Apparitions at Sea
Gateway Review/January 2022
My friend Gabby’s father’s car speeds down the highway toward Avalon, New Jersey. Billboards, trees, exit signs whiz by in a blur. An overcast summer day, my heavy mood sits like humidity, like fog over the bay. To be honest, I feel guilty, leaving Mom alone. She looked like she was going to cry when I asked her if I could go on this trip with Gabby’s family. But Mom talked to my therapist, Rachel, and Rachel said it would be good for me to get out of the house, the scene of a lot of sadness.
I mean, Dad’s oxygen machine just got sent back yesterday. The pillow in his chair in his mancave still had his head’s indentation in it. I had to fluff it up to get rid of the dents, regretting it instantly. I smothered my face in the pillow and breathed in, smelled it, examined it for some hair, a flake of skin, some trace of Dad. Gross, weird, I know. But everything is strange now. His sunglasses on the mantel, his wallet on the desk. So Mom said, “You know, Gracie, this might be just what you need, this trip.” Gabby reacted a little too positively, saying, “This will be so great!” It’s ok, no one knows what to say to a 13 -year- old whose dad just died of cancer.
We arrive at the house, a small white cottage about a block from the ocean. We throw our bags down and immediately jump into our swimsuits, run down to the beach. Kim, Gabby’s mom, chases us with sunscreen. I feel my heart race as I see the ocean. This feels right. I can sense the cloud over my brain shift a little. Above us in the blue sky a biplane passes with an
advertisement rippling out on fabric behind its tail. I look up and read, “Karaoke tonight at The Deadman’s Drift - 8 PM.” When I blink the letters realign, “Gracie, don’t forget I love you! Daddy.”
Saliva catches in my throat. I think of the letter he wrote me a few months ago, the one he read to me in the kitchen, at the counter, as though it was any other thing to do, with Mom in the background, pretending to be busy washing a dish. The letter where he told me he would always be with me and that I was the best thing that ever happened to him and Mom. The letter where I realized this was really happening. My dad was really dying. I purposely did not bring that letter to the beach. It’s hard to read it again, even though at home I find myself holding it, rolling it up in my fist as I sleep. I don’t want Gabby to know I do that, so I left it in my jewelry box on top of my dresser.
*
Gabby’s dad, Pete, makes pancakes for breakfast the next morning, our first full day at the beach. Kim bustles around, setting the table, turning the sausages. They both jump a little when they notice me standing rubbing sleep from my eyes at the entrance of the kitchen.
“How many cakes do you want, Gracie? Orange juice? Double macchiato espresso?” Pete jokes.
I never told him he could call me Gracie.
“Um two. Orange?” I sit at the table, hoping Gabby gets up soon. Kim puts juice in front of me and touches my hair softly. “Do you mind if I take my juice out on the porch?” I ask.
They both answer quickly.
“Sure. Absolutely. No problem! Make yourself at home!” a jumble of words that kind of pushes me out the door. Situating myself in one of the two rocking chairs, I notice, without alarm, Dad sitting in the other one. He looks strange. Kind of small. He smiles at me.
“How are you feeling?” I say.
“Good. So much better, sweetie.”
I watch the rocker to see if it moves, but it doesn’t. I don’t question his presence. I know he’s there and I know not to say anything to anyone about it. I look out on the ocean and think how perfect Gabby’s family is, just because they are all alive.
Later that morning, we meet Hannah, a girl from a neighboring house. She is tall, statuesque, but she is only one year older than us. She is busy burying her brother, Tate, in the sand.
“Hey, girls, want to help make my brother disappear?” she asks. We run to join in. I push the flashes of Dad’s burial from my mind. Hannah asks us if we want to roast marshmallows with her later that night. I say yes a little too eagerly.
*
That night, gathered around the fire in front of Hannah’s house, as I extend my skewer into the heat, Dad’s face comes into the flames. I remember how he always roasted his marshmallows slowly and evenly. I usually just let mine burn black, blow out the flame, and bite into the charred molten sugar. Tonight I try to do it like Dad, focusing on turning my marshmallow in small increments, keeping it a consistent golden brown.
Hannah asks about our families. She has not met Kim and Pete, who easily agreed to us hanging out with her at night. They were seated together on the porch doing a puzzle when we told them where we were going.
“My parents are engineers.” I say too quickly.
Gabby jerks her head up from staring at the fire.
I shoot a look back indicating, Don’t say a word.
“My parents are spies,” Gabby says, giggling. We all crack up.*
Mom calls late in the afternoon on the third day of our week at the beach. She sounds alright, maybe a little weepy.
“You ok, Mom?”
“Just missing you. I was thinking we should get a dog,” she says.
“Uh ok, but Dad hates dogs,” I remind her.
She is silent, then says, “I know.”
When I get off the phone I feel like ten pound weights are strapped to my legs.
*
Downstairs, I find Gabby, Kim, and Pete playing Twister, shouting and carrying on. Kim removes herself from the cluster of limbs.
“How’s your mom?” she says breathlessly.
“Fine,” I say.
Turning away, I see Dad sitting at the breakfast bar, still looking small, with a huge bowl of tortilla chips and salsa next to him.
“Can I play?” I say.
“Sure! Sure!” They all stand up straight as I move closer. Pete and Kim move to the couch as it becomes just Gabby and I playing Twister alone.
*
It’s July 4th, the Thursday of our week at the beach. We are out in the sand and everyone has those light up gel necklaces and bracelets. Some people are illegally setting off small fireworks. We had a good day, playing this bowling game on the beach with Hannah and Tate. We all took our boogie boards into the water and rode the waves for hours. We made turkey sandwiches on rye bread for lunch, with lots of mayonnaise and salty chips, shivering in our wet suits as we ate in the cold house.
I look up at the stars and remember Dad with his telescope. “I’m an astronomy nerd,” he always said. I would become instantly bored, unable to listen when he told me about the stars, but tonight I can’t resist gazing upwards. My eyes move from sky to sea, where I see Dad again. This time, he is just sitting in a small row boat, contemplating the night sky, as I know he would be, if he were really here. I watch the boat bobbing up and down. His body is so still, so peaceful.
Hannah arrives, bounding down the beach toward our group. “Woohhoooo!” she screams
as she runs, her long, strong legs carrying her gracefully. I smile. She is so funny. So happy. She
extends this cool beach ball full of light toward me.
“Hey, Grace,” she says, stopping short, spraying sand on my shins. I take the ball from her, feeling warm inside and out, but when I look at her face, I can see that pity and fear that everyone else has. I feel so angry. Gabby, blabbing about my business. I drop the ball of light and run into the house. Drama.
*
No one runs after me as I expect, as I kind of hope. They are all partying on the beach, not noticing me. I call Mom crying.
“I’m sorry. It’s so hard,” she soothes.
At one point I break through both our tears and say, “And Daddy is here!”
“What?” Mom says.
“Daddy is here. I saw him on the porch and at the fire and in the ocean.”
Silence.
“Yes. He is. He is in all those places,” Mom says. I am so relieved she does not argue. I ask if she will stay on the phone as I go to sleep, without brushing my teeth, with crumpled wet tissues all around me.
Gabby does not say a word when she comes in, just goes to bed.
*
On our last day, everyone seems so grumpy. Kim and Pete both have headaches.
