless. He played, when the gig was available, in the basement of a tiny cafe. People came there regularly, to hear the jazz. At first, they charged a cover. But after the band got to know people, they took donations; and later, when the regulars gave sad stories, they played for free. It was worth it just to have an audience, just to make music. When she complained that it wasn’t fair that she worked at a job she hated while he did nothing to help out with the money, he yelled that she wasn’t supportive, and that she didn’t understand how things were.
She did not understand. And she would wonder how music could give anyone so much satisfaction. What was music anyway? It couldn’t be seen nor touched. It was merely a series of waves in the air. And when the waves stretched out far enough, they stopped existing.
She began to feel Joe cared more for his music than for her. If it were another woman she might know how to deal with it, how to compete, or at least she could see the opponent and realize, in seeing the thing, how he could prefer the other. But this thing was intangible; she couldn’t get a grasp on it.


This is what she thought of when she began her rounds. She thought of Joe and of how he would be playing his drums tonight in the basement of the tiny cafe. She thought of the smoke-filled room and of the regulars who would come to drink coffee and lie back and hear jazz. She became angry when she thought of the cafe and of the space in the basement that would be temporarily filled with sound. She was angry that he could find pleasure in that tiny, crowded room, that she had nothing.
And now it all seemed to have come to this. She felt very old—weak, and tired, and very old, as if life had stopped. She knew that the earth continued to rotate on its axis, that air continued to move through her lungs, but life—that thing indescribable, that thing which took one beyond mere existence—had stopped. She couldn’t seem to remember when or how it all began, but she thought, at that moment, that this was all there would ever be for her: she had spent her life. And she pushed the door of Scott’s room open.
Scott was sleeping, turned toward her so that she could see what was, or should have been his face. From just below the orbits of his eyes there began a cavity which sank at an incline until it came even with his neck. There was no nose nor bridge of a nose, only a tissue, pink and shiny like new skin, pulled in tight toward what might have been a mouth. But it wasn’t exactly a mouth. There were no lips, no shape to the opening, just a quarter-sized hole attached to no moveable muscles. After Scott had shot himself there was very little skin left to put him back together with. Three patches of skin had been grafted to the area that would have formed his cheeks. Two of the grafts had been taken from his back, but a third graft was composed of skin from his thigh. From the skin of this third graft, long, thick, wiry hairs stood out, growing where no beard would grow. Out of the area where his nose had been, two catheters protruded from the taut skin. Each tube was stitched in place with heavy thread, crusted with brown blood. The ends of the catheters had been clipped so that there was a direct opening for the air to lead into the back of Scott’s throat. A thin string of bloody mucus was oozing out of one of the airways. Scott had a tracheostomy to ensure proper breathing, and at the end of his trach tube a tiny bubble of saliva grew and burst as Scott breathed in his sleep. Looking at him sleeping there, she wondered who he was—this person with no face.
Several months ago she had gone to the doctor with stomach problems. She had vomited blood twice, and the pain, which had been constant for some time now, had become more intense. She had all of the routine abdominal examinations. When the results of the exams came back and the doctor told her that there didn’t appear to be anything physically wrong, she sat silently with her head bent, as if she were guilty.
The doctor asked her how things were at home, and before she realized what was happening she found herself crying in violent sobs. The doctor suggested she get some counseling and referred her to Dr. Jenkens, a psychologist. He thinks I’ve gone crazy, she thought; is this what crazy’s like? After two visits Jenkens asked her to bring Joe along. But Joe didn’t see the point; she was the one with the stomach problems. So she continued to see Jenkens alone.
The first thing Scott communicated to her was his desire for pain medication. But Scott was unable to talk. There were only two molars left on the bottom right-hand side of his mouth. The jaw bone, which would one day be reconstructed from ribs, was completely missing. Three-fourths of his tongue was gone; what was left of his tongue was a thin narrow strip, like a lizard’s tongue, but Scott’s tongue was fixed to the floor of his mouth. No moveable part was left. Scott’s eyes were the only part of his face that had any human look. But because of the contractures of the skin grafts, his bottom lashes were pulled down so that they lay flat against the skin. His eyes were blue, and they never connected with another’s eyes.
There was a pad of paper and a pencil at Scott’s nightstand. Forty-five minutes after the shift had started Scott pressed his nurse’s call button. When she came into the room she handed him the pad and pencil and he wrote: I’m hurting. She checked the nurses’ bedside notes and saw that his last injection had been given only two hours ago. She told him that according to the notes, it was an hour too early for any more narcotics, but she told him that she would bring a shot as soon as it was time. I hurt now, he wrote. She shrugged and told him that she would bring it as soon as she could. He turned away from her, as much as possible, in spite of the restraints, so that he faced the wall.
Twenty minutes later she brought a syringe into Scott’s room. She told him not to let anyone know. Scott bared his right hip for the needle.
She told Jenkens that when she was young she loved to go bird watching. She once knew the names of all the birds, and would spend hours alone in the foothills watching their quiet ways. Once she stayed out longer than usual. She had lost track of the time and it became dark before she made it home. As she walked the dark road toward her home, her father drove up. He yelled at her for losing track of the time. And he decided that she was not to go out alone again—who knew what kind of crazies might be running around in the dark? It was no place for a girl to be out alone. She remembered distinctly, at that time, hating who she was. And her brother roamed the hills whenever he wanted.
The next day Scott was to have feedings every three hours through his J-tube. The tube was six inches long and taped in a coil around his navel. The tube entered the stomach through a permanent opening in the abdomen. She filled a 50 cc syringe with Ensure and connected the syringe to the opening of the J-tube. But Scott did not want to eat. He wanted to die. When she began to inject the formula through the tube, Scott inhaled through his trach and held the air in, bearing down. When he did this, the pressure in his abdomen was greater than the pressure in the syringe and the Ensure could not be advanced. She waited until he gasped for air, which forced the pressure he held down to be released, and she quickly pushed the Ensure through. They interacted in this way until 200 cc of Ensure had been given. It took them thirty minutes. The last five minutes Scott clenched his fists and pounded them rhythmically on the bed while she looked out the window and thought of how she hated drums.