“We’re getting out just in time. A storm is kicking up,” Kim says. They snap at Gabby and me a few times about stripping our beds, collecting our towels, helping to load the car.
Let Gabby clean up, I think. I am too excited to go home and see my mom to be bothered.
I walk out to the beach one last time, pushing into the strong wind, letting it whip my hair. I sit down on the sand and stare at the sea. Dad has dissolved into everything—the foamy caps on the waves, the grains of sand sticking to my hands, the light burning through the morning haze. I stand to run into the surf, the shock of cold not stopping me, my feet enduring the pain of protruding shells, worn by time and loss. Finding the part of the sea floor that drops off a little, I swim out, flip over, allow myself to float, ignoring Gabby’s faint calls from the shore.
Just for a few minutes, I want to stay here with Dad, feel the soft movement of the sea beneath my back, my outstretched arms. I want to feel him surrounding me, supporting me. I want to enjoy the sun on my face before heading home.
Not Alone Anymore
Little Somethings Press #4/January 2022
Julia became distracted from the television by a flicker in her peripheral vision. A closer look revealed a swooping and darting creature-a bat!- in the darkened living room. Julia darted herself, into her bedroom closet, where she hid until morning.
#
She awoke on a heap of clothes to the rattle of the backdoor. Jackson -here to get the rest of his stuff. She thought of staying there in the closet, but he would open it, look at her with that pitying smile, the one he used when he told her about Becca.
Julia forced herself out into the daylight of her bedroom.
“What happened to you?” he asked, garbage bag in hand, ready to empty his dresser.
“There was a bat. In the house.”
“Call an exterminator,” he said, back turned.
#
Afterwards, she stared at computer images of bats, noticing how their ears were like Mickey Mouse’s, their eyes were so innocent. She hadn’t known bats had just one breast fed baby a year, or that they ate those hateful mosquitoes and pollinated foods like avocadoes and mangoes. She discarded the information about rabies, already feeling quite insane.
#
Night fell. Walking from room to room, Julia turned off light after light, proceeding in the pitch darkness, sensing her way easily through the house. She thought how blackout curtains would perhaps be more welcoming, hospitable.
She awoke the next morning feeling slightly disappointed. No bat encounters, as far as she knew.
After breakfast, washing dishes, Julia jumped, noticing a bat clinging to the kitchen curtain, shaking. Shutting off the faucet, she studied her special visitor, listening to its slight sweet chirps and moans. Julia began to shake and moan too, holding onto the edge of the sink, collapsing into the sobs she had held back for so long.
New Life
The Secret Attic #21/January 2022
British Sister Ursula would say, “The cheek of it!”
Walter, with that old fashioned, uncool name, turns to his friend and asks about Sunday’s football game, in the middle of my math lesson.
He says, “Did you see the Lions play?” Full voice, no regard.
At age 52, I am a new teacher. I have been placed here, away from my cloistered convent, my true home, due to elderly parents and a bad back.
“Walter, I’m teaching right now,” I say, my voice cracking.
His face twists in sarcasm, like he pities me. He just goes on talking.
I yank open one of my desk’s wooden drawers with force, pull out a reflection sheet, scribble his name on top, toss it down in front of him. See that? It’s pathetic, I know.
“Give me a break. This sucks,” he says.
“Get out of my classroom,” I seethe. He smiles and stands, slams the door behind him.
I’ve been trained to passively accept, but I want to get out of there. Never return.
“Silent reading for the rest of class,” I announce.
As soon as the bell rings, I head to the principal’s office, storming in, interrupting whatever she’s doing.
“The cheek of it!” I rant, overusing this foreign expression. Shirley raises an eyebrow.
“Sister, Miss Gibbons, they’re just children, you know,” she says. I sit down, feel the shame of my mistakes.
“You will get the hang of it,” she says, “It’s a lot of change, all at once,” she says, placing a gentle hand on my shoulder.
My breath steadies at this, the first kindness bestowed on me in my new life, a moment I will regard as a turning point.
My Brother’s Garden
Reflex Press/January 2022
Hobo Camp Review/Summer 2023
Fire!’ Mom screamed.
I swung out of bed, cold feet hitting the floor, and ran to the window. Across the way, our red barn burned. Flames licked the morning sky. I stood still, admiring the brilliance for a moment, then bolted downstairs. Soon sirens took over and we were told by the firemen to stand across the field. I didn’t think our house would blaze, but I wondered if I should have taken something from my room, my diary, something. I sensed in my gut that the one thing I treasured most, the one person, was gone.
I knew Tim started that fire like I knew my own name…
The Storm
Land Luck Review/January 2022
The Stray Branch/Spring/Summer 2023
We sat on the fence dividing our yards. We watched the clouds gather in the distance. We observed our neighbors going about their business, oblivious to what was about to hit…
Somewhere Else
Zizzle Literary Flash Fiction Finalist Prize Winner/October 2021
Betty, 1940
Just imagine: I’m running away. I’m doing what I’ve read about in books. I’m stuffing my bed with clothes, creating a body-like lump, tucking it in. I’m opening the window, lifting its old wooden frame, lead paint chips exploding like rain. I’m pushing my duffel bag out first, then my long, gawky teenager legs, squeezing through. I’m out on the roof, crawling along. Just imagine: my feet hitting the ground, falling harder than I thought I would, twisting my ankle slightly, a shock of pain as I hobble-run into the woods. Just imagine me crossing over to the road, sticking my thumb out, steeling myself to get in a stranger’s car, climbing in, breathless, spitting out the words that I have held in my throat for years, “I’m trying to get to Philadelphia.”
Agency
Teenage girl (16? 17?) found sleeping on bench at 30th Street Station, unresponsive at first, exceptionally dirty, confused. Said her name was Betty, pretty, brown bobbed hair, strong, well-shaped nose, high cheekbones. At first, said she didn’t know where she was from, then said, “country.” Awkward feet and hands, very large and clumsy looking. Men’s clothes, very worn, stained, holes throughout.
Betty, 1941
Just imagine: living with all the kids from school who always seemed fun. Eliza with the flowered dresses and James who knew the best card tricks. Imagine talking into the night, trading secrets and dreams while eyelids grow heavy. Imagine getting up together, flicking water at one another while bathing at the sink, eating breakfast, warm rolls with butter and strong tea with milk and sugar. Imagine laughing in class, maybe getting in a bit of trouble from old Mr. Kirk, the math teacher. Imagine having a very best friend, Sarah, who understands everything.
Agency
Betty, showered, properly clothed, seemed to be better at the shelter, less frightened, but still not talking. Growled at one of the other teenagers who attempted conversation. Still no information about where she came from, background. No word from the outside about her, no messages, no one seems to be looking. She enjoys the cat that the shelter keeps, Bell.
Betty, 1950
Just imagine: getting a job in an office, having money to spend on yourself. Imagine an apartment with a window that looks out on the park. Imagine working, typing on a typewriter, unfolding a bologna sandwich wrapped in foil and eating it at a desk. Imagine saying good morning and good night. Imagine family back home missing you, wondering why you are not around to ignore and abuse anymore. Imagine sliding your own key into your own lock, opening the door to your own apartment full of your own things, your own cat coming to greet you, wrapping a warm, purring body around your legs.
Agency
Betty placed in good location, Mr. Stanson’s apartment building. He agreed to give free room and small stipend for housekeeping: cleaning Stanson’s apartment and bathroom, shopping, sweeping hallways and stairwell, running errands as directed. Stanson not the nicest man, but neighborhood safe and apartment comfortable. Outfitted apartment with furniture and household goods from Salvation Army. Stanson does not like pets. Stuffed cat with bell attached to neck obtained for Betty.
Betty, 1980
Just imagine: eating at the Four Seasons, the one on the Parkway, high tea with Sarah. Tiered plates offering tiny sandwiches: egg and chicken salad, tiny celery pieces and onion chopped fine, smoked salmon, cucumber sandwiches on soft white bread. Small iced lemon cakes, strawberries dipped in chocolate, champagne cocktails. Just imagine the light, a shimmery late afternoon light, like the color of the champagne, illuminating the back of smooth, clean hair.
Agency
Mr. Stanson called to complain about the state of Betty’s apartment. Hoarding situation: many newspapers, books, and clothing items stacked up very high, filling rooms, unsafe. Food in strange places (under couch, bed, etc.), refrigerator extremely unhygienic. Mr. Stanson reports Betty behaving strangely, muttering to self in hallways, knocking on other tenants’ doors, “being a nuisance.” Talked Stanson out of eviction. Agency will pay small stipend from this point If Stanson agrees to let her stay. Brought Betty favorite foods: doughnuts and Coke. Offered her a volunteer for visits, help cleaning. She accepted.
Betty, 2010
Just imagine: watching out the window for Sarah. Just imagine buzzing her in, offering a cup of tea. Just imagine Bell jumping up on Sarah’s lap. Just imagine having a gift of a gold mug or an old book, poetry. Just imagine lying back and listening to Sarah read, relaxing into James Herriot’s [LD1] animal stories. Just imagine starting to cry, the stories remind you of being a child in Lancaster. Just imagine pushing any darkness out with the light of a visit of an old friend, a good story.
Agency
Susan, the volunteer, reports cleaning apartment close to impossible, but the two enjoy each other’s company, despite Betty’s moods. Susan talks and reads out loud, plans to bring her cat, Fern, to visit. Betty feeling poorly so much since the surgery.
Betty, 2020
Just imagine: running through summer grass, dew soaking bare feet and legs. Just imagine the evening air cool and clear, the moon full, fireflies flickering. Just imagine a long-lost brother, Jack, grasping onto his small, smooth hand. Just imagine a house in the distance, light in the window, a table set. Just imagine running there with Jack and entering.
Agency
Went to apartment to retrieve something of Betty’s before Stanson called the clean-up crew.
Large mound collected in center of the room. Terrible, rancid smell. Retrieved white ceramic plate, the one used for the doughnuts, and a matching sugar bowl. Found box of pictures, one with Betty as she was years ago when we found her, with the bobbed hair, standing under a tree. Those feet, shoved into big shoes, still the same. Her eyes the same, too, looking off into the distance, looking off to somewhere else.
Ingrid’s Valentine
Penumbra Online/Fall 2021
“It’s not what it looks like,” Ingrid said to Jeremy as the two eighth graders stood outside Ingrid’s small brick house after their usual walk from school. They made their customary trade of her completed social studies homework for his completed math. All the while, Jeremy kept looking back at her house and yard.
Slightly taller than the teens, an army of blow up hearts formed a defensive across the front edge of the lawn, waving in the breeze. Inside the fortress, dead center of the lawn, eye-level inflatable Mickey and Minnie Mouses linked their puffy hands. To the right of the mice, another blow up, an electrified light up snow globe bursting with pink hearts. To the left, Betty Boop held an oversized heart-shaped box of chocolates. The house itself was strewn with cut out heart bunting, every window covered with different Valentine images - Cupids and bouquets of roses and silhouettes of couples kissing and Snoopys hugging hearts.
Speechless, Jeremy wandered away without as much as a goodbye.
#
Ingrid waited next to Jeremy’s locker. As he approached, her eye caught his and she smiled, to which he forced a similar expression. He knew people liked it when you smiled at them, or so his mother said. Jeremy noted that Ingrid wore a red turtleneck and her nubby fingernails gripping her English binder were painted a rather garish pink.
“Oh!” Ingrid said, noticing Jeremy noticing the nails, “I borrowed the nail polish.” Her face turned about as red as her nails..
“It’s really pink,” he said, all he could think of.
“Yes,” Ingrid looked down at her dirty white sneakers and then thrust her hand into her homework folder, pulling out a small red envelope which she pushed on top of Jeremy’s book pile. “Here,” she said, turning and walking away.
#
“Seems Ingrid Patterson gave you a Valentine,” his mother said, placing the rumpled envelope beside Jeremy’s cereal bowl. He removed the card which read Please Bee Mine! Ingrid. A bee flew around a heart shaped flower.
Jeremy smiled a small smile, then, feeling his mother’s eyes on him, an unexpected heat rose to his cheeks.
“Are you good friends with Ingrid?” his mother asked. Jeremy never told his mother about any friends, because he didn’t have any, and she never asked.
Was Ingrid his friend?
“I help her with her homework,” he said.
“Ah, I see. That’s nice,” his mother said, moving away from the table, calling back, “Those Pattersons are pretty strange.” With that sentence, Jeremy snapped into focus, conjuring Ingrid’s tangled hair, dirty sneakers, and the heaps of Valentine decorations on her house and in her yard.
“Strange how?” Jeremy asked his mother.
“Strange like not someone to be friends with strange,” his mother said, smiling her stiff, controlling smile, an expression Jeremy knew well.
#
His mother gave him her looser, ecstatic, my-son-might-go-to-MIT smile the next morning when Jeremy lied, telling her he joined the robotics club that met before school.
“Well, that’s wonderful, honey,” she said, “ I’ll get your breakfast.”
As he walked to the market, Jeremy thought about the place Ingrid held in his life. Without her, there would be no one at his locker when he left homeroom. Without her, he would eat alone. Without her, he’d have to spend countless hours filling in questions for social studies. Without her, he’d leave school alone. And now, without her, he would not have received one, single Valentine.
#
They usually didn’t see each other until after homeroom. She would not be expecting him. Jeremy grasped the knocker, pulling it up and down to bang bang bang on the door. Finally, he heard footsteps and someone yell Shut up! He jumped when the door opened and a haggard looking woman with pink lipstick and a stained robe opened up.
“Who’re you?” she burped.
Jeremy noted the wall of stacked newspapers and boxes piled up behind the woman, taking up all the space in what would normally be a front hall. “I’m, uh, is Ingrid-”
“Huh? Ah!” the woman held a cigarette up to her lips and took a long drag. Before the smoke was entirely exhaled, Ingrid appeared, pushing past with all her might, not acknowledging the woman Jeremy assumed was her mother.
“There’s my Miss Priss,” the woman said, laughing.
Ingrid’s face turned red. The door slammed behind her.
Jeremy, a little out of breath, held the plant with both hands, feeling the weight of his back pack. Ingrid’s eyes were watery, her eyebrows furrowed.
“That’s what I meant,” she said.
“By what?”
“The decorations, all the hearts and flowers. Love. La La.” She rolled her eyes. “That’s,” she nodded at her house, “not what it looks like.”
“Oh,” Jeremy said, “This is for you.” He handed her the plant, a violet.