In a few days Scott was able to get out of bed, and in addition to her other responsibilities, she now had to help him ambulate so he could get his strength up. Once she had had a patient, an old woman, who almost fainted while walking
down the hall. Since then she always held onto her patients while they walked. She would put one arm around the patient’s waist, and with her other arm she would hold the elbow that was next to her side. This is how she held Scott when he first got up to ambulate. Scott rested the upper part of his body against her so that his upper arm pressed into her breast. With any other patient, she would have let the arm go so that she couldn’t be touched. But she thought of how it was unlikely that Scott would ever touch any woman’s breast, and let the thing pass. As they moved slowly down the hall, other patients moving about would stop their motion and stare in horror. And if Scott had had lips, they would have seen them turn up in delight.
She began to wonder if being unhappy were the same thing as being not happy. She tried to expect nothing, so that she might rid herself of the feeling of being let down. But Jenkens told her that this in itself was a type of expectation.
She told things to Jenkens that Joe never knew about, things that Joe would never hear. They talked of pain and of all the times of pain in which one is grateful for morphine. But he told her that there was a type of pain in which the pain itself becomes the reward, and beauty is the end result.
When Scott was able to ambulate by himself he left the ward without telling anyone and went to the pediatric unit. He ran into the small children’s rooms, making hideous noises while he drooled saliva. Security was called to take him back to his ward. But the children had trouble sleeping that night, and would have trouble for nights to come.
During the midnight shift, Scott would get out of bed and quietly follow the nurses around, hiding behind doors, waiting to jump out at them, loving to hear the sound of another’s scream. At other times he would go into a neighboring patient’s room and stand over the bed, looking until the wide stare of his eyes would call the person out of sleep.
Scott was constantly picking at the suture lines of the skin grafts and the airways. When any of the incisions would start to heal with a new, thin scab, Scott would pull the scab off so that the next time a thicker, deeper scab would form. In the end, the incisions healed, but the scars that they left were thick and white and irregular.
When the surgical wounds healed, Scott was made ready for a three-week discharge before his next surgery. His mother and his stepfather were made his legal guardians, and he was to be released to their care.


A few nights before Scott was to go home, she had a dream. In the dream she was lying in bed next to Joe and her menses started. She dreamed that she was aware of her bleeding, but that this bleeding was different—the blood coming from her now was a cherry-red, and it flowed copiously. She found that she couldn’t rise and get out of bed to take care of herself, and the blood kept flowing. It spread from herself onto Joe, but he did not waken. She opened her mouth to cry out for help, to tell Joe that she was bleeding, but she could make no noise, the blood kept flowing. By now the blood covered all of her from her hips down and had soiled the sheets and most of Joe. In her dream she realized that she was hemorrhaging and would bleed to death if something weren’t done. But the blood kept flowing, and flowing, and flowing—and then she woke, with a light sweat over her body.
On the day Scott was to go home, as she was going over the discharge summary with him, she had the sensation that they had been here before—both she and Scott. But something was different this time; this time she found that something ought to be said. She wanted to say something—anything that might make his life bearable: hang in there; or, things will get better; or, you’ll do all right.
But she found that she—the one with the mouth, the jaw, the tongue, the teeth—had nothing to say. She set the discharge notes down and walked to the window where Scott was standing. The sky was heavy with gray. A flock of birds rose and flew toward a brown smokestack which was adding rainbow tinted layers of smoke into the air. What birds are they? she thought . . . I once knew . . . What birds are they?
The birds made no noise, but flew in a perfect silence. The silence seemed to stretch on, endlessly. And in that perfect silence it came to her.
“They’re starlings,” she said. “Those birds are starlings.”