“Wow. I love it. I absolutely love it,” Ingrid said, sniffling.
Jeremy turned toward school, prompting her to follow.
#
Later, after he went home to his neat as a pin house, after he let himself in through the side door, after finding his usual tomato sandwich on whole wheat his mother left in a Tupperware box in the fridge, after he watched his allotted episode of The Mandalorian, and after he went upstairs to his room to do his homework and read his PCs For Dummiesbook, he thought about the cold exterior, the emptiness of his own house, and how it really was how it looked.
Jeremy sighed. He thought of Ingrid’s messy house, how she sprouted from that mess, a beautiful flower. He hoped she could find a nice place to keep the violet he gave her, some small place where the sun shone through.
Last Christmas
Hysteria/December 2021
Christmas. It’s Christmastime. I have forgotten.
“We haven’t had a tree for-“
“Right. For a while. We should have. Mom wants it,” Dad says, squinting up at the giant pine we have chosen.
“Who’s going to decorate this huge thing?” I ask.
“We are. But first we are going out to lunch.”
Gavigans-a local place we always went before Mom got sick. Not very fancy or trendy, but a good burger and fries. We slide into the vinyl booth. I shiver with cold, hunching my shoulders and rubbing my hands together under the table.
“You alright?” Dad gives me that overly-concerned look that had become his natural expression.
“Sure. Why?” My tone ripples with annoyance.
“You just look pale,” he says. I could say the same about him.
We talk the small talk, the avoiding the elephant between us talk. The weather. School.
Even his job a little. I show him stupid videos and memes on my phone that he I know he pretends to think are funny.
“You know, Paul, you probably know, things aren’t…”
“I know,” I cut him off.
“Sometimes it’s almost better if-if she doesn’t have to suffer anymore.”
“It’s so freakin’ cold in here,” I say, folding my arms across my chest.
#
The tree is up. I stand in a tangle of lights as Dad walks in, Mom on his arm. She is so thin, so pale, like she is disappearing.
“What a mess, huh?” I say, turning to the tree.
“I think I bought those lights twenty years ago.” She tilts her head back on the sofa, closing her eyes.
“Paul, what should we have for dinner?” she asks.
Meals meals. Adults are always asking about meals.
Dad orders and leaves to go pick it up, a blast of cold air enters the room as the door closes.
Panic in the form of a head rush overtakes me. I dread being alone with Mom.
“Do you want to watch something?” she asks, breaking the silence.
“Yeah, that’d be good,” I grab the remote and start scrolling through Netflix. “This is funny-this comedian, John Mulaney. He’s a riot.”
“Sounds great,” Mom says.
#
We are both laughing hard when Dad returns with the pizza. He actually looks alarmed.
Mom holds her ribs, looking pained, points at the screen. John Mulaney is pretending to be Mick Jagger, jutting his leg
out in the air and strutting around the stage.
Mom and Dad sit together, plates on laps. I wedge myself down beside them on the floor, my back leaning
into the couch. Things feel almost normal.
The tree’s little spheres of white lights glow, compete with the harsher TV glare, the only lights in the room.
“You know what I always wanted to do? Ever since I was a kid? Sleep downstairs, by the tree, all night,” Mom says.
I can tell Dad is about to say something negative but stops himself.
I trudge off to get my sleeping bag, Dad to retrieve the pillows from their bed and a bunch of blankets. He removes the
back cushion of the couch, gently tucks Mom in. Dad smooths her hair and kisses her head. We shut off the TV and
settle in.
In the darkness, no one speaks as we all stare at the light and shadow of the Christmas tree.
“Goodnight, my guys,” Mom says.
“Goodnight, Mom. ” I say, the “I love you” caught in my throat.
The New Coat
Coup of Owls/December 2021
Meryl slid the hangers along a rack, one by one, perusing the hodgepodge of thrift-store duds. She came upon a thin coat, pulled it out to take a closer look – Wedgewood blue with a sort of a raised print. She shrugged it on and looked in the mirror. Admiring its large buttons and swingy cut, she turned this way and that. She felt like an artist, thinking a beret would be a nice addition to the look.
‘That’ll hide a multitude of sins,’ the old man at the cash register commented.
At one point, this probably would have bothered her…
On the Other Side of the Door
heart/h/Fragmented Voices/Fall 2021
A very long time ago, an unusual baby was born to older parents. Albert — the tiniest baby, the size of a child’s hand — a baby with transparent skin, glowing like a small, see-through shimmering stone. At his birth, no one knew what to say or do about this strange baby. After a few weeks in the incubator, once Albert showed signs of eating and sleeping and going to the bathroom, the doctors sent him home in the tiniest baby carrier, really just a child’s shoe box, and they wished his parents well.
Miracle Baby
Stories of Life/Fall 2021
At forty-three I’d accepted the idea of not having children and Jose, my husband, had already had a vasectomy when we’d met, so our baby was a stunner from the get-go. Having defied such odds, we were hopeful the repeat ultrasound would put an end to the doctor’s suspicion that part of his brain was missing.
Instead she said, ‘It’s definitely not there.’
‘Can it grow?’ we asked.
‘No. If it is not there now, it never will be.’
That bitter March day, my husband and I walked out to the parking lot silent, tearless. We went to Red Lobster and repeated short words and phrases to each other.
‘What did she say? Maybe she’s wrong?’
When we got home we started googling and that’s when the panic set in. Hydrocephaly, seizures, autism, blindness, profound learning disabilities, lifetime incontinence, inability to speak, inability to walk...
The following week we went to see the priest. I sat in the rectory meeting room and sobbed to Father R, certain I was the cause of our son’s disorder.
Father R stopped me mid-bawl. ‘This. Is. Not. Your. Fault.’
Jose stood against the wall, speechless as Father R rubbed my hands with the oil for the sick and told me all my perceived sins were forgiven.
At 30 weeks, our son showed signs of early arrival and having lost all my amniotic fluid, I was hospitalised and put on extreme bed rest.
‘Whose heart is that?’ asked the doctors, checking the heart rate strips out at the main desk.
It was our son’s, the strongest heart on the maternity floor.
The night before our son was born, a colleague sent out an email requesting that people show their support, prompting hundreds of emails, picture after picture of lit candles.
Still, my body trembled. I’d done my best to banish dark thoughts, but now profound fear seemed to radiate deep from my core. Seven neo-natal intensive care (NICU) nurses and doctors were lined up, ready to whisk our newborn son away.
It wasn’t until Jose entered the delivery room decked out in scrubs, fully energised, that I began to relax. If he could be brave, then I could be too. We were in this together.
Minutes later, I heard Jose rejoice, ‘Look, Maggie, look!’
Held above me, in the hands of the doctor, I found our baby. Pedro. I reached out my finger and touched his; he grabbed on, and I released a flood of tears.
‘He looks good, Maggie,’ said the NICU doctor.
That evening, we held onto this strand of hope as Pedro, hours old, was taken for an MRI. I imagined him, a tiny, unknowing bundle beneath the huge magnet.
Within a few days, it was official. Our son’s brain was full, complete, perfect.
Eight years later, I still say our Pedro came to Earth on a lightning bolt, jettisoned by all those prayers, led by the shimmer of one hundred candles.
Even Jose, who is not a religious man, calls our son a miracle.
Toby
Intermissions/Grattan Street Press/October 2021
*Grattan Street Press is an Australian publication, hence the Australian spellings and single quotations marks.
We sprang up from the crouch by the fire. The boy appeared, rising out of the darkness, drawn by the flickering light. His shining face was surrounded by wide, scared eyes. His sweatpants had holes in the knees and streaks of black along the thighs. Despite the warm weather, he looked cold, his fists jammed into the front of his hoodie. I didn’t know if Lizzy was going to attack or embrace him. She was cagey like that, wiry and reactive. The abandoned house we called the Shack, where we secretly met on a few nights a week, loomed behind the boy.
He stared past us. I could see he wanted something. The warmth of the fire, maybe.
‘You got food?’ he said, moving closer.
Lizzy reached down and pulled out her stash of Morning Glory Muffins. The boy lurched forward and snatched the Tupperware container. He started shoving the muffins into his mouth one at a time.
‘So, where’d you come from?’ I said.
The boy made a gesture toward the house behind him.
‘You’re living in there? Why?’
‘Because it’s fun,’ said the boy, smiling.
‘How? What do you eat? What do you–’
‘You guys throw out some nice food around here,’ he said, looking around. ‘Wasteful.’
‘What’s your name? I’m Lizzy and this is Grey.’ She thrust out her hand.
‘I’m Toby,’ he said, shaking Lizzy’s hand.
* **
We met Toby at the Shack a few nights later. Toby took Lizzy’s flashlight and showed us around the house. The floorboards creaked under our feet.
‘How long have you been here?’ Lizzy said.
‘Since April. Things got real bad at my Mom’s, so I just left. Walked all the way here from the city.’
Lizzy and I exchanged glances. There was garbage strewn around and some blankets bundled in the corner.
‘Is this really better than living with your mother?’ I asked.
‘Yes,’ Toby said.
* **
Toby loved all the food and clothes we brought him, but he especially liked the National Geographic magazines and the podcast Reply All. He liked listening to our stories.
‘What about you, T?’ I asked. ‘Who’re your friends? Family? Don’t you miss them?’
‘Naaa. I could either have family and friends or be alive. I choose being alive,’
* **
When school started, Toby grew restless, pacing around the Shack. We were busier, so he was alone more.
‘You’ll need some warmer clothes for the winter,’ Lizzy said.
We tried to keep Toby distracted with lessons. We taught him algebra on a whiteboard and assigned problems for homework. He liked watching the numbers narrow down to a single value.
‘I like that about math’ he said. ‘There’s always an answer.’
* **
Thanksgiving was around the corner. We didn’t say a word about all the preparations or the amount of food. Toby refused to go to a shelter, despite the icicles forming off the Shack’s gutters. We reviewed our options, and considered asking an adult to help.
‘Who knows what our parents – what the neighbours would do if they found out?’ Lizzy said. ‘They’d be more upset about someone squatting than a kid suffering. It’s too risky.’
We brought more blankets, but Toby just couldn’t get warm. Lizzy cried one night as we walked home.
‘It’s like there’s nothing we can do,’ she sobbed. ‘There’s no way to fix his problems.’
Lizzy would be going to her aunt’s house in Ohio. She felt terrible leaving Toby.
You have to bring him some Thanksgiving dinner, she texted.
Definitely, I replied.
* **
It snowed the Sunday after Thanksgiving, something I usually enjoyed. I forced myself to forget Toby. Eventually, it felt like it never really happened. I was busy playing Xbox and eating leftover stuffing and pie.
Hey. How’s Toby? Lizzy texted.
Dunno.
What? Be there. Tonight.
* **
The grass was frosty as we walked that night, and the sharp air burnt our faces.
‘I can’t believe you didn’t check on him!’ Lizzy spat out.
I slouched in shame.
Lizzy took her gloves off and banged out the secret knock on the window. The house remained dark and still.
He was gone.
* **
It was spring before I noticed my bike was missing. Then they came to demolish the Shack. Rumours spread around the neighbourhood that there were squatters living there.
Lizzy and I investigated the dumpster outside the Shack, finding the cans of fruits and vegetables Lizzy brought, and the blankets and clothes.
‘At least we kept him a secret. We kept him safe,’ Lizzy said.
‘At least we didn’t get in trouble,’ I said.
Lizzy’s head drooped as we walked away, her arms limp.
We returned to our homes guided by the moonlight, hoping the same moon was leading Toby somewhere better too.
The Harbinger
Black Cats are Good Luck Contest First Prize Winner
Honeyguide Literary Magazine/October 2021
The Neighborhood Picnic
Halloween Frights and 100 Word Fiction/October and July 2021
tiny frights/Fall 2023
Shortlisted for the 2022 Brave New Weird Award
First, the Very Old
Neighbors stand in the street, in driveways, on sidewalks, they grab drinks and paper plates. The sound -the crash - a large noise- comes from the oldest house, the house with the drooping shutters, the one covered in ivy. Neighbors freeze, look at each other, the house, back at each other. Inside, Mrs. Stipley gasps from the floor, stretches her wrinkled arm up from below, presses a sweaty hand to the glass, leaving a print, outstretched fingers. The sun twirls, changes color, the air is hot and still. The neighbors unfreeze and get back to the business of the party.
The Lonely
Spying on the party through her window, Molly eyes the ice-filled garbage cans overflowing with alcohol. Baby Fox is always crying and will just keep crying. Eddie, gone for the Saturday shift, will never know. Molly places Baby Fox in his crib, leaving his red mouth raw and open, fists punching, legs kicking. The front door closes softly behind her, relief sweeps as she steps outside into the almost unbearable bright light, snaps the tab, feels that first gulp of sweet alcohol. Better already, Molly approaches the beckoning circle of women who open their arms to receive, to swallow her.
Those Who Will Not Be Missed
Mike sits alone, one of the few single people at the picnic. The tub of Mich Ultras looms under the dead apple tree, darkened by a shadow. He reaches in, sits the closed can on his knee, imagines putting it back. He misses his kids. Years ago, they’d be yanking on his sleeve, needing him for something. Last year, he sat here with Janice, whose mood memorably worsened with each sip he took. He feels a certainty: everything that matters is gone. Mike grimaces, fixing his lips to the cold tin, knowing this bad choice is the last one left.
Finally, the Children
The large young woman, the one who wasn’t invited, singles out three little boys playing stick fight in a side yard. She lumbers closer to the oldest boy who stands looking solemn as she approaches. “You want to see something cool?” she says, already moving toward the deck, as though she expects all three will follow, like baby ducks. Leaning over, she points underneath. “See? There? A bunny with her babies.” When they line up, she says, “You need to scoot forward!” The solemn boy’s face reacts with fear as something like arms reaches out and pulls the boys down.
The One Who Remains
After wandering the yards of his abandoned neighborhood, 12-year-old Gavin cannot find his family and cannot escape the fireworks’ finale. “Too loud,” he cries, rocks, holds his hands to his ears as he stands alone. The booms and sputters of colored spark light up the sky and yards around him, but Gavin responds only to the noise, running from it. Finding the closest house, he punches through glass. Shards explode, cut his skin, blood runs in streams. His face turns upward as he howls into the emptiness. The fireworks persist, insist on celebrating the end of this, all of it.