What Being Pretty Is All About

(A letter to my brother)

Jesus Rodriguez

Driving up to see you that day, I passed a girl
on the road. She was walking and wore a white
dress. She looked like she belonged in a painting
or one of those prints. On the seat next to me
there were some cookies that Vickie had made.

When I was driving I looked for that place we used
to go shooting at, but it had moved. Here, listen
to this, the movement poetic: your bird began to wail
the day you came so I let it go. He flew in circles
and I followed him until I couldn’t see him anymore.

Bobby said he saw him fly by the house, but I don’t
know. He told me to tell you that he was going
to come up soon. I won’t be coming to see you
for a while. From outside, this white wall promises
all the things we wanted to see when we were kids.

But there is only cold steel wire and something less.
When I left, she wasn’t on the road anymore.
If she had been I’d have given her a ride. She would
ask me was I coming from here, and I would say no
and tell her that she was really pretty.

The World’s a Mess, It’s in My Kiss

Julie Turley

Bipsy has Mr. Sam for social science.

Mr. Sam has an afro that sticks out over his head like an umbrella. Bipsy is a cheerleader and hates Mr. Sam. She writes Things to do on her worksheet and makes all the circles into peace signs. Peace signs are in this year. 

“Copy these notes!” Mr. Sam turns on an overhead projector and a million words appear squished on the wall.

“Gosh,” says Bipsy.


Mr. Sam slams an iron pointer to his desk when a student says something dumb or stupid or gay. He also preaches at the Church of Christ in God, and his congregation rents a room in the City Center to hear God’s word through Mr. Sam. He teaches them the value of pork and the truth in their hands. “Why, I even mix chicken salsa with my hands,” he preaches. And his congregation smiles and nods and they praise him.


Bipsy loves cheerleading. Her short green and gold skirt slaps the back of her thighs when she walks. And when they build pyramids at games, she is lifted in the splits until she feels like tearing in two. Bipsy gasps. Mr. Sam is looking at her notes and there is nothing but peace signs.


The iron pointer has been coming in handy for about two semesters. One day his class called it phallic, something they had learned in civics. Mr. Sam had laughed at this, big hiccups from his gut. That was the day he had locked his student aid out in the hall with no pass.


At the bell, Bipsy jumps up from her seat. Mr. Sam stops her and says, “Bipsy, I want you to make a melting pot for next week.” Bipsy puts this in her mind where she hopes it will be lost. Besides, she has cheer practice from now until State, which will be the biggest moment in her life.

“Sorry,” she says to the squad who have decided without her to sell Jim Morrison candles to earn sweater money.


Mr. Sam leaves before the faculty meeting finishes. He has an undone sermon to give tonight He wants to say something about children, how we always lose them, and how we’ve got to find them again. Maybe he’ll talk about love.


“Ready? Okay!” The squad swings into their first cheer. Bipsy concentrates on keeping her arms straight as she watches Jocelyn, cheer captain, move in front of her. She sucks in as she steps on the bent back. Somehow she rises, both big feet in a cheerleader’s grip, each elbow locked in its hinges. It’s times like this when Bipsy feels free.


At the center, with the sermon in his head, Mr. Sam finds the door locked. A hand-lettered sign on the doorknob reads: “We would rather you don’t come back. We have found someone better than you. God bless.” Returning to his car, he sees a member of his congregation, a junior politician with a basketball head, who says, “You be dead, Mr. Sam.”

Mr. Sam stops. “No, Basketball,” he says. “I am alive.”


The girls are trying a new kind of pyramid. They saw it on a game show. Bipsy must make her body go into a W. Sideways, she trusts Jocelyn’s head and neck. She imagines it snapping like pinky fingers. Her body does not want this. She is three cheerleaders up and frightened. Nails dig into a collarbone. “D-H-S!” she screams, and then falls.

“Gosh!” says Bipsy.

The girls hang over her. “Are you okay?” they say.


Bipsy has had enough of this. “I’m calling my mom,” she says. 

The girls sit picking at pompoms. “But Bipsy,” they say, “you have a car.”

“Oh, yeah,” she remembers.


Bits of carnival chocolate fall into his lap as he eats. Mr. Sam stops too late at the sign. He has hit something blond. He doesn’t want to know. He backs up and guns forward, driving until two more donuts are gone. He snakes through streets until he is back at the school. His car stalls and is silent. Why? Saabs don’t die.


Bipsy got a Bug for her birthday. She read that Bugs can kill you. Bipsy doesn’t want to die a virgin.

Mr. Sam lifts the car hood. The innards look tangled and complicated. The last hitcher he gave a ride even had to fix his flat. A little Bug pulls up and shudders. It is Bipsy and the cheer captain.

“Mr. Sam,” Bipsy says.