Friends
Ogma, Summer 2021
I never expected my volunteer experience with the elderly to be anything other than a kind of bootcamp, a preparation for caring for my parents someday. I feared old people, their illnesses, their loneliness, their pain. I wanted to get toughened up.
“Can I have someone, you know, easy?” I asked Maris, the director of Corp Communicare in Philadelphia, an agency she founded to connect the young -in my case, about 27 -with the very old. We squatted on small stools in the preschool Maris rented as her evening headquarters.
Maris, not much younger than my parents at the time, half-smiled in either amusement or disbelief.
“I’ll see what I can do,“ she said.
***
Dorothy’s apartment sat on the top floor of a bleak rowhouse. Every Sunday I rode my bike to the street outside her building and looked up to her third floor window. Since she didn’t have a phone, we arranged for her to give me a thumbs up if she felt well enough to have me visit. She always felt well enough. There also wasn’t a buzzer, so her crabby landlord agreed for some reason to let me in each time. He awaited my arrival, perched in his defunct jewelry store window. I climbed the front steps, he turned the lock, we mumbled unenthusiastic greetings, and I stepped into the darkness.
Trudging up the three stories, most of the overhead lightbulbs burned out above me, I’d find Dorothy at the top, waiting beside her open door. Her mischievous blue eyes and matching smile beckoned me inside. The sight and smell of the junk-filled apartment often hit me like walking into a wall. There were piles of books, clothes, papers, books, stuff, everywhere. A pervasive rotten, fecal smell caused me to gag, turn away. Most of the time I could manage it well enough to maintain composure and find a place to sit on her newspaper-covered couch. She offered me tea in a dirty flowered cup and a muffin found amidst the decades of dust bunnies under the couch.
My main job was to read. Dorothy loved to read-hence the piles of books and papers all over the place-but her eyes couldn’t see well enough to do so. She also loved cats, but, as she wisely stated multiple times, “I can’t take care of myself, how can I take care of a cat?” So, she clutched a grey stuffed cat she named Bell, for its silver bell attached to its collar, while I read her stories about cats from a book she found in a garbage pile somewhere. Week by week, I spent my hour first making small talk about my work, my life, Dorothy’s work (She’d once been a receptionist) and life (Although she kept her long past, her family, a tight secret). Then she’d lay back on her cluttered couch and listen to me read. I found myself enjoying the soothing cat stories, too. We’d smile, trade looks, laughter together.
The years passed. We kept talking and reading. I picked up her groceries she left at the bottom of the stairs, or anything else too heavy for her to carry. Dorothy gave me gifts: a pair of golden mugs, articles clipped from old newspapers, books, so many books. I kidded her about her landlord, “He’s such a sweetheart!” I’d say. She had a particular interest in my library assistant job at the all-women’s college, Bryn Mawr. She asked me to describe the library, the campus, to tell her about the many characters amongst the students and faculty. I think she wished she went there. I brought friends in to meet her, my cat, and her favorite foods: doughnuts and Coke.
Over time, I saw all the sides of Dorothy’s personality. When the Philadelphia summer heat and humidity rose to extremes, she answered the door either naked or topless, a funny smile on her face, acting like nothing was unusual. She liked to tease me. When I asked her if she thought I’d marry someday, she smirked and said, “No I think you’ll die an old maid.” But once, after I entered her apartment and was confronted by a particularly bad wave of odor, she said, “I’m sorry if I’m so disgusting,” hiding her face in sadness and shame.
One day, after many years, Dorothy asked me to bathe her. We moved into the bathroom, where she undressed and sat on a chair in the shower stall, naked, hot water pressing down, steam rising up in both of our faces. I took soap and a ragged wash cloth and moved it around her body. When I finished, I turned the water off and helped her dry and dress. In this quiet moment she exposed her deepest need, and by doing so helped me grow beyond my fear and limitations.
***
Dorothy eventually had to move into a nursing home. Her landlord called to tell me to look over her things because he would soon throw it all in the trash. I rushed over, disgusted by the way he said he’d piled everything she owned into one garbage heap. Not knowing what to take, I reached into the mess and pulled out a box of pictures and a matching white and pink floral china cake plate and sugar bowl – ephemeral, breakable things-like Dorothy, like me. I still use them.
A few years later, when Dorothy died, Maris and I attended a small memorial for her at her church. There were about five of us there who knew Dorothy, but I was the only one who called her a friend. I brought the pictures and showed everyone how pretty the young Dorothy had been, how once her apartment had been neat as a pin, something she felt proud of, something she wanted to remember by taking a photo. She must of known, it could not, would not, last.
The New Leaf
Jaden Issue 2, Summer 2021
“So, your boss finding you asleep prompted this sudden drive to change?” the shrink asked, shooting a Nerf basketball into a net affixed above Larry’s head.
“Yeah,” Larry gnawed on the red licorice always in abundance on the coffee table. He didn’t even like them, a nervous habit, he couldn’t smoke at the shrink’s. “Maybe I’ll quit smoking,” he said, dreamily.
“I’d take things one small step at a time,” the shrink suggested.
Larry thought of his small bodily part and its large problem, a side effect of the meds. Mind blowing sex. That would be a cool change.
“Maybe I could just improve my attitude about work a bit?”
The shrink smiled. Larry reached for another licorice.
After leaving the shrink’s office, armed with the article they found online and printed out about how to add energy and enthusiasm to story times, Larry got a text from a workmate.
Hey. I might have a girl for you.
The romantic in Larry considered this a possible uncanny watershed moment.
The “girl,” Cheryl, lived in Philadelphia. She worked at a library once. A Catholic! Maybe she wouldn’t care about sex, Larry thought. Maybe they could read in bed, eat chocolates, watch movies, cuddle.
She already said it’s ok for you to contact her. Go for it!
The very next day, after scanning the library’s public services area from his desk, viewing no spies, and having all Cheryl’s contact information, Larry decided he would go the old- fashioned route and opened his Gmail.
Dear Cheryl, This is Larry Jones, Would you care to chat? Best regards, LJ.
He thought using his initials sounded manly. His heart raced as he clicked send.
Larry! It’s nice to “meet you”! LOL. I heard you work at a library. I loved my library job! What do you do there?
Thus began an intense email volley, full of half-truths, hyperbole, and, Larry hoped, charming self-deprecation that would go on day and night, for almost a month.
Larry’s story times went from uninspired to straight-up distracted, but he felt excited, and sometimes even, during and after the emails and texts from Cheryl, aroused. Day and night he tapped and clicked away on his keyboards, responding to Cheryl. Larry learned that Cheryl loved the color green, rode her bike to work, made really good pancakes, and talked to her sister every day. Larry told Cheryl true-enough stories about drinking with buddies in college, camping with his sister in Yosemite last summer, and his passion for fudge. Of course, he never mentioned his meds, shrink, or, God forbid, his smoking.
During the weeks of Cheryl, as he would always remember them, Larry thought constantly of skipping the shrink but feared if he did, the shrink would call his father, so he stuck to his usual appointment.
“Hey, you seem up, man, real up,” the shrink said, shaking Larry’s hand at his office door.
“I guess that article really helped my story times,” Larry said.
Cheryl said she thought it romantic that they had only written so far, and had never even talked on the phone. Larry, of course, agreed. But, she said, the time had come, it had been a whole month already. Cheryl wanted to meet. In person. No phone. No Facetime. The real deal. The excitement stirred in his lower regions, giving him hope for sustainability. He considered his problems:
1. Money (none)
2. Fears (many)
3. Erectile dysfunction (chronic)
4. Secrets (Shhhh)
5. Sleeping arrangements (see problem #3)
I’m a little short of cash this month, Larry wrote. Cheryl, also short of cash, suggested the Chinatown bus. A straight shot from DC Chinatown to Philly Chinatown for 20 bucks. She signed that email Love. Larry followed suit, almost giggling as he did so, looking up from his screen and closing his eyes, imagining taking Cheryl for dinner, making love to her.
But something about the Chinatown bus plan made Larry’s leaf turn again, his Cheryl-inspired arousal drooped to despair and lethargy. Larry’s default seemed to be autumn, despite his urge for spring. Overcome by drowsiness, those late night messages finally caught up with him. The week they were meant to meet, Larry reached for his phone, bowed his head to its small screen, and texted, simply, Goodbye, blocking Cheryl’s number, feeling the pressure building in his ears retract and fade.
Grace
Why, who makes much of a miracle? -Walt Whitman
Gazing out the window into her backyard, Abby stood at her sink washing dishes. A kind of blurry light ball emerged, pulsing in the corner of her patch of garden. It slowly grew in size, intensity. Abby dropped her sponge and went out to investigate.
***
“What’s with you?” Sadie, Abby’s sister, asked, panting the words out while walking on the treadmill.
“Nothing. Tired.”
“Tell me about it,” Sadie said, sharp bobbed hair moving in tandem with her body. “So, I said to him, ‘Why are you even here?’ I mean why do these guys even go on dates? Are you going out with anyone this week? Did Mom get that guy to call you, Ben or something?”
“Uh, no,” Abby said. Ben, the son of one of Mom’s bridge students, came through her brain fog.
“What’s with you anyway?” Sadie shut down her treadmill and headed to the locker room.
***
The light appeared weekly, sometimes daily, rain or shine, morning, noon, or night. Abby kept her glasses on, checked and rechecked, searching in the back garden for that gorgeous glow ball. When it was there, she drifted outside, got close, basked. Time passed, Abby had no idea how much.
Abby, you are enough, the light said, a woman’s voice.
Abby could not respond with words. She could only stare into it and allow hot tears run down her cheeks. She would awake from the spell shivering in the darkness, yearning for more.
***
“Everyone has baggage. First wives. Children. A drinking problem,” Sadie said, flicking her yellow Splenda bag to loosen up the sugar substance inside. “Remember the dieter?” She rolled her eyes.
Oh yeah, I know about baggage. I have a mystical visitor in my backyard, a soothing orb, Abby thought.
“The dieter?” Sadie asked.
“That guy Jon without an h. He told me I couldn’t have a waffle with ice cream on it once. That was it.”
“Seriously,” Abby sipped her coffee, noting the fading autumnal splendor, the increasing chill.
***
Google searches:
Synonyms for light: illumination, brightness, luminescence, shining, gleam, gleaming, brilliance, radiance, luster, glow, blaze, glare
Light appearing in back yard
Apparition
***
Mom had been talking about Ben for months.
“I can’t believe I’ve got a cute doctor waiting to go out with you and you haven’t called him, or texted or whatever you guys do these days.” Mom made great sweeping motions as she raked dead leaves from the beds. “Abby, are you listening? What are you dreaming about?”
***
Abby thought she was having a hot flash. Her face burned red and her armpits soaked with perspiration. Despite the cool night and even though she had a date, a first date (Ben), she could not control her desire to be with the light. Pulsing and warm, addictive.
You are loved ,it said.
Who needed Ben?
***
Ben had freckles across his nose, laughed easily, and was proficient with chopsticks, three things Abby considered good traits in a man.
“You shine,” she told him three dates in, a little tipsy from too much red wine, “like a big ball of light.”
***
“Don’t talk about me like I’m not here!” Sadie said, using her best fake southern drawl, dramatic sobbing, mimicking Julia Roberts. She and Abby were watching Steel Magnolias for the twentieth time. When Sadie returned from a bathroom trip, she found Abby sobbing.
“What the--? What is it?”
Abby swung her head back and forth, back and forth.
“It won’t stop. It won’t stop. I can’t get it to stop,” she said.
Sadie’s voice lowered, “What honey? Get what to stop?”
Abby kept crying.
“Her. She keeps coming. And I love it. But I hate it, too.”
“What is it? You’re scaring me.” Sadie faced her, held onto Abby’s forearms.
***
Accustomed to Abby’s usual low self-esteem issues, Mom issues, her body confidence and self-absorption issues, Beth the therapist, legs always crossed, face serious and concerned, said she was surprised by these new apparition issues.
“Well, you said you went to see the rabbi. What did he say?”
“He said it was grace. Grace raining down on me,” Abby noticed the light in the room, how it filtered through the curtain, how it shone on the fine hairs on her wrist.
“What the hell does that mean?” Sadie, who insisted on coming, said.
“Are you having any other loss of reality?” Beth asked.
“No. I’m just worried about what it means. What people-what Ben-would think.” Abby glanced at Sadie. “I love her, the light. I don’t want her, or I guess it, to go away.”
***
Of course, Ben kept calling, kept texting. Having said the L word on their last date, without reciprocation from Abby, he obviously wanted a response.
Hey, missing you, what’s up?
Abby wondered why he liked her so much. She wasn’t a doctor or a professor type. She had an undergraduate degree in marketing but didn’t finish her MBA. She worked in the admissions office at a small college. She thought of herself as not that skinny, not that pretty, not that funny. And, she was in love with that ball of light talking to her in her backyard.
***
The next time the light appeared, Abby stopped folding laundry and opened her back door, instantly warmed by its presence. With the setting sun changing the sky orange, the gold globe appeared in all its splendor, exuding its strange peace and energy.
Do you love me?
“Yes, Yes,” Abby found words, at last, fell to her knees, muddied her jeans.
***
Ben gobbled up the carbonara and salad Abby made him, then he gobbled up her.
“So what took you so long?” he said, running a finger along the side of her face.
“With what?” she asked.
His face reddened. “With reconnecting? Were you mad at me?”
“No. I love you,“ Abby said.
Ben’s hazel eyes stared, shards of gold shot through brown.
“So why’d you disappear?” he asked.
“Do you know anything about apparitions?” Abby asked.
His eyebrows went up, clearly not what he was expecting.
She described the light, how it made her feel, how she loved it, how it frightened her. His lips made a crooked half smile.
“Show me,” he said.
Abby led him out the backdoor to the garden where she had marked the apparition site with a white stone.
***
May was the last time. Abby saw the light from the window and moved toward it with a fearless urgency. It vibrated and swirled this time, turning different shades of yellow, orange, red.
Do you believe?
Abby knelt down, forgot everything else, melted into the experience.
***
Abby and Ben sat in half darkness, drinking red wine.
“She asked me if I believed,” Abby said.
“What did you say?”
“I said I do. Absolutely. But then- I -I said goodbye.” She glanced at Ben, expecting to see relief.
He pulled her in, held her close.
She leaned in, to him, this - the love, loss, grace, all of it, whatever it was.
She let go.