Jocelyn leans out around Bipsy with a pompom on her head. “What’s shakin’, Mr. Sam?”

Mr. Sam wipes his hands and smiles, tight-lipped. “Nothing, girls. Car trouble.”

“Bipsy’s got boy trouble,” Jocelyn says while smoothing her green plastic hair. “Bad trouble.”

Bipsy sighs. “You are so dumb.”

Jocelyn is braiding a pompom ponytail over her left eye. Bipsy stares at her key chain—a pink plastic cow. The udder has been bitten off. She hasn’t noticed this before.

“Go on home, girls,” he says.

Bipsy looks up. “Okay,” she says. She pauses. She doesn’t want to leave. “Bye.”

As the girls drive off, Bipsy is smiling while Jocelyn makes a blowfish on the window. They watch Mr. Sam get smaller in the rearview mirror; he puts his hands to his face.

“Weirdo,” says Jocelyn.

“What?” Bipsy feels kind of sick. The pink cow swings, hitting the cigarette lighter at a left turn.

“I said, he’s freaky—Mr. Sam.”

Jocelyn looks at Bipsy. “Wow, you really bit it bad during our pyramid. You’re all spaced,” she says. 

“Yeah,” Bipsy nods.


They stop at the sign and Jocelyn screams. A boy with bright blond hair seems dead in the ditch, pink ice cream oozing from a squished cone. “Oh my gosh, I think I know that guy,” says Jocelyn.

The girls get out and kneel by the boy. Bipsy listens for a heartbeat, while Jocelyn smoothes his forehead. The boy opens his eyes. “Dude,” he whispers from a bloody mouth.

Jocelyn leans forward. “What did he say?”

Bipsy, still bent to his chest, looks up. “He said ‘Dude.’ ” They gently lift him from the ditch dribbling blood and ice cream. The boy moans and resists them. “My cone,” he says. “I need my cone.”


Mr. Sam gets a jump from the track coach. He drives to the radio station and turns on his stereo. Parked, he watches the d.j. mouth the words he hears in his car. The unsaid sermon twists and soaks in his brain.


Bipsy throws her pompoms to Jocelyn, who puts them under the boy’s bruised head. “What happened?” they ask him.

The boy licks his fingers and sinks into the poms. “Some dude hit me.”

“Did you see him?”


“Wow!” says Jocelyn, big-eyed. “Who was it? We’ll call the cops.”

The boy closes his eyes and smiles. “Head with a big afro.”


While a record is playing, the d.j. goes outside and tells Mr. Sam he is making him nervous.

Mr. Sam apologizes. He turns on the ignition and drives backwards into a purple Pontiac. “Damn!” says Mr. Sam.

The owner, a pretty girl with a new perm, gets out and looks confused. She walks to Mr. Sam’s window, her brow wrinkled. “Shall I call the police,” she says, “or what?”


Bipsy stays with the blond boy, while Jocelyn finds a pay phone and dials emergency.

“It was a hit and run!” she tells the operator.


A police car arrives as Mr. Sam surveys the Pontiac’s damage.

“What happened?” the policeman asks.

“Just a scrape,” says Mr. Sam.

Worried and crying, the pretty girl puts her hands to her hips. “It’s brand new,” she says.


The boy takes a bite of shattered cone. “Don’t I know you?” he asks Bipsy. He leans up from the pompoms, his head cocked.

“You’re a cheerleader, aren’t you?” He swallows and falls back smiling. “You think you’re big crud.”

Bipsy bites her lip.

Jocelyn runs back jubilant. “The cops are on their way,” she says.


The policeman calls in Mr. Sam’s license number. “We have a problem,” he tells Mr. Sam. “Come with me, please.” Mr. Sam locks his car, leaving the girl crying and caressing her purple dent.


Bipsy and Jocelyn continue to kneel by the boy, ignoring his cheap cheerleader taunts. “What a jerk,” they whisper.

The police car comes and stops behind the Bug. The boy licks the last sticky pink from his fingers.

“Finally,” says Jocelyn.

Mr. Sam stares from the back seat.

The boy sits up and points. “That’s the dude, I think.”

“Gosh,” says Bipsy.

The policeman and Mr. Sam get out and stand by the car. “Will someone tell me what happened?”

Groaning, the boy touches his lip. “I’m hurt pretty bad.”

Bipsy looks away as Jocelyn stands and flips her hair. “We think that man, Mr. Sam, hit this kid,” she tells the policeman.

“Is that true, Mr. Sam?”

Mr. Sam is silent. He looks at his watch. Pork children pound high chairs and dance in his head. He imagines driving in a flat black car with no gas, winding through forests, disappearing in a dull horizon. The blond boy coughs blood and grins.

The Heat

Timothy Liu

Underneath the cotton blanket
She sweats in sultry air dreaming,
How sweet Napa Valley grapes would taste 
This time of year when heavy June clouds 
Seal the edges of sky like a thick crust
Of baked apple pie steaming on the sill.

Flies collide against the frayed screen 
Bathing in the flow of cool air streaming Through the vent 
of her napping kitchen 
Where she reads a Steinbeck novel 
Absorbed in artificial breeze
Half aware upon a pair of wings.

The soft swan flapping begins to buzz 
Like a miniature hummingbird 
Probing into her honey hair
And dodging her clumsy hand
Which lazily sways like an empty swing
Peeling and baking in the heat.

The Art of tsp. and Tbs.

Cherry Douch

Simba is my husband. We’ve seen too much of each other since we lost our baby and I had to quit my job. I met him at Mo Heke’s birthday party. Someone said, “Who’s the sissy nigger?” So I went up to him, asked him who he was and where he was from. “I am Simba Newhouse,” he said. I waited and said, “O.K. What’s a Simba?”
“It’s the word for lion,” he said. “The only African word my mother knew.”
I looked at him. “Your father African?” I said.
“No, I’m American. My mother is Poppy Wharekura.” He told me how his mother and father met during the war, how his father was gone before he was born. Later, his mother married a Pakeha butcher, bossed him around till he got fed up and died. “Anyway,” he said. “I have these three white sisters who get a big kick out of introducing me as the black sheep of the family.” Then he laughed, which made me think of hot tea in my throat.
He took my hand and we went outside to drink our shandies under the old quince tree. The Hekes were fancy. They had a fountain and a fish pond, brooded over by the grandfather quince. Since it was Mo’s twenty-first birthday, they hired a photographer to go around blinding people for the family album. Simba and I dangled our feet in the water and talked about cabbage. Simba wallows in cabbage: corned beef and cabbage, sausages and cabbage, fish heads and cabbage. There was even a dish that his mother made for him of cheese and cabbage. I laughed and Simba kissed me. He spilled his drink down my back and we fell in the pond. The photographer caught our exit from the water. That shot still gets laughs in the Heke household when they’re showing the family album. The Hekes agree with those that don’t laugh, that you had to be there. Simba held my hand and walked me home and I decided he wasn’t a sissy, because his mouth tasted of beer and cheese.
We’ve been together ever since. First it was the movies, then moonlight swims, boat rides, picnics and walks that took too long to please my mother, so I brought him home. Mother said no. A Maori was hard enough, a black Maori was impossible. But, since he was here, she showed him her garden. Besides, he already called her mother, instead of Audrey. He knew the name of every flower except the bougainvillaea, which made her sad. She gave him a cutting to take home to Poppy. Poppy’s a gardener too. Mother can be sentimental sometimes.
Simba asked Daddy if we could get married. Daddy said yes. Daddy always says yes. Mother said yes because Simba likes her garden. She and Poppy had a fight about who was going to do the wedding flowers. They yelled at each other for a week, enjoying the sound of their voices, Mother’s soprano loud, and Poppy’s bass through clenched teeth. They didn’t argue points, they were trying for endurance. Mother said she won because she had the best garden, but it was because her voice outlasted Poppy’s. The fact that she was the mother of the bride helped. Anyway, Poppy hadn’t been at her place long enough to have a garden. She enjoyed the fight. She and Mother get along like some species of ant or rat.
Of all the flowers in Mother’s garden, she made me carry Christmas lilies down the aisle. They were heavy, and they shed pollen on my dress. I felt like a fool. My students, who were at the wedding, laughed at me.
Simba had to have instructions since he wasn’t a Catholic, and Poppy went with him to make sure Father Ryan didn’t teach devil worship. She made a big deal of her being a Baptist, not approving of all those statues and crucifixes. She was delighted, Simba said, because it was another opportunity for a fight, but Father Ryan didn’t know it. Every time she shot a question at him he came unglued. He should have been a Jesuit. Poppy can be scary.
Actually, Poppy enjoys the old priest. She has him to dinner most Sundays and gives him a bad time about celibacy, the sacrament, indulgences, the fallibility of the Pope. He comes to try to allay an antagonism only he fears. She studies for two days a week at the library in order to give herself ammunition. She enjoys seeing the man squirm. But Poppy’s OK. She knows how to handle Simba.
After the wedding Mother insisted we live with her and Daddy. I think it was more to get Simba than to keep me. Simba was hard to figure out. He slaughtered and butchered a cow for us, but when the wind damaged the azaleas, he almost cried. Daddy said he couldn’t understand someone who was murder on the football field, yet whined when he was asked to nail up a board.
Simba played wing for Te Puna. His wild look affected the speed of his legs. He had the reputation of being unstoppable, because no one tried to grab him or run him down. He couldn’t stand a clean uniform and would dump any clean player into the nearest puddle. Mother called it making Simba pudding. She would sit in the stands and scream for Simba. Daddy and I usually moved away from her when she got too loud.
Simba and Daddy went to the pub together after each game. Simba bought beers for the team when he got a glow on and sang love songs with Teddy, the Te Puna quarterback. Daddy would bring Simba home on the bus and let him lean on his shoulder as they came up the hill. On Sundays, after church and dinner, they would go for long walks together, to get away from the women, Daddy said.
Simba is a lineman for the post and telegraph, so he spends his day up a telephone pole. I teach school. Walking to school one morning, just after we were married, I heard a voice above me. “Oh teacher, sway your hips. You sway so nice.” I looked up at Simba, his hard hat askew, his safety belt slicing across his middle, and a mouth stuffed with big white teeth. A half dozen faces turned up with mine.
“Who’s that, teacher?”
“He’s my husband.”
“You married to him?”
“He’s a lineman, Dummy,” Benji said.
“Hey,” said Simba. “My wife don’t teach no dummies.”
“He’s not in her class,” said Benji.
I got pregnant and Simba took it hard. He took to holding my hand, playing with my fingers, pushing the nails up with his thumb. “Nick,” he’d say. “We made a baby.” One time he said to me, “You know how to be a mother?”
“I thought it came naturally,” I said.
“No,” he said.