The Art Farm
The End
The installations, every one of them, burned all night. No sign of Sam. Sharye pictured him driving his beat up Honda, down route 92, windows cracked to dilute the smell of gasoline, the cold air flowing through his long hair, a crack of a smile lingering around his lips.
Before
Sam appeared out of nowhere, tapping on Sharye’s window, causing her to jump as she stood at her sink.
“Morning, Mam,” he called through the glass.
Sharye opened the door to face the stranger. He was about her age, maybe a little older, she couldn’t tell.
Herb growled, unusual for the dog.
“I’m Sam. Looking for work,” he said.
She laughed. There was lots of work, just no pay. “We’re on a really tight budget.”
He scratched his beard, crouched, held his hand out for Herb.
The dog approached, changing his attitude and licking the welcoming fingers.
“Do you need anything fixed?” Sam smiled, crinkles forming around bright blue eyes.
Sharye wanted to get back to her coffee and watercolor of the robin’s nest she’d been painting.
“Ok, I get it. I was just in the area. I always liked this place,” he said, responding to the pause, Sharye’s hesitation.
Sharye forced a smile.
The draft from the cooling weather blew in around her legs, something shifted.
“Would you like a cup of coffee?” She pulled at her sweater.
“I’d appreciate it, ” Sam said, stepping forward, looking around as if to assess the space, sitting down at the table.
Sharye found a mug in the cupboard and pulled out a plate for the Pepperidge Farm cookies she always had on hand.
Sam took one mint Milano, sipped his black coffee.
“So where do you live?” Sharye asked.
“Oh, in town.” His eyes scanned past her shoulder, something her ex always did when she was in the middle of a story. Sam stood up, moved to her easel, squinted at the half-finished nest. He put his hands in the front pockets of his jeans and smiled.
“This is good. Yours?”
“Yes. It is.”
“I’m an artist, too.”
“What do you make?”
He smiled, “Whatever you need.”
***
Sam’s offer would not be acceptable by the board of the Art Farm, the struggling outdoor art park she received free housing to oversee. Sharye had no idea who he was or what his art was like. She could not Google him because she did not know his last name. He offered no photos, had not brought the sample he promised. She waited. She forgot about him, it.
One morning, on the verge of securing local artist Jose Ramirez (who made somewhat sickening giant insects and had offered one on loan), something caught Sharye’s eye. A disjointed, impossible pile of books stacked up, rising high. She wondered how could they stand there, a breath of air would topple them, or how they would fair in the rain, the wind, the snow. The next morning the books had risen even more. They bent into an arch—a mysterious, seemingly unsupported arch of books.
Sam.
Days later, she hailed him down as he bumped along the gravel road.
“Hey!” she shouted, waving arms.
“Hey, Sharye.” His slight southern twang audible in the ‘a’ of her name.
“That’s really something with the books,” she said, putting her hands on her lower back. She peered into the backseat of the car. No books, tools. Nothing.
“You like it?” he said.
“Uh yeah, but how’d you do it?”
“Magic,” he said, eyes twinkling.
***
Like Field of Dreams. Cars lined up, hands reached into pockets, stuffing the donation box with cash.
The next time Sharye spied Sam’s beat-up white Honda, she asked him to dinner. He came with a bottle of whiskey and wore what Sharye considered his version of dressy: a threadbare tweed sport jacket with a black tee underneath, jeans, and dirty white Converse. He smelled of ashes and charcoal, like a fire, like the outside.
She made him pork chops, applesauce, apple pie. This was central New York in September after all, apple season. He held up the whiskey bottle and she consented, offering a glass with some ice.
“So how’d you do it?” she asked him.
He shrugged. “I told you.”
“Magic?” She smiled, questioning him with her eyes.
“Yup.”
She felt warm and woozy. When it was time to get dinner she reached out for his knee and let her hand linger there before wobbling up from the couch.
At dinner, she pulled out a dusty bottle of red wine.
“It must be wine o’clock,” said Sam.
“You sound like my ninety-year-old father,” she replied.
They were back on the couch for the pie and Sharye felt drunk enough to lean into him and bury her face in his neck. He turned toward her, moving her hair away from her face, strand by strand, observing her, like he was going to eat, or paint, her. Then he kissed her, the taste of wine and apples suspended between them.
“Magic?” she asked.
“Yup.”
In the cold silence of the next morning, she made him coffee. He drank it too quickly and left.
***
The only thing Sharye could count on Sam for was an occasional, unpredictable show-up, holding his bottle of whiskey, engaging his deft lips, and shedding his nice embery smell.
In between the loving, book installations continued to appear. A stack of books shaped like a Sphinx. Rows of books assembled like bar graphs, reflecting some unknown data. Books arranged to create a bouquet of flowers. Always books.
Where did he get them all? What did it mean? He would never tell her.
Meanwhile, the cars kept coming, the donations started piling up, and the board had questions.
“These installations have not been approved, Sharye,” the Board Director said.
“I know. I know. He didn’t tell me he was going to do them. But people love it. And now we can afford real artists. We can have all the things we want.”
“We don’t even know who this man is.”
Sharye thought of the lovely things she knew about him. That mole under his left arm.
“The board has met. These...these, book things need to go. ASAP.”
Sharye sighed. “I think it’s a big mistake.”
“You are not in a position to think anything.”
Sharye could not disagree, but her face burned with anger, shame.
She resolved to tell Sam the next time she saw him, but since he had no phone, no address, no email, she really didn’t know when that would be. She would just have to wait.
***
The last installation, his crowning achievement, the one that brought the newspapers, the requests for school visits, and more widespread questions, an outdoor library which seemed to have grown out of dirt overnight. The whole thing, built on uneven ground with aged wood shelves, leaned and lurched though remained upright. Already-tattered books packed the swaying structure forming a kind of altar overlooking small seats made from the same greying, withering wood. Covers of books flapped in the breeze, each volume shedding its pages, molting in real time. Sharye imagined it as a library for ghosts, woodland spites, fairies. A library that, even at conception, she realized, made of paper and wood, was vanishing, melting into nature before her eyes. It was beautiful and heartbreaking and perfect.
Sharye pressed her lips, shook her head. When did he do this? Why didn’t he stop by? Why did she never see him coming and going? Maybe it was magic? She looked down and saw the book Travels with Charlie on one of the benches. She picked it up and held it close. Smelled it. Placed it in her coat pocket. Winter was coming.
***
He slipped into her bed one night, without knocking, without speaking.
Unsurprised, she turned toward him, whispered in his ear, “The library is beautiful. The best one yet.” She could see his smile by the faint light of the dying fire. “The board wants to meet you,” she said.
“Naaa.” His stubbled cheek scratched hers. Sharye left his few words hanging in space, without a response.
***
She awoke thinking he was beside her, but the smell in the air was something different. Outside the window, wafts of smoke. She stretched her arms into her robe, stuck her feet into her rubber boots and ran out the door, Herb close at her heels.
She couldn’t help but be breathless, from the frosty air pouring into her lungs, the light snow falling, all six of Sam’s installations ablaze, tongues licking the December air. She stopped and took it in - the sacred purity of flame, the fragility of life and art, smoke wafting like incense, going nowhere, or everywhere, perhaps back from wherever it came. She would never know.
Note: Sam’s final installation is inspired by “Stacks” by artist David Harper, located at the Stone Quarry Hill Art Park in Cazenovia, New York.