I started throwing up, not just in the morning, but all day and into the night. Mother would laugh at him, wringing his beautiful black hands while I knelt to the toilet. Sometimes he’d pat my back and say, “Oh, what have we done?” I’d try to laugh.
Then he quit our bed. I’d go, and he’d wait till I was asleep. Heaven was to wake up with his arm across me. Then he stopped making any contact at all. He stayed close, his hand hovered, but it never touched. Mostly I would wake up and see him
looking at me, crying. His eyes were red in my sleep. I asked Mother to talk to him. “Listen,” she said. “Women have been having babies for thousands of years.” She told him how having children was natural, no big deal. She told him I was going to do just fine. She had had four kids. “Easy as falling off a log,” she said. “Stop worrying.”
Simba didn’t buy it. He became a beer slob, spending silly time at the pub, making loud speeches about death and desire, crying in everyone’s beer. The barmaid would call Poppy; she’d go and bring him home. She’d try putting him to bed in our room, but even drunk, he angled off toward the spare room. He still sleeps there.
When I started to spot, the doctor put me to bed. Simba wanted to take time off work, but Poppy wouldn’t let him. “Audrey and I will take care of her during the day. You can fuss over her at night,” she said. He came to watch me every morning at five, bringing me breakfast so I could eat with him. I’ve never been an early eater, but I would try. At lunch he would come home to check on me. Poppy got tired of that. She threatened to lock him in our tool shed until I had the baby, so he stopped. But he insisted on cooking dinner, every night after work. During his lunch and breaks he studied recipes and bought ingredients on the way home. He got quite a feel for cookery once he learned to tell tsp. from Tbs. Mother made him a big apron with frills. Poppy hated it.
I taught him to knit, as an excuse to get close to him, but he learned too easily. It took him a couple of hours to learn to do plain, a couple more to learn to do purl, and no time to put them together. I told him that he should knit a baby blanket but he decided on a scarf and we talked about everything but the baby.
Poppy and Mother pampered me during the day, then at night went to bingo at the school, or Five Hundred at Dordie’s. Often they would come home fighting because, being partners at Five Hundred, Poppy had counted wrong or Mother had given the wrong signal. They both hated losing almost as much as they enjoyed fighting.
One night, I asked Simba to give me a kiss goodnight. He kept his hands busy, folding his cuffs up his arms.
“You might get some disease and give it to the baby,” he said.
“That’s crazy,” I said.
“No,” he said.
“Then come lay by me on the bed,” I said. “I might hurt something. But I’ll sleep on the floor by the bed,” he said.
I asked for another piece of watermelon and he watched while I ate. He liked to watch me eat. I coughed up a seed. I coughed more. I couldn’t stop. Simba looked scared and I began to bleed. “We’ve got to get to a hospital,” I said. He cried as he moved. He threw the mattress on the back of the truck and carried me out to it with a towel between my legs. At the hospital he carried me in. He was not looking at me. My blood ran down his arm onto his clothes. I remember thinking, “He’s holding me.”
Days later, Father Ryan held my hand and told me all about my baby, how only twenty weeks and perfect, she was no bigger than a baby bottle, but alive, for a while. He said he baptized her Daisy. They had buried her in my grandmother’s grave. Father Ryan cried.
I am here popping fuchsia buds. It feels good, like thumbing someone’s eye.
Mother sees what I’m doing and says, “Don’t do that. They’ll bloom funny.”
“Can I help with the potatoes?” I say.
“No,” she says. Mother goes to where Simba is chopping up lamb with a meat cleaver.
Mother puts down the wire basket of potatoes and says, “Go tell her to stop popping my fuchsia pods.” I hear her and pull weeds instead.
“What’s this about fuchsia buds? Sounds pretty silly.” He stoops and picks a cineraria, twirls it and plucks the petals. “She loves me, she loves me not,” he says. I want to grab his hands.
“What about the buds?” he says.
“I like the sound,” I say.
“I’d rather have snapdragons,” he says. “You told me ixias were your flower,” I say.
“I changed my mind,” he says, and then smiles.
The tents are up, and the wood is chopped for the hangi. Poppy and Mother have gone from stuffing chickens to cutting pumpkin and fixing the tree. Tomorrow marks the start of our week-long Christmas bash. Everyone will be here, even Father Ryan. Daddy is enjoying his last quiet cup of tea before the crowd comes. He is sitting alone, in one of the tents, watching me. He sits by a smoky blue gladiola in a white vase. Every time Simba goes by, he winks, but Daddy doesn’t notice.








Sons and Screenplays

Gary Burgess

His rug was shag as high as an army man and had 
pillows you could fit two brothers on.
In the mornings, the seaplanes left us lying there by his 
charcoals and paints, our windows open to a pajama 

He reminded us then that we slept in the 
coolest houseboat on the bay. Rolling 
over around nine
he left in his Mustang
for L.A.

Around ten his friends came over,
sewing patches on each other.
He came home with a flask from the flea market and 
tacos for us. The sun
had bleached his smile and cut his jeans off.

On days like that, Mike wanted to be
in his screenplay, we all did. That was a weekend wish as 
we flew kites off his roof
and he threw pillows at us
like we weren't even related.


Jesus Rodriguez

Moving grace, a tearing of white, shade,
she reaches for her sunglasses, everything
is displaced and that hard plastic lick, still
wet, clings to her arm.

A stone is thrown across a pool, glistens,
is gone, and still, there you are looking for her.
Quickly a click, shift of day into descending
mist, and the reflection of water on her glasses.



Janette Devine

One day, God came to Amanda in the form of a doorstop and said, “Amanda? This is God speaking. Your sister Natalie is going to be a rich, very famous opera star. But she can’t be a rich, very famous opera star until you join the National Guard.”

“Natalie!? A rich and famous opera star? You’ve got to be kidding!”

“No,” said God, “I’m not.”

The next day, at breakfast, Natalie said she wanted to take singing lessons.

“I’ll have you know,” said Amanda, “I’m not going to join the National Guard.”

“Who cares?” said Natalie. “I never said you had to join the National Guard. That’s gross.” Picking in her runny scrambled eggs, Natalie absentmindedly began a perforating scale in D sharp harmonic minor. She sang using loud Ha Ha Ha syllables. 


She started higher, her eyes on her plate. 


Amanda threw down her fork.

“Are you listening to this?” She stared at the heavens.

God spoke from the eggs. “I think you look great in boots.”

Natalie started at the bottom of the Gregorian scale, taking it up in fifths. Amanda left, smiling weakly because she was nauseous.

It went on all day. By mid-afternoon Natalie had singing lessons lined up with Rudolfo, piano lessons with Miss Mary Ellen Darby and acting from a turbaned man who insisted on being called “Lima.”

When Natalie shut herself in the shower where she could get that whole, resonant sound, Amanda noticed the doorstop was looking a little drawn and pale.

Amanda had a discreet smile on when she sat down at breakfast the next morning. Natalie was diddling her finger in the orange juice.

“Natalie, have you ever considered the National Guard?”

“I’ve always loved camouflage,” replied Natalie, and she began strafe-bombing her orange juice with Froot Loops.

Amanda tried some experimental shrieks. She had always wanted to sing in a rock band.


Rebecca’s Song

Dianna Black

Grandma tilted as she walked down the hall singing “O Danny Boy.” English words set to an Irish tune; she was Welsh. It didn’t matter. She said the
Welsh could sing in any language. She said it was her language that made it that way. Welsh is natural music, she said. And she sang “O Danny Boy.”

Say it again, I pleaded. So she said: “Yrhwch goch a’i chwech moch goch bach.” Only a little something about a big red mama pig and her six little red pigs, but it sounded like music to me. “Yrhwch goch a’i chwech moch goch bach.” She said it over and over just to coach me. I never got it right; my ear was off. She said it was my Italian half.


Great Grandma Phillips paid Mrs. Thomas back for beating Grandma up. And then Gram Phillips said to Grandma, Bec, if you can’t fight your own battles, I will give you a licking.

The Ton and the Gelli were separated only by a bridge. Maggie Ann Thomas liked the bridge. It was good fighting ground. Maggie Ann and another bully held Cassie’s hands behind her back and beat her up. Grandma said she fought mostly for Cassie’s sake, but I think mostly she just fought. She and Maggie Pierce got even with Maggie Ann. It was then Mrs. Thomas gave Grandma the licking.

Grandma was getting pneumonia when Cassie got beat up the next time. Grandma got angry. She pulled the big girl off by her hair—right out of the line waiting at the tent to see The Life of Christ.

Grandma sang English and Welsh in the choir that took first prize back to the Rhondda Valley. A girl from another choir, angered at losing, up and kicked grandma. Grandma said, of course that was the wrong thing to do, and there was a fight for all.

She promised Gram Phillips she wouldn’t fight again. She said she’d be a lady. So Gram bought her new clothes. It wasn’t any use. Evan Morris kept kicking the can. Grandma warned him. He didn’t listen. She knocked him flat; he broke her nose; she beat his face to a pulp. Evan told it that he’d fallen down with his face between two rocks.


Great Auntie Catherine’s son Lewis got hurt in the mines when he was fourteen. They laid him on top of a board table, and then they took his leg off just below the knee when he was fifteen. Grandma sang to him and played her mouth harp. She said the leg hurt Lewis until Uncle had laid it to rest in the cemetery.


Shortly after, Grandma saw the ghost in the second-story window. Maggie saw it, too. Later, when Gram Phillips opened the door into that room, she said she felt something go out. She found Jim hanging between the bed and the chair. Grandma said he was oh such a fine man. She said that about Tommy Hopkins, too, and he had no nose.

Ivor was kidnapped one afternoon. Grandma heard him running the streets at four the next morning. Whatever happened to Ivor, Grandma didn’t know. He was never the same. She said she didn’t know until later—when Johnny Allred lost his mind and killed his wife and her brother and a young boy—that when a person loses his mind, his eyes look dull.

The American missionaries came from Aberdare over the hill to the Rhondda Valley. They came in twos to Glastryn Street. Grandma was loading coal when they came. They laughed at her because she was so black. She said, What? You Americans don’t work for a living? Grandma was Welsh Baptist until the missionaries came. Then she and Gladys were baptized Mormons in Tonypandy in May, 1910.


She came to America on the Canada. She was seventeen.

She met Hugh in Knightville. She said he was an artist and highly educated—an engineer at the mine. They went everywhere together. He’d draw and then they’d sing on their way home at night on the trail high above Iron Blossom No. 3. He wrote his mother about Grandma, but Grandma didn’t marry him. She married Grandpa. I never heard her sing for him. Maybe that’s why Grandpa’s death, a half century later, didn’t seem to affect Grandma in the traditional way.

She threw out the pitcher of yeast (east, she said). Annie the Cook gave her a good bawling out. She said, how was a body to know? By the smell of it anybody in his right mind would think it was rotten.

Eureka and Knightville were full of criminals, she said. They called themselves IWW’s or Reds, but she called them criminals. They were gamblers, she said. And they would kill at the bat of an eye. One followed Grandma and Grandpa home one night. He wore a black hat, wore it down low. Grandpa couldn’t hit him; don’t you see? she said, the man hadn’t done anything yet. She turned around enough to see who it was because she knew everyone, but she didn’t know that man.

Grandma had a vision in Knightville. She called it that, even though she said it was just the voice of Mary Ann back in Wales. It called her—twice. She knew Mary Ann was gravely ill. And then another voice, she said, told her it would be all right.


In Roosevelt, Grandma lived next to some poor farmers. When the poor farmers left, she said it was a regular parade. Here comes this big wagon going along, she said, and up on top of it was the pig with four legs sticking straight up in the air. A dead pig that they had cleaned the night before bit by bit by scraping it. And they’d have it on their lap instead of scalding it, she said. They asked her if she wanted some of it. Of course not me, she said. She didn’t want that kind of pig.



I like Aunt Cassie’s feather bed the most. That and listening to the sisters argue in four-part disharmony. There was none of this solo business; each had a lot to say and said it all together. Gladys and Cassie and Ellen and Bec. Ellen and Grandma are dead now and Cassie can’t argue anymore.

When I came back, I told Grandma how the Zambezi danced over the edge at Victoria Falls. I told her that the British never knew it like the natives did: Musi-O-Tunya, the Smoke that Thunders—great bass sounds singing up from the cataract. I think she understood.



The snakes eventually got her. Three days they got her. For years the medicine had her and she tilted; but now that the doctors had taken the medicine away, the snakes got her. They slithered on her belly and coiled themselves up in her hair and sang evil in her ear. The room was sterile. Her imagination and the medicine were not. It took three days before her tilt slithered out of that room with the snakes. Then, standing straight up, she walked the halls singing “O Danny Boy.”



I don’t know that I was affected by Grandma’s death, at least in the traditional way. In the hospital, I saw her eat soft-boiled eggs without salt. I didn’t see fight in her eyes. I knew why she didn’t sing.

At her funeral they sang “0 Home Beloved, Where’er I Wander.” What I heard was Grandma singing—basso profundo out of the deep—”the pipes, the pipes are calling.